A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [37]
Marling was a pretty village, even by Kentish standards, settled on a ridge overlooking the long slope of land that fell away toward the Weald. A High Street ran through the center, dividing where a triangular space opened up and created the irregular square that had held the Guy Fawkes bonfire. The Tuesday Market here had been one of the village’s mainstays for generations, giving it status among its neighbors.
The square had been cleared long since of the last of the ashes, and today lay quiet and colorless in the cold rain that had followed at Rutledge’s heels. Even the Cavalier standing bravely in the wet on his plinth appeared to huddle under his plumed hat.
Rutledge knew where to find the police station—it was several doors down from the hotel where he’d dined with Elizabeth Mayhew and her friends after the bonfire. Tucked in between a bakery on the one side and a haberdashery on the other, the station occupied one of the old brick buildings still carrying proudly the Georgian facades that gave Marling its particular character.
The midday traffic was light, a few carriages and carts, a motorcar or two, and women hurrying from butcher to greengrocer to draper’s shop—one, pausing to speak to a friend, pushed her covered pram with metronomic rhythm, back and forth, back and forth. Another, carrying a small wet dog in her arms, was lecturing the animal for running into the road, warning it of dire consequences.
On the surface, it was a peaceful scene, a prewar England in some ways, seemingly detached from the hardships and shortages that scarred Sansom Street’s inhabitants in London.
Hamish, observing it, said, “You wouldna’ think murder had been done here. Or ever would be.”
“No,” Rutledge agreed, “but night falls early this time of year. It’s always after dark that people begin to look over their shoulders.”
He left the motorcar by the hotel, and when he entered the police station was greeted by an elderly sergeant dressing down a young constable who was red about the ears.
The constable glanced up with undisguised relief at the interruption and earned another condemnation for not paying strict attention. When the sergeant sent him on his way, the young man scuttled out without looking back.
The sergeant straightened his jacket, squared his shoulders, and met Rutledge’s glance levelly, identifying him at once as a stranger. “Sergeant Burke, sir. What can I do for you?”
“Inspector Rutledge, from the Yard. I’m looking for Inspector Dowling.”
“He’s just gone home to his meal, sir. I expect him back on the half hour.” The sergeant studied him. “Come about the murders, then, sir?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Well, the Chief Constable knows best, sir, but I doubt even the Yard can help us. There’s no sense to these murders. At least not so far. Unless we’ve got ourselves a shell-shocked soldier who thinks he’s still at war.”
Rutledge flinched as the remark struck home.
The sergeant leaned against the back of his chair, thick arms resting on the top to ease his weight. “I’ve been sergeant here for fifteen years,” he went on, “and was constable for ten before that. And I can tell you, this is the first inquiry where I’ve not got a hint about who’s behind it. No whispers in the shops, no words dropped in the pubs, nothing that makes me prick up my ears and wonder, like. There’s always a root cause waiting to be found, if you look hard enough, but I’m blessed if we can see it. The only thing the victims have in common, so far as we can tell, is their service in the war. Poor men, all three, who served their country well and came back with little to show for it but the loss of a limb. No hero’s welcome nor bands playing nor offers of work. A crying shame, to see the lads lying like old rags by the roadside, and feeling helpless to do anything for them.”
“How well did you know them?”
“I watched them grow up, you might say, sir. Never any real trouble from any of them, except what you’d expect from high-spirited lads with time on their hands. Nothing