A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [7]
And on the back of the locket were several lines engraved in the gold case: Frederick Andrew Satterthwaite, loving husband, d. April 2, 1900.
Satterthwaite had been the name of one of Shaw’s victims.
“He couldn’t sell it, could he?” Mrs. Shaw was demanding. “Not with that inscription on the back of it! Anybody would have known at once where it come from. What surprises me was that he kept it at all. But I suppose he couldn’t think what to do with it. And it’s pretty, in a morbid way. That’s gold it’s set in.” A red finger with a chewed nail pointed at the setting, tapping it.
Rutledge rather thought she was right, on both counts. This was indeed a piece of jewelry that would have marked the possessor as a thief and murderer.
And it hadn’t been found in Ben Shaw’s possession—to his, Rutledge’s, certain knowledge. It had never come to light at all, and only a distant cousin’s memory of the locket had seen it included in the inevitable inventory of Mrs. Satterthwaite’s belongings. “One mourning locket, bearing name of deceased’s husband, and date of his death, set in gold, onyx profile. Missing.”
The investigating officer, Inspector Nettle—Rutledge had not been the first on the scene—had written in his notes the query “Very likely thrown into the river?”
“How did you find it?” Rutledge asked, leaning back in his chair. The locket was too difficult to fake—too expensive, for one thing. And for what purpose? “More to the point, where had your husband hidden it?”
“God save us, no!” she replied in a harsh, frustrated voice. “If he had, would I bring it to you? Now? To what end—I ask you, what good would it do?”
“Perhaps to put your mind at ease, in regard to your husband’s guilt?”
“I told you, the truth comes out with this, and too late to save Ben! No, this I took from my neighbor’s house yesterday. Henry Cutter, his name is. The old bitch, his wife, died last month, and he couldn’t bear to go through her clothes and such. Finally he asked me. And I found this in the back of the chest where she kept her corsets and drawers. Folded in that handkerchief.” The stubby finger stabbed at a bit of color in one corner. “See, it’s embroidered: JAC—for Janet Ann Cutter. And what I want from you, Inspector, is to find out what it was doing in her chest, and how it got there! I want to know if Henry Cutter stole it from a dead woman! And if my poor husband is innocent, I want you to clear his name. Do you hear me? My children deserve that—to have the shame taken away—even if you can’t bring Ben back to us!”
Hamish said, “It isna’ a small thing she wants.”
Her small, bright eyes glared balefully at Rutledge, as if he’d hanged her husband with his own hands. Which, in a way perhaps, he had. He’d been the investigating officer, after Philip Nettle had dropped dead of a burst appendix. It was his evidence, built on Nettle’s original investigation, that had put Benjamin Edward Shaw on trial for murder, in August 1912. Six years and more ago . . .
4
THE SHOCK OF HER CERTAINTY, THE FEROCITY WITH WHICH she faced him, were overwhelming.
And as the implication of her words sank in, Rutledge felt cold.
If this locket had been found in someone else’s possession at the time of the trial, what difference might that have made to the outcome?
He tried to find something to say. Something that would dispute her conclusions. Or support his own position—
Hamish warned him. “It’s no’ wise to be o’wer hasty.”
The small, deadly bit of gold jewelry glittered on his desk, mocking Rutledge, seeming to take on a life of its own.
They had searched the Shaw house from top to bottom—the locket had never been found. Was not there. He would have sworn to that under oath.
Yet here it was—all these years later—
Where had it been? And why?
And, gentle God, did it matter?
Yes, it mattered—if he had hanged the wrong man.
When Rutledge failed to answer her, Mrs. Shaw regarded him with disdain. “You don’t want to believe me, is that it? Because my Ben was hanged for a murderer, you think I’m no better than he was!” She leaned forward. “Well,