A Fearsome Doubt Part 11

HENRY C CUTTER WORKED at a shop where tools were designed and fabricated. His office, high above the floor where machines made any conversation impossible, was cluttered with invoices and paperwork, and there were ink stains on his fingers. A thin man with a long jaw and sunken eyes, he looked up as Rutledge entered the room, then frowned. at a shop where tools were designed and fabricated. His office, high above the floor where machines made any conversation impossible, was cluttered with invoices and paperwork, and there were ink stains on his fingers. A thin man with a long jaw and sunken eyes, he looked up as Rutledge entered the room, then frowned.

"I know you-" He broke off, squinting in an attempt to place the man before him.

"Rutledge. Inspector Rutledge from Scotland Yard."

Surprise lifted his eyebrows. "That's right! You've changed-" He stopped and said, instead of completing the thought, "We all have, to be blunt about it. Is there anything wrong?"

"I've come about an old matter. Ben Shaw's conviction and hanging for murder. Mrs. Shaw worries about-er-a miscarriage of justice."

Cutter sighed. "She's got a very pretty daughter, and she's determined for the girl to marry well. She's asked me a dozen times in the last month what I remember about the police and all the questions we were asked. It's as if she worries a raw wound, unable to leave it alone. Life hasn't treated Nell kindly, you know. Still, she's a woman who draws on hidden strength and faces up to what can't be run from. I respect that."

"What do do you remember?" Rutledge asked, interested. you remember?" Rutledge asked, interested.

"I remember how upset my wife was," Cutter answered. "She'd known the women. Well, not known known them, if you follow me! But she'd called on them from time to time as a church visitor. Years before, when her health was better and she was more active." them, if you follow me! But she'd called on them from time to time as a church visitor. Years before, when her health was better and she was more active."

"Did she believe Shaw was guilty?"

"I never asked her." Cutter looked away. "He was a very likeable man. Janet-Mrs. Cutter-was fond of him, in a manner of speaking."

Rutledge found himself thinking that Cutter was not a man of grace or charm. Plainspoken and unimaginative, a plodder. He was beginning to understand why Cutter admired Nell Shaw's strength. The question then became, was Cutter capable of murder? And why, if he had a reasonably comfortable life, should he be driven to it?

"I understand she had a son who died before she did."

"Janet was married before. Peterson fell ill of diphtheria, when the boy was almost two years old. She was expecting another child, and she miscarried. The worst part of that was, she felt she'd let her husband down by being so ill herself. And she blamed herself that the boy had been left to the kindness of neighbors while his father was dying and his mother was miscarrying. As a result she was overly protective, to the point of smothering him. But in my opinion, he was weak from the start, was George. Never could settle to anything, and in the end, killed himself." He stopped, surprised that he'd confided in this man who listened with an air of thoughtfulness that made confession easy, as if unjudged.

Mrs. Shaw had already answered his next question but Rutledge said quietly, "How did he die?"

He could feel Hamish stirring in the back of his mind.

"He drowned." After a moment, looking down at his hands, Cutter added, "Lost his footing and fell into the sea while walking by the harbor one night. That was the official finding, accidental drowning. It saved his mother from the pain of learning it was suicide. According to the police, George had been drinking heavily, and there was a suspicion that he'd been despondent. At any rate, he was fully clothed, and it was after midnight. They put as good a face on it as they could. But I always felt Janet suspected the truth. She was never the same after that."

"He was the first policeman on the scene of one of the Shaw murders."

"Yes, that's true. He came to his mother the night after Mrs. Winslow was found dead. Cried like a baby. Janet told me afterward that he had a horror of dead bodies. He didn't like touching them."

Hamish said, "It doesna' ring true. He was a constable-"

As if he'd been a party to the conversation, Cutter went on, "I could never understand that-George had elected to go into the police force, he must have known what it involved!" He s.h.i.+fted the papers on his desk. "I could never understand him, him, for that matter. Janet told me he took after his father. She thought that might have something to do with it. But George and I never saw eye to eye." for that matter. Janet told me he took after his father. She thought that might have something to do with it. But George and I never saw eye to eye."

"Tell me about him."

Cutter said sharply, "The man's dead. You can't be worried about anything he could have done!"

"I'm interested in the man who was constable when Mrs. Winslow was killed. I've only just discovered that he was related to neighbors of the Shaws."

Taking a deep breath, Cutter replied, "Well. I don't know that it makes any difference, now. He was the kind of child who ran headlong to do something he wanted to do, and only thought better of it later. He was never in serious trouble, but he was always unsettled and unpredictable. Never really good at anything. Janet thought the sun shone out of him, and that was that. I was glad when he left home. We had a happier life then."

"Mrs. Shaw found a locket in a drawer belonging to Mrs. Cutter. Did she tell you that?"

"A locket? No, she never mentioned it. What kind of locket?" His eyes were suddenly wary. "Janet's jewelry?"

"A piece of mourning jewelry, belonging to one of the dead women. It was missing at the time Shaw was arrested." Husbands seldom rummaged in their wives' lingerie, as Hamish was pointing out.

Cutter was saying, with rising alarm, "Here, she's not trying to say my wife had anything to do with those deaths! I won't believe that! Not of Nell! You're trying to stir up trouble-"

"Nell Shaw brought the locket to me because it was missing evidence," Rutledge replied without emphasis.

"I'd like to see it!"

"I'm sorry," Rutledge answered, unwilling to tell Cutter that Mrs. Shaw had kept it. "I can't show it to you."

"Look. I can't help but feel sorry for her, she's had a rough deal. Shaw tried, but he wasn't like us-he wasn't used to hard work, his body wasn't what you'd call strong. All the same, it's far too late to save Ben or his family."

The door opened and a man stepped into the office. From the look of him, and from Cutter's sudden stiffness, Rutledge realized that he must be the owner. Holly? Was that what the Cutter maid had called him? The man stared from Rutledge to the account books Cutter had put aside, and he asked, "Something I can do for you?"

Rutledge rose. "Thank you, no. Mr. Cutter has kindly given me the directions I need." Cutter shot him a grateful glance and rose also.

Rutledge left, closing the door behind him, but he could feel the owner's eyes burrowing into his back.

Hamish grumbled, "I canna' see what's been gained."

Rutledge answered. "It's odd, that time can change the direction of an investigation so radically. We should have known about George Peterson! We should have known about George Peterson!"

Hamish retorted, "It's you changed, nothing else."

There was no response to that. He made his way through the busy shop and out into the street.

IT WAS RAINING again when he reached Marling. Rutledge left the car at the hotel, realizing that he'd missed his lunch and his tea. He found a small shop down the road from the police station and went in, asking what they could provide in the way of sandwiches, late as it was. The woman behind the counter settled him at a small table for two, and bustled away to the kitchen. again when he reached Marling. Rutledge left the car at the hotel, realizing that he'd missed his lunch and his tea. He found a small shop down the road from the police station and went in, asking what they could provide in the way of sandwiches, late as it was. The woman behind the counter settled him at a small table for two, and bustled away to the kitchen.

Except for four women sitting at a table near his, the shop was empty, although a couple came in a few minutes afterward, laughing and shaking out the rain from their coats.

For a time the four women were silent, as if wary of the strange man almost in their midst. They couldn't know who he was, not yet. He hadn't met many of the villagers; there was nothing for the local gossips to pick up. He could almost hear the unspoken speculation about who he was and what business he might have in Marling. The natural curiosity that strangers sparked in a small town was lively. Even his voice was out of place, an educated London accent.

Rutledge's tea and sandwiches arrived. He thanked the shop owner and poured a steaming cup, watching the tea swirl up to the lip.

When they had exhausted their silent conjectures, the women quietly picked up the thread of their earlier conversation. At first Rutledge, busy with his sandwiches, ignored what they were saying, and then realized almost too late that they were in the middle of a discussion of the funeral they had just attended. Something about their cryptic references alerted him in time to hear one comment in particular.

". . . wasn't as if none of us knew the circ.u.mstances!" This from the woman who had her back to Rutledge.

"A crying shame," a woman wearing a black feathered hat replied, setting down her cup of tea and reaching for another iced cake. "I don't know what's to become of us, with the roads unsafe and murderers on the loose!"

Hamish said quietly, "They havena' said whose death it was they mourned. But I'm thinking . . ."

Rutledge cast a swift glance in their direction, noting who was speaking.

The feathered hat's neighbor on the left, smoothing her black gloves on the table beside her, nodded. "I won't let my Harold walk as far as the pub of a night. And he's fuming about it something fierce."

The fourth woman, who was wearing spectacles, agreed. "Who on earth would want to kill a soldier back from the war? I ask you. He's suffered enough!"

"Aye," Hamish noted. "It's as I thought."

The first woman said, "It's a Bolshevik plot, that's what it is! Look what happened to their own royal family-slaughtered along with those pretty little girls! And the tsar a cousin of King Edward!"

"As was the Kaiser," the glove smoother snapped. "My father always said foreigners are never to be trusted!"

Hamish agreed, "It was the same in Scotland. We looked with suspicion on the other clans, the next glen o'wer."

The woman wearing spectacles sighed. "I pity the Taylors. Alice and her children never had two pennies to rub together, but she always put a good face on it. What are they to do now?"

Taylor was the first man killed. . . .

The black hat nodded, setting the feathers bobbing in concert. "I've some mending and sewing I'll ask her to do for me. She's a good needlewoman, and taking in sewing will tide her over until the oldest boy can work."

"It mustn't appear to be charity!" The speaker took off her spectacles, polis.h.i.+ng them. "We must be careful about that. And we might consider ordering our Christmas goose from Susan Webber. I'm told her poultry is very nice."

And then the glove smoother said hesitantly, "You know, young Peter Webber might have seen who it was that did it."

Webber was the name of the second victim.

"He's only eight!" the woman in spectacles protested.

"He's got eyes, hasn't he?" was the retort. "He said something to me at the funeral. He said there'd been a man on the road the night before it happened, asking for his father. When Peter replied that he was working over to Seelyham, the man asked what regiment he'd been in, and where he'd fought. Odd sort of thing to ask."

"They'd all fought together!" the first woman replied. "Everyone knows that. They'd tried to stay together, the men from Marling and Helford and Seelyham. Looking out for each other."

Rutledge had finished his tea and the thick wedges of egg salad sandwiches. But he poured himself a second cup, his attention on the table of women. Hamish, listening as well, murmured, "Ye must find the Webber boy!"

"Didn't do them much good, did it, serving together?" the woman wearing spectacles wanted to know. "My Fred says they lost more because of that."

The first speaker, the one with her back to Rutledge, said soothingly, "I wouldn't give young Peter's words any weight. Like as not he means well, but my guess is, he's hoping for a little attention. No need to upset his mother again."

There was agreement at the table, and then the feathered hat said, "We ought to do something for Mrs. Bartlett, as well. I've a bit of ham left from Sunday's dinner, and I'll take it over to her straightaway. With some of the bread and the potatoes. If you'll look in on her tomorrow, and the next day-just until she gets past the worst of it."

The woman wearing spectacles said, "I'll see what's in the gardens, that she might care for."

The mourners rose and walked across the tearoom to settle their account.

As they closed the shop door behind them, the owner spoke briefly to the new couple, and then came over to clear away the empty table.

Rutledge waited until she was nearest where he sat. "Those women," he said. "Do they live in Marling?"

The woman wiped her hands on her ap.r.o.n and turned. He was the stranger here, and she was debating how to respond to his curiosity.

"Inspector Rutledge. Scotland Yard," he told her. "I've a need to know."

"They're local." The owner's face remained doubtful as she studied him. "They've just been to the funeral of the man killed along the road the other night. Peggy Bartlett couldn't offer them anything afterward, though the Women's Inst.i.tute had said they'd see to some refreshment. But Peggy wouldn't hear of it. I can't say that I blame her-she's beholden enough for the vicar and the coffin. I hope the police find whoever did these terrible things and send him to the gallows!"

Her kind face was suddenly grim and unforgiving.

15.

WALKING TO THE POLICE STATION, R RUTLEDGE DECIDED IT would be best to speak to Sergeant Burke. The man was just settling into his chair. He looked up at Rutledge, his eyes tired. "I expect you're wanting Inspector Dowling, sir. He hasn't come back from the Bartlett funeral. I was glad to escape early. It's hard to watch women cry and not have any comfort to give!" would be best to speak to Sergeant Burke. The man was just settling into his chair. He looked up at Rutledge, his eyes tired. "I expect you're wanting Inspector Dowling, sir. He hasn't come back from the Bartlett funeral. I was glad to escape early. It's hard to watch women cry and not have any comfort to give!"

Rutledge answered, "Actually I've come to ask if anyone spoke to young Peter Webber after his father's death."

Burke rubbed his forehead with a thick fist. "He was that upset, no one had the heart to ask him anything. He's just turned eight; there wasn't much he could tell us about his father. Webber was away most of the lad's life. They were just getting acquainted again, you might say."

Rutledge took the chair in front of the sergeant's desk. "I understand that. But I have a feeling it might be a good idea to speak to him."

Burke said warily, "What put you onto the lad?"

"I heard four women in the tea shop discussing the funeral, and his name came up in the conversation. Peter doesn't know me, but he'd speak to you, I think. If you encouraged him." Rutledge repeated what he'd overheard.

Burke heaved himself out of his chair. "Well, then, Peter'll be on his way home from school about now. We can look for him."

They found the boy trudging along the road in the rain, head down, his shabby coat dark across the shoulders. A slim child, with long hands and long feet, a promise of height to come.

Burke instructed Rutledge to stop the motorcar just ahead of the boy.

"You're wet through, lad," he called. "Mr. Rutledge here will give you a lift home," Burke said, getting out to open the rear pa.s.senger door. "Come along, then, and mind you don't set your muddy feet on the seat!"

With alacrity the boy did as he was told. It wasn't often he was offered an opportunity to ride in a motorcar. He settled quickly in the seat, but leaned forward (as Hamish seemed to do from time to time), his eyes fixed on the instrument panel.

"Could you blow the horn, then?" he asked, bubbling with excitement.

"Could you blow the horn, please, please, sir?" Burke chided him. sir?" Burke chided him.

"Please, sir?" Peter repeated shyly, and laughed with glee as Rutledge squeezed the rubber bulb.

Rutledge thought, Ben Shaw's son was this age when his father was hanged. . . . Ben Shaw's son was this age when his father was hanged. . . .

There was something about the boy, the fineness of his hands and skin, that spoke of better breeding than a laborer's child. In that lay the similarity- Burke said, "Your mum getting on all right, is she? Enough food on the table?" He quietly gestured to Rutledge to stop the car at the next house.

Peter answered, "We're faring well enough." But he had the thinness of a growing child who was always hungry.

"Mr. Rutledge here is interested to know more about your pa, hoping to help us find the devil that did it. Did anyone come looking for him, do you think, before he died?"

The boy squirmed a little in his seat. "I don't remember!"

"Yes, you do, Peter. It won't go any further, I promise you. But it might do some good. Tell us, then."