A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [70]
Rutledge left Miss Shaw in the parlor of the Seelyham Arms, ordering tea and sandwiches for her, before walking along to the station. It was crammed between a pair of shops, one with meats hanging in the window and the other a bakery displaying an array of cakes and bread.
He found Dowling talking with a heavyset, red-faced man who was introduced as Grimes, the local man on the scene. The small office, stuffy with the heat of bodies and the smell of stale food, was almost claustrophobic in atmosphere. Rutledge quickly found himself wanting to leave the outer door standing wide.
Gruff and to the point, Grimes declared, “I’ve just been acquainting Mr. Dowling here with the names of men who’d be included on any list of possible victims if our murderer widens his range. Seemed to be a good idea to say something to each man, and we’ve just done that.”
Rutledge wondered how many able-bodied men had gone marching off to war out of the village’s tiny population. He sat down in the chair offered him and replied, “I take it that they served with the Marling men?”
Grimes looked him over, the height, the thinness of the face, the haunted eyes. But something in Rutledge’s appearance made up his mind for him. “That’s right. Except for two that went to sea.” He sighed. “The farmers got used to their being away, managing somehow. But it’s not the same—never will be. And no money to mechanize.”
“What did these men have to say?” Rutledge asked.
“Not what you’d call helpful information. Dowling sat there and watched them, and he’s of the same mind: Nobody seems to know anything we don’t.” Grimes passed a list to Rutledge, who scanned it quickly. None of the names were familiar. “What’s more, I’d already spoken with the rector. Comparing impressions, you might say. He knows Seelyham as well as or better than I do. And there’s been no indication of secrets or trouble that he’s aware of.” He stirred in his chair, glancing briefly at Dowling. “All the same, the men and their families are worried. You could see it in their faces.”
Hamish said, “If there’s trouble, they’re no’ likely to confide in either priest or police.”
And Hamish was right. Men who had stood shoulder to shoulder in the terrifying bombardments, leaning against the slick mud of the trench walls as they waited for the signal to go over the top, were as close as brothers. What passed between them was kept to themselves, and they looked out for each other. The Scots under Rutledge were as feuding a lot as he’d ever come across in civilian life, but they’d close ranks before an officer, turning bland faces his way and swearing that all was well.
Admirable in some ways, this silence, and infuriating in others.
It could well turn out to be deadly now.
Grimes was saying, “I’ve asked about strangers as well. Not one of these men has seen someone hanging about.”
“There was a boy who came down with the hop pickers. A Jimsy Ridger. Has someone from their ranks been searching for him?” Rutledge asked. “Ridger might not be viewed as a stranger if they’d served with him.”
“If there was, no one spoke up. I recall Ridger, as a matter of fact. An unlikely lad to settle down to a decent living. To my knowledge, he hasn’t been around since the war ended a year ago.” Grimes picked up the thread of his discussion. “But the women, now, they’re a different story. And that’s where we were heading when you walked through the door. If