A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [76]
“The Shaw case. And one other before that. Most of my cases were not of a caliber to rate Matthew Sunderland, K.C.”
“Yes, well, he was a watchword for years. Almost an assurance of conviction, when he was prosecuting. Now, tell me, what is it you need from me? Certainly not the past history of a dead man.”
But it had been what Rutledge needed. Still, he said, “I wonder if you recall someone named Jimsy Ridger.”
“Good God, Jimsy was an eel. Convicting him of anything was impossible. He never came my way, of course, but I’ve heard enough tales about him. Most particularly since he’d spent a goodly part of his life where I lived, and no one in London let me forget it. He wasn’t actually from our part of Kent, but he had a habit of popping up here at the least likely moments.”
“Tell me about him. Not his criminal history, but what you know of him.”
Hamilton got up to offer Rutledge a glass of whisky and then, sipping his own, said ruminatively, “He came with the hop pickers. A wild lad, with no sense of fear. And no one, really, to look out for him. Consequently he fell in with the wrong people. Or they fell in with him.”
It was almost word for word the description that Sergeant Burke had given Rutledge. “I need a picture of him as a man,” he said, studying the amber liquid in his glass but not drinking.
“I doubt that anyone can give you that. Jimsy was as charming as a snake, and as quick. But no one got through the charm into the person behind it. He had more energy than most, and had learned to skirt the law with impunity. Underneath the surface, I always thought he was lonely. No, lonely isn’t the word. I think—” He paused, trying to find the right explanation. “Jimsy was one of those people who never successfully formed friendships. He was too devious and too questionable in his character for most people to like him. He never got close to anyone that I know of. And as a result, he was dangerous. There were no ties, you see, to hold him. In a way, he was like Matthew Sunderland—odd though it might sound. He walked in his own shadow, and showed the world only what he thought it fit for the world to see.”
RUTLEDGE STOPPED BY Elizabeth Mayhew’s house to leave a message that he’d be collecting her in time to drive to the Masterses’ house for dinner.
She was waiting for him in the hall, when he came to lift the knocker on her door later in the evening. She opened it herself, and said, “Ian, I could have had myself driven over, you needn’t have come!”
“I came because I’ll enjoy your company more than my own thoughts, tonight.”
She looked up at him as he closed the door behind her and ushered her down the walk to his car. A fitful moon slipped in and out of the trees and a bank of thinning clouds, its thin crescent cold in the November air.
“You’re tired, aren’t you, Ian? I wish you hadn’t let Bella persuade you to dine with them. Come to that, I shouldn’t have, either. But Melinda Crawford will be there, and I couldn’t let her down.”
“Nor I.” He settled her into the motorcar with a rug for her knees as before, and then went to crank the engine. As he climbed in beside her, she sighed. It was as if she had had other plans that she’d changed, and regretted having to do so.
Rutledge said as they went down the drive, “Did you ever see the Tarrant exhibition in London before the war? There was a painting there that caused a great deal of comment. The name of it was Tristan.”
“Richard liked it. I wasn’t fond of it,” she replied. “He was drawn to flying, you know. I thought the painting made it seem far too glamorous. Or to put it another way, I wasn’t eager to praise anything that would encourage his attraction.” She laughed bitterly. “I was afraid that flying machines would take him from me. I couldn’t even imagine then that war would do that, and I’d be helpless to prevent it. It’s not wise to love too well.”
Hamish said, “She didna’ ken what you were asking about yon portrait.”
It was true—Elizabeth had taken Rutledge’s question at face value, remembering