A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [97]
Had he made the right decision about Hauser?
Dawn had broken as Rutledge drove into Marling. He felt grubby, his beard rasping against the sweater under his chin. Leaving the motorcar in its accustomed place behind the hotel, he went in through the yard door and up to his room.
The bed was inviting, the room cool enough for sleep. But he shaved and bathed, then dressed for the day, noting that there was blood on the cuffs of the shirt he’d taken off. He washed it out himself, and left it to dry by the window.
Breakfast was a hurried affair, a mere restoking of the fires of energy, and a second cup of tea gave him a second wind.
When Rutledge walked into the police station afterward, Sergeant Burke said affably, “Mrs. Mayhew was here, asking for you.”
Alert, Rutledge said, “And what did she want with me?”
“Something about urgently needing to find you. She looked as if she hadn’t slept. Anything wrong?”
Burke was too sharp to be put off with excuses. Rutledge said, “She had an alarm in the night. Tell me, who might be walking down the Marling road late? Besides a killer?”
Scratching his jaw thoughtfully, Burke answered, “Well, now, there’s not so much traffic as once there was. People being wary, eager to be home as fast as they can. The gentry in motorcars and carriages don’t mind as much.” When Rutledge didn’t respond, he added, “It’s hard to say, sir, without an hour to judge by.”
“After midnight.”
“Lord love you, sir, there’s not much likelihood of anybody being on the road then. Not with three dead already!”
Hamish said, “Aye, it may be the killing has stopped for that reason.”
Rutledge responded silently, “Or someone has discovered that Jimsy Ridger is dead.”
To Burke he said, “If you hear any news of trouble, get in touch with me as soon as you can.”
“That I will, sir, but there’s no report so far,” Burke answered doubtfully.
Hamish agreed. “Aye, who’ll tell the police he stabbed a man, even out of fear for his own life?”
ELIZABETH MAYHEW WAS in her sitting room, her eyes red with lack of sleep and tears.
“Where is he?” She got up from the comfortable chair by the fire, looking forlorn and far younger than her years.
“Safe for the moment.” Rutledge had sat in this room with Richard and Elizabeth many times. The bookshelves, the hearth, the table where they’d taken their tea when there were no guests—it was all sadly familiar. The carpet was worn in one corner where, long before the war, one of the young dogs had chewed at it. There was a photograph on the east wall that he himself had taken of the house, and Elizabeth had framed. Familiar . . .
“I thought you might have turned—” She stopped. “Is he at Dr. Pugh’s surgery? I couldn’t think of an excuse to call there.”
“He’s not at the surgery, nor is he in a cell at the police station. You shouldn’t concern yourself with this man—”
She flushed with anger. “I haven’t concerned myself with this man—”
But before she could rashly commit herself to something she would regret, Rutledge interrupted brusquely. “He’s safe, Elizabeth. For the time being. I haven’t decided what to do about him. But you should understand that he’s a suspect—”
“Nonsense! He’s staying in a hotel in Rochester. They’ll vouch for him there, and tell you he’s a respected Dutch citizen here on personal business.”
“Is that what he’s told you?”
She began to pace the floor. Rutledge silently remained on his feet as well. Elizabeth turned on him. “You’re trying to make me believe that such a man could be guilty of murder! I won’t listen. If you turn him in to Inspector Dowling, I shall swear that he was with me when the murders occurred—”
It was like an obsession, her blindness. She believed in this man she thought was Dutch, and she would place her own reputation in jeopardy to protect him.
“You can’t. I was here the night the