A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [64]
“I’d be grateful,” he said, returning the smile. She blushed and looked away, hurrying to the door that led through to the kitchen.
As he turned to the window, he saw a man driving a familiar motorcar pulling up at the hotel. The man, too, was familiar.
It was Tom Brereton, whom he’d met at Lawrence Hamilton’s dinner party. A guest brought by Raleigh and Bella Masters. The man whom Melinda Crawford was thinking of including in her will.
Brereton came striding into the dining room, and didn’t at first recognize Rutledge. His eyes were on the kitchen door, and when the girl serving tables came through with Rutledge’s tea, he called, “Do you suppose you could manage toast and a pot of that for me as well?”
She led him to the table just beyond Rutledge’s, and it was then that Brereton peered at the man from London and paused, as if trying to place him.
Rutledge greeted him by name, and reminded him of the dinner party.
Brereton nodded. “Yes, that’s right. The policeman from Scotland Yard. What brings you back to Kent? The murders here, I suppose. Do you mind?” He gestured to the other chair at Rutledge’s table.
“No, please join me.” Brereton nodded to the girl and she went off to fetch his tea.
“I’m half asleep,” Brereton said, sitting down. “Bella was worried that Raleigh had finished his drops and finally sent one of the servants down to my cottage to ask if I’d mind coming in this morning to ask the doctor for a new supply.”
“For his pain?”
Brereton grimaced. “It’s more for his moodiness. They’ve given him a new foot, you know, and it hurts like the devil. Both physically and psychologically. If he could manage it, he’d have his ravaged one back.”
“I expect that giving up his practice would weigh heavily on a man like Masters.”
“Yes, that’s probably more true than we know. He lived for the law, and he’s at sixes and sevens now.”
His tea and a plate of toast arrived, and Brereton added as he poured hot milk into the cup, “I don’t suppose Masters has ever been easy to live with. He’s a remarkably clever man. Nothing else has ever touched him the way the law did, and he’s having trouble filling all those empty hours. Bella fusses, which doesn’t help. But then she’s worried sick about him. They end up aggravating each other to the point of scenes.” He shook his head. “It’s rather sad.”
“He’s not likely to take up growing vegetable marrows,” Rutledge agreed, smiling. “I’m surprised that he hasn’t thought of writing about his career. At the Hamiltons’ dinner party he spoke warmly of Matthew Sunderland. He must have known or worked with a number of famous men.”
“Interesting possibility! I ought to drop a hint along those lines. Sunderland was Raleigh’s mentor and his standard. You’d think the man walked on water, the way Raleigh extols his virtues. I wonder if he could be objective—Sunderland made his share of mistakes, from what I’ve heard!”
Rutledge said, “Did he!”
“There was a famous case just at the turn of the century. Hushed up, of course, but Sunderland was reportedly too—er—fond of the wife of the man he was prosecuting. There was an odor of vengeance about the proceedings, as if he’d gladly see the man punished not for the alleged crime but for marrying the woman Sunderland had fancied for himself. Naturally I’ve never asked Raleigh if there was another side of the story.”
“Where did you hear this?”
“It was during the war, I had taken a train back to hospital after leave, and I found myself seated with an elderly barrister. We talked about the law for most of the journey. And he made a comment about the famous Mr. Sunderland having feet of clay. Apparently there was a lampoon that showed the Q.C.—as he was then!—as David, sending Bathsheba’s husband not to the forefront of battle but to prison for life. In any event the jury decided otherwise, for whatever reasons, and it was one of the few cases that Sunderland ever lost.”
Hamish added dryly, “I canna’ see him taking a fancy to yon harridan.”
“I saw Sunderland in top form during the Shaw trial. He was impressive.”
“Shaw? Oh, yes,