A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [49]
“For very different reasons, now. I think she’s involved with someone who might be somehow connected to a series of murders I’m working on.”
Frances put down her brush and turned to face him. “Are you sure of this, Ian? It’s rather sudden, her new interest. And who is the man? Anyone we know?” The English view of acceptable social contacts: Anyone we know?
He shook his head. “I can’t tell you his name. I do know he’s from Northumberland. I have the word of Mrs. Crawford’s seamstress on that.” A brief smile touched his eyes and then faded. “But there’s something odd here. Hackles rising on the back of the neck.” He thought about that for a moment and then added, “Or jealousy, for Richard’s sake.”
“Your intuition is seldom wrong,” she told him.
“It may be colored, all the same. It’s not my place to ask questions, but if you could do it—quite casually—it might be a good thing.”
Frances considered him. “There’s something more here than Elizabeth Mayhew’s affairs of the heart.” Her eyes searching his face, she said again, “What’s wrong?”
Rutledge smiled wryly. What he would have liked to say was, “I may have seen a ghost. If I have, it’s no matter; I can live with ghosts,” and wait for her common sense to assure him that he had done nothing of the sort. Frances had little patience with nonsense. But her intuition was often as sharp as his own. When she jumped to conclusions, they most generally were the right ones. And the war was a part of his life he wanted very much to keep shut away from her.
Instead he answered, “There’s been a series of murders in the neighborhood of Marling. I’ve been working on the case for the Yard. No one, not even Melinda Crawford, knows who this man is that Elizabeth is attracted to. I think I’ve seen him once, from the back. Why is she keeping him a secret from her friends? Elizabeth could well be dragged into something unpleasant, if he’s using her in some fashion or isn’t quite—respectable.”
“Aren’t you overreacting just a little?” she asked, putting her jewelry on, her face hidden from him. “Is there any reason to think that this man could be involved in your murders? Have you good cause to believe he should be found and questioned?”
“Put like that,” he answered wryly, “I suppose I’m jumping to conclusions. It’s probably no more than coincidence. . . .”
Frances was settling her hat on her carefully groomed hair, adjusting it to a becoming angle that set off her face. She’s an extraordinarily attractive woman, Rutledge found himself thinking, with their mother’s perfect skin and cameo-cut profile, the slightly arched nose and the very intelligent eyes. Once, he’d wondered if she had been in love with Ross Trevor, his godfather David Trevor’s son. Or if there was some other man who had come into her life, and taken her heart away with him. She had never spoken of it.
Just as he never spoke of Hamish, or the war, or what loneliness was.
As if reading his mind, Frances said, her eyes not meeting his in the mirror, “You know, you could do worse than Elizabeth Mayhew. You and Richard were very close. He wouldn’t have minded you stepping into his shoes. Not that I’m matchmaking—”
“That’s the very reason I can’t,” Rutledge answered after a moment. “He’d always be there. Between us.”
“Like a ghost?” she asked lightly. “Well, it’s time for me to leave. Would you mind giving me a lift? We can talk on the way.”
But they didn’t. When they reached the Mayfair restaurant, she got out, saying, “Ian. Whatever is worrying you, it isn’t Elizabeth Mayhew, is it? There’s more on your mind than her affairs. Or the murders. I think there’s a sense of guilt somewhere. I think perhaps you feel you ought to step into Richard’s shoes, for his sake. And because you won’t, you’re afraid you’re letting him down by not preventing Elizabeth from getting hurt.”
He considered and then rejected the possibility. “I feel some sort of responsibility, for