A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [61]
“Ian!” she said, startled. “What on earth—”
“I’m in Marling for the present. Assigned to deal with these murders.”
“Oh . . .” She bit her lip, as if uncertain what to do, whether to invite him to dine with her—or perhaps to stay at her house for the duration.
Reading the dismay in her eyes, he said gently, “I’ve a room at the hotel. Come and dine with me one night. But not this evening, I’ve got a meeting with Dowling.”
“He’s a good man,” she said distractedly. “I’d heard they had sent someone down from London. I never dreamed it might be you!”
“And the puppies. They’re thriving?” It was the first thing that came into his head. Their old easy companionship had evaporated like the evening’s mists, and he felt nearly as awkward as she evidently did.
“Yes—they’re growing—they’re quite adorable, actually, playful and sleeping less now that their eyes have opened—” She stopped, as if after such an enthusiastic report she felt she ought to invite him to come and see Henrietta’s brood for himself. The silence stretched out, as she searched for something else to say.
“I mustn’t miss my meeting,” he said. “Will you leave a message at the hotel desk, when you’ll be free for dinner?”
Relieved, she replied, “Of course. I’m—I’m glad you’re here, Ian. I look forward to dinner—”
And then she was gone, a quick smile begging for understanding as she went on down the street in the direction of the church.
He turned to look after her, saddened by the change in their relationship. But if there was someone, a new man in her life, then there would be little room left for Richard’s old friends. And he could appreciate that sea change. If he were courting a young woman whose late husband’s friends were in the picture, their presence would cause a certain degree of unease. Particularly judging whether the widow was yet free of the past, and what his own role would become if she wasn’t. . . .
But he wasn’t courting Elizabeth. He was watching her fade from his life, a pleasant memory that was no longer his to enjoy.
Richard, Rutledge said to himself as he turned again and walked on to the hotel, it’s not my place to play dog in the manger. Elizabeth must make her own way.
But the sadness lingered. And a certain unacknowledged responsibility. He remembered what his sister Frances had said: “You’re afraid you are letting Richard down . . .”
Hamish remarked, “She’s no’ on her way to the altar. Only in the direction of yon kirk.”
And it was true. Time enough to worry later.
DOWLING REGARDED THE Plough’s menu like a starving man faced with a banquet.
Rutledge watched in amusement as the inspector chose very carefully, as if half afraid such an opportunity might not come his way again.
After they’d ordered, Dowling leaned back in his chair. “Sergeant Burke has told me about Peter Webber. How much faith do you put in what the boy had to say?”
“I don’t know,” Rutledge answered honestly. “But it’s a place to begin. Tell me, do you know someone called Jimsy Ridger?”
“Good God, how did you come to hear of him?”
“Apparently someone has been asking for him.”
“As in, someone who might be our murderer?”
As their soup was set before them, Rutledge replied, “It’s hard to judge. But rather a coincidence, don’t you think? Tell me about Ridger.”
Dowling spooned up the carrot-and-onion soup with great gusto, then said, “He’s not local. Never was. As a boy he came with the hop pickers out of Maidstone, a rough sort of child with a bullying nature and a particularly unclear concept of personal property. There were innumerable complaints about him. The hop pickers often camped or caravaned, you see. There were precious few things worth stealing, but it was easy enough if you saw a man’s pipe you fancied, or a silver bangle forgotten on a bench, even a bit of ribbon for the hair. Most of the adults, and the children who were old enough to work, were too tired to be overly troublesome, but the younger ones, with too much energy and too little