A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [98]
His sister Frances, then?
But she, too, was a friend. And Elizabeth would find it even harder to face her, because Frances had been very fond of Richard. . . .
Melinda Crawford? He couldn’t bring himself to worry her.
Hamish warned, “It isna’ wise to interfere—”
“I’d like to see him,” Elizabeth said, flushed. “And this safe place you’ve found for him. I’d like to go there. Now.”
Putting his own friendship with Richard’s wife on the line—and realizing with a bitter sense of loss what he risked in doing this—Rutledge said firmly, “No. Not now. Not later. I’ve told you, he’s a suspect in these local murders, and until he’s cleared—until I can clear him of suspicion, you cannot openly befriend him. It would ruin you—”
“I don’t care about ruin. I do care about this man—”
It had been put into words. Her infatuation.
They stared at each other, and fear crept unbidden into her eyes. “Ian—”
He shook his head. “I’ve had no sleep,” he said, more curtly than he intended. “And you’ve had very little yourself. I’m leaving before one of us says something we can’t take back.”
Walking out the sitting-room door without waiting for an answer, he saw her face before he could take his eyes away from hers. And read in them her determination to search on her own for Gunter Hauser.
RUTLEDGE WENT BACK to the vicinity of the burned-out oast house to look for signs, but even in the pale sunlight he could see nothing that either supported or refuted the German’s story. Looking around, he saw that it was an ideal spot for an ambush. Another of those empty stretches of open land. He himself had passed here on the night porter’s bicycle a good hour before the attack.
Hamish said, “He could be lying.”
But if there wasn’t an attack here—who had slashed the German’s chest with a knife? And where?
Fatigue was catching up with him as he drove back into Marling. The road seemed to dance in the watery sunlight, and the trees flickered like a fan. As he swerved to miss what he thought was someone in the high grass along the verge, only to realize it was the shadow of his own motorcar passing with him, he knew rest was essential.
He stopped for petrol, then carried on to the hotel and allowed himself two hours of restless sleep. And he was on the road again, turning between the stone pillars and down the overgrown drive to pull up outside the kitchen door.
The house in the midday light was a richly shaded brick, with stone forming the portico and steps and facing the front windows. A family home, made for light and laughter and children, not for pretensions and grand aspirations. A quiet residence set in the countryside and surrounded by its fields and pastures and woodland, shielded from the road by old trees and great banks of rhododendron that were now sadly in need of trimming.
Crows flew up from the chimney as Rutledge got out of the motorcar and stood looking around him. This was the England he had fought for. And it was already dying. The crows might as well be vultures.
Shaking off his somber mood, he walked briskly toward the kitchen door, knocking once before opening it.
Hamish called, “’Ware!”
But there was nothing to be wary of. Gunter Hauser, far from a threat, was lying on the makeshift bed, deeply asleep and snoring like a drunk.
Before Rutledge could step forward and shake him awake, the man came out of his sleep with the abruptness of a soldier, instantly cognizant of where he was and that danger was approaching. And definitely not drunk.
Opening those blue eyes, he fixed Rutledge with a feverish stare and said, “You, is it?”
Rutledge came in and took off his outer coat. “You look like the very devil.”
“Yes, well,