A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [35]
“Worth looking into,” Bowles agreed, taking the remark as a course of action. “But they want someone on the ground in Kent. Hand over whatever you’re working on to Simpson. He’ll cope.”
Inspector Simpson was, as everyone knew, Bowles’s latest protégé. A weak-chinned man with a spiteful nature, he was, in the words of Sergeant Gibson, “Generally to be found toadying up to Old Bowels. Right pair, the two of them!” There was rumored to be a wager on how long it would take Simpson to make chief inspector, over the list.
Rutledge found himself wondering if it was Simpson who had gone through his desk.
And as if reading his mind, Bowles added, “I hear a Mrs. Shaw called on you a few days ago.” A bland voice, a glance out the window to indicate that this was mere curiosity on the Chief Superintendent’s part.
Fishing.
Rutledge chose to be circumspect. “Yes. Ben Shaw’s widow. His hanging still haunts her. Sad story.”
“Shall I send Simpson along to have a talk with her?” The yellow eyes were mere slits now.
“Short of bringing her husband back, I doubt there’s anything anyone can do. Even Simpson.” Rutledge paused. “She hasn’t prospered since Shaw’s death. I expect she was hoping for a handout.”
“Yes, well, Shaw ought to have considered his family before taking to murder.” Bowles stirred in his chair, preparatory to dismissing Rutledge. “See what you can do in Kent. I’ve already told the Chief Constable you’ll be there smartly!”
It was an unmistakable warning: Get out of London and don’t meddle with things best left alone.
RUTLEDGE MADE A point, before leaving his desk, to remove any papers connected with the Shaws. Simpson, if mining for trouble, would find none. . . .
But on his way into Kent, he paused in Sansom Street and again left his motorcar where it would attract less notice. He walked as far as the Shaw house, and then to the neighboring door of Henry and the late Janet Cutter.
“It’s no’ wise!” Hamish told him. “There’ll be someone to see, and in the end, a tale will be carried back to the Yard.”
“There may not be another chance.” Rutledge found himself wondering if Simpson had already questioned the constable on this street. It would be like him.
A girl-of-all-work opened the door to him, her hands red from laundry.
“Mr. Cutter’s not to home,” she confided in the tall, attractive stranger on the doorstep. “He’s just off to work after his dinner, but I wouldn’t look him up there. Mr. Holly is not one to like gossiping on company time.”
It had all the earmarks of a quote overheard from her employer. She smiled up at Rutledge with artless interest, then remembered her duty. “Is there a message you’d care to leave, sir?”
“Did you serve Mrs. Cutter, before her death?” he asked. “I don’t remember you here, before the war.” There had been an older woman, as he recalled, worn down with childbearing and worry, who did the heavy work.
“I came in ’17,” she said, “when Mum had Tommy. Mum wasn’t well, after, and Mrs. Cutter asked if I’d like to work, instead. And a good thing, too, for Tommy was trouble from the start. Colic.” A cloud passed over her face, darkening her sunny spirits. “Mum and Tommy were took by the Influenza. Within a day of each other.” She nodded wisely. “She never knew he went. Best that way!”
“Was Mrs. Cutter a good employer? Did you enjoy working for her?”
“She wasn’t a bad employer,” the girl said, groping for words to explain how she felt. “Mum said she were different before the stroke. Jollier. It was as if that took the spirit right out of her. And she seemed—sad—when I came here. As if there was a burden she couldn’t carry and it was getting heavier with every year that went by. And finally it buried her under its weight.”
“Did you have trouble pleasing her?” He encouraged her guileless chatter. The stroke had occurred after the trial. Mrs. Cutter had been well enough the last time he’d come here, to question the couple.
“Oh, it weren’t that, so much as the heaviness of her mind. It was like working in a house where there’d been a death. As