10.
THE NEXT MORNING R RUTLEDGE REPORTED FOR DUTY, AND then at midday, after a meeting ended earlier than expected, he found his way again to the street of soot-blackened houses where the Shaws had lived their entire married life. Winter sun splashed the roofs and walls, bringing out every flaw, like an aging woman who had ventured out too early into the merciless morning light. Even the mortar of the bricks seemed engrained with coal smoke, and in the windows, white lace curtains mocked it. then at midday, after a meeting ended earlier than expected, he found his way again to the street of soot-blackened houses where the Shaws had lived their entire married life. Winter sun splashed the roofs and walls, bringing out every flaw, like an aging woman who had ventured out too early into the merciless morning light. Even the mortar of the bricks seemed engrained with coal smoke, and in the windows, white lace curtains mocked it.
Number 14 was very like its neighbors, upright and lacking any individuality that would offer a hint about the occupants within. The iron knockers on several doors were Victorian whimsy, mass-produced rather than a reflection of personal taste. One house possessed an urn-shaped stone pot that had held pansies in the summer, their withered stems falling over the sides like a bedraggled veil, but most of the street seemed not to care about the image it presented. The white lace curtains were a last pitiful attempt at pride, but there was no money to spend on frivolous ornamentation.
Rutledge left his motorcar a block away and continued on foot, hoping to attract as little notice as possible. But now and again curtains twitched as the women of Sansom Street inspected the stranger with suspicion. He was as much an outsider here as he might have been on a street in Budapest-outsiders seldom brought anything but trouble. Particularly well-dressed ones with an air of authority.
He walked on to the end of the street where a church stood like a beacon, its early Victorian tower rising above the dingy roofs. The door needed paint, and the stained-glass windows were grimy, but when Rutledge stepped inside and opened the door to the nave, he was surprised to find the interior as bright and polished as any church in Westminster. His footsteps echoed on the flagstone as he walked down the aisle, and something large and black rose like a goblin from the chairs below the pulpit.
A scarecrow of a man, his robes flapping and his face flushed, called, "Good morning! Is there any way I can help you?"
The rector rose to his full height, a feather duster in his bony hand and a cobweb across his chest like a lace collar. His white hair, in disarray, looked like a ruff. The smile was genuine, if wry.
Rutledge said, gesturing around him, "This is truly a sanctuary."
"Well, yes, we try to manage that. My wife had a committee meeting this morning, and I'm frightfully poor at dusting, but one tries." He paused. "What brings you to St. Agnes?"
"Curiosity, I suppose," Rutledge said slowly. "I understand you buried a parishioner not long ago. A Mrs. Cutter, Janet Cutter." It was a guess, and apparently on the mark.
"It's been three months since she was laid to rest," the rector said, riffling the feather duster between his hands and sneezing briskly. "Her husband has taken it hard. Not being used to fending for himself, everything at sixes and sevens. Are you acquainted with the Cutters?"
"I've met them. My name is Rutledge. I had occasion to speak with them-some six years ago."
The rector nodded. "That would be near enough to the time that Ben Shaw was arrested. I was at the trial when the verdict was brought in. I recall seeing you there." He left the words like a gauntlet between them.
Rutledge smiled. "Yes. You have a very good memory."
"In my calling-as in yours, I'm sure-a good memory is a necessity." He put the duster down behind the steps to the pulpit and said again, "What brings you here?"
Rutledge took a chair in the first row. "I don't know. Recently I received information that intrigued me. And like a good policeman, I follow my instincts."
"Then Mrs. Shaw took my advice," the rector responded. "I wondered if she would."
It was unexpected. Rutledge asked, "She came to see you?"
"Yes, she was quite disturbed. She wasn't sure what to do, and I told her to begin with the police. Not Not with Henry Cutter. It was, after all, a police matter." The rector's long, narrow face gave little away. He took another chair, moving it slightly to face Rutledge. with Henry Cutter. It was, after all, a police matter." The rector's long, narrow face gave little away. He took another chair, moving it slightly to face Rutledge.
Their voices echoed in the emptiness of the church, and Rutledge had an uneasy feeling that if Hamish spoke, the words would echo as well. A shiver passed through him.
The rector was saying, "Toward the end of her life, Janet Cutter was a woman with something on her conscience. It kept her restless, even with the morphine for the pain. But she never spoke to me about whatever worried her, and I have no reason to believe it was murder. I tell you that because I don't want you to jump to conclusions the evidence fails to support."
"Did you believe Ben Shaw was a murderer?" Rutledge asked bluntly.
The rector turned away. "I don't know the answer to that. Truthfully. Ben was not a willful murderer. It wasn't in his nature. But few of us know what temptation will do, when we're faced with it and we think there are no witnesses to it. He wanted more for his family than he could afford to give them. Did that lead him to theft and murder? I would like to think it didn't. But then the facts were quite clear. Still, he could have been led. The opportunity was there. And the temptation."
Rutledge picked up the thread he was following. "The women were old, infirm. It was a kindness to end their pain and their loneliness . . ."
The rector shrugged. "Who can say what went through that poor man's mind?"
"If Shaw wasn't wasn't guilty of murder, who was? His wife? Mrs. Cutter?" guilty of murder, who was? His wife? Mrs. Cutter?"
The rector turned tired but knowing eyes on Rutledge. "I don't speculate on guilt. I try to bring comfort without judgment."
"I'm a policeman. Judgment is my trade."
"So it is." The rector rose. "It has been interesting to speak with you. May I offer a word of advice? Not as a man of the cloth, but as someone thirty years your senior, and therefore perhaps-a little wiser?"
"By all means," Rutledge answered, rising as well.
"Walk carefully. You can't bring Ben Shaw back from the dead. He's long since faced a judgment higher than yours or mine. Better for him to be a martyr than to open wounds you cannot close again."
Rutledge considered him for a moment. "Yet you sent Nell Shaw to me."
The rector smiled, a youthful look replacing the somberness. "Yes, Inspector. It's my earnest hope that you won't fail either of us."
OUTSIDE THE CHURCH, Hamish said sourly, "He prefers riddles to plain speech." Hamish said sourly, "He prefers riddles to plain speech."
"No. I think he's uncertain of his duty, and passed the problem on to me."
"Or knows a truth he willna' own up to."
It was a cogent remark.
NO ONE ANSWERED Rutledge's knock at Number 14, the Shaw home. He left, walking back to the motorcar, deep in thought. He had no excuse to call on Cutter, and no right. Henry Cutter would be well within his rights to complain to the Yard of harassment if he found a policeman on his doorstep asking questions about an old murder, and his wife's possible role in it. But there was another source of information. . . . Rutledge's knock at Number 14, the Shaw home. He left, walking back to the motorcar, deep in thought. He had no excuse to call on Cutter, and no right. Henry Cutter would be well within his rights to complain to the Yard of harassment if he found a policeman on his doorstep asking questions about an old murder, and his wife's possible role in it. But there was another source of information. . . .
Back at the Yard, Rutledge called Sergeant Bennett into his office. Bennett had been a constable when Ben Shaw was tried, and he'd known the people on Sansom Street better perhaps than they knew themselves. A sharp mind and a sharper memory had brought him to the attention of the Yard and seen him promoted.
Bennett was in early middle age now, of medium height and with nothing to set him apart from the ordinary man on the street he interviewed time and again. It had been his hallmark, this ability to fit in. Rutledge had seen it at work often enough. The question was, where did Bennett's loyalties lie at the Yard? There was no way of guessing.
Hamish warned, "Then you'd best walk carefully."
Rutledge began circumspectly, "This is in confidence, Bennett. But I've been looking back at the Shaw case. It seems one of the missing pieces of jewelry may have come to light."
Bennett's bushy eyebrows rose. "Indeed, sir!" Curiosity was bright in his eyes. "I'd a feeling he'd chucked them in the river!"
Rutledge was not about to enlighten him. "I want you to think back to the investigation-before I came into the picture. Philip Nettle was in charge of the case. Was there any suspicion that someone other than Shaw had had access to the murdered women? Mrs. Winslow. Mrs. Satterthwaite. Mrs. Tompkins."
"There was a charwoman who did for two of them," Bennett said slowly, digging back into his memory. "Not likely to smother anybody, frail as she she was. No old-age pension for the likes of her-she worked until the day before she died. The victims went to the same church-St. Agnes, that was-when they could get about on their own. We looked at that connection closely, sir, but it went nowhere. Nor did they seem to have more than a nodding acquaintance with each other. But as it turned out, Shaw came to meet them through the church, after a fashion. The rector asked him to make some repairs for Mrs. Winslow, and on the heels of that, Shaw was contacted directly about the other two." was. No old-age pension for the likes of her-she worked until the day before she died. The victims went to the same church-St. Agnes, that was-when they could get about on their own. We looked at that connection closely, sir, but it went nowhere. Nor did they seem to have more than a nodding acquaintance with each other. But as it turned out, Shaw came to meet them through the church, after a fashion. The rector asked him to make some repairs for Mrs. Winslow, and on the heels of that, Shaw was contacted directly about the other two."
Which, as Hamish was pointing out, might explain the rector's unwillingness to involve himself in the past. . . .
"Shaw was a member of the same church?"
"He'd repaired the vestry door after a storm warped it, worked on the footing for the baptismal font when it cracked. But he wasn't local, you know. Grew up in Kensington, and still had ties there, even attending services there in preference to St. Agnes. Mrs. Shaw was said to like that very well; she'd not cared for the local church, seeing herself as above it." His mouth twisted. It was apparent he had not been among Nell Shaw's admirers. "But after his marriage, Shaw appeared to have severed ties with his family. Or they severed theirs with him."
"Mrs. Shaw must have been a member of St. Agnes at some time. As I recall, she'd grown up two streets over from Sansom."
"Had been a member as a girl, yes, sir. There's a story that was set about, that she went into service in Kensington, and married the son of the house. The truth was, she worked in a corset shop and took a purchase round to the house one day, for his mother. The mother wasn't at home. When Ben told his future wife that, bold as brass didn't she claim she was feeling faint and could she come in and sit for a few minutes?"
Intrigued, Rutledge asked, "How did you discover all this?" It hadn't been included in the written reports.
"It was told me by the neighbor's wife, Mrs. Cutter. I discounted it until I spoke to a neighbor of Shaw's mother-she was still living in the same house-and she confirmed the corset version." Bennett looked pleased with himself, rocking back on his heels. "Still, that had no bearing on the murders." It was an afterthought, the policeman overriding the man.
"What was your opinion of the helpful Mrs. Cutter?"
"Now, there was a deep one! Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, but she'd just let slip a bit of the story, see, and then wait for you to pry the rest out of her. As if she was reluctant to finish what she'd begun."
Rutledge had met others of Mrs. Cutter's ilk in his career.
"Did she know the three dead women?"
"Odd that you should ask that, sir," Bennett answered, scratching his dark chin. "She swore she didn't. But she went to that same church, didn't she? Had done, for twenty or more years."
Rutledge smiled. "Any chance that she might have been tempted to murder them? After all, her situation was hardly better than the Shaws."
Bennett considered the question as he studied Rutledge. "As to that, I can't say. But Mr. Nettle, God rest his soul, remarked once, 'I'd not care to be in Mr. Cutter's shoes, if he strayed too far from hearth and home!'"
Interested, Rutledge asked, "And had he strayed? Or been tempted to stray, do you think?"
"He was the only one defended Mrs. Shaw. Most of the street couldn't abide the woman. I was never sure what to make of that, to tell you the truth, sir! Except that she was a strong-natured woman. That sort often attract weak men."
AS HE WAS leaving the Yard for the day, Rutledge found himself thinking about Bennett's last comment. He wished there was a viable excuse for calling on Cutter, but without making his interest in the Shaw case too apparent, there was nothing he could do at this early stage. As Hamish had warned him several times that day, he ought to watch his step. Bennett was very likely trustworthy, but he was also ambitious. And Rutledge had learned from his first day at the Yard that ambition ran rampant in the passageways and offices. leaving the Yard for the day, Rutledge found himself thinking about Bennett's last comment. He wished there was a viable excuse for calling on Cutter, but without making his interest in the Shaw case too apparent, there was nothing he could do at this early stage. As Hamish had warned him several times that day, he ought to watch his step. Bennett was very likely trustworthy, but he was also ambitious. And Rutledge had learned from his first day at the Yard that ambition ran rampant in the passageways and offices.
He himself had never craved promotion. It was a mark of achievement, but he had long since discovered that he preferred dealing with inquiries firsthand instead of rising to the level of delegating authority to others. He had found too often that objectivity was lost with ambition, and pleasing one's superior officer became more important than getting to the root of an issue.
Philip Nettle, who had been the first officer charged with the Shaw case-or the Winslow case, as it had begun-had complained several times that Bowles was pushing him to conclusions. "You can't know know that," Bowles was fond of saying. "Stick with what you do know, man, and leave imagination to the press." that," Bowles was fond of saying. "Stick with what you do know, man, and leave imagination to the press."
"Aye," Hamish agreed. "It isna' always wise to look for complexity when there is none!"
Complexity, Rutledge retorted as he walked out the door, was often what saved the innocent. Judging only by the obvious facts could lead a policeman astray.
"It isn't the guilt of a man," he said as he turned the crank on his motorcar, "that we set out to establish, but the truth in a case. And sometimes that's buried deep."
"Aye," Hamish agreed bitterly. "I wouldna' be lying sae deep in a French grave, if there had been time to sort out the truth. . . ."
Wincing, Rutledge put his motorcar into gear and turned out onto the street. "You gave me no choice," he said.
"I couldna' give you a choice," Hamish agreed. "Else there would have been a longer list of the dead on my ain soul. I couldna' bear it. As ye're haunted, so was I."
UNSETTLED THAT NIGHT, Rutledge considered what to do about the Shaws. The wisest course was to ask Mrs. Shaw to hand over the locket to Chief Superintendent Bowles and wash his own hands of decision. He could walk away then with a clear conscience. But if Bowles refused to take the matter any further, what then? Push that small, damning piece of jewelry out of his own mind, as if it didn't exist? Pretend that there was no question about Shaw's guilt, even though he knew there was? Rutledge considered what to do about the Shaws. The wisest course was to ask Mrs. Shaw to hand over the locket to Chief Superintendent Bowles and wash his own hands of decision. He could walk away then with a clear conscience. But if Bowles refused to take the matter any further, what then? Push that small, damning piece of jewelry out of his own mind, as if it didn't exist? Pretend that there was no question about Shaw's guilt, even though he knew there was?
He'd seen the locket. He had absolutely no doubt about its authenticity. The truth was, he wasn't as certain that he could trust Bowles.
And whatever he decided, the rearrangement of the papers in his desk drawer had left Rutledge with a feeling that Bowles was already looking over his shoulder. Waiting-for what?
"For you to put a foot wrong," Hamish responded. "I'd no' gie him the shovel to bury you with."
"I've been pitched into doing the devil's work," Rutledge said. "Any way you look at it. Bowles may crucify me for trying to find the truth. Mrs. Shaw will damn me if I walk away. And Shaw himself will haunt me until I know know what happened." what happened."
"Aye. It's a fearsome thing, judgment. I wouldna' be in your shoon."
In the morning, tired and hampered by the restlessness that was Hamish's response to Rutledge's own uncertainties, Rutledge went back to the church where he had stopped on his first visit to Sansom Street.
The rector-the name on the door read Bailey-was in his small, cluttered office at the back of the church, and rose to greet Rutledge with a quiet interest.
"I've come back again," Rutledge said, "because I have more questions to ask. They aren't official; you can refuse to answer them, if you wish. But I need information, and there's no other way to get it except to ask."
"You look tired," Mr. Bailey remarked as the light from the windows fell on Rutledge's face. "Sleepless night, was it?"
One of many, he could have said. Instead, Rutledge admitted, "In a way. I'm on the horns of a dilemma, you see." He set his hat on the chair beside him, and began to explain. Bailey listened in silence. Rutledge, trying to read his man, came to the conclusion that Bailey was not as struck by the events of the last week as he himself was. Or else hid his curiosity more cleverly.
"I can't resolve your problems," the rector said when Rutledge had finished. "I have no reason to think that Ben Shaw was innocent. And no reason to believe that he was guilty. The courts drew that conclusion, not I. I simply offered comfort to the family and helped them survive."
"Pilate couldn't have said it better," Rutledge commented.
Bailey smiled. "If I judge, to what end will that come? Should I have lectured Mrs. Shaw on her poor choice of husband?"
"From what I've heard, he was a cut above her, but a poor provider."
"Or perhaps he'd given her a taste for the kind of life she really wanted to live, and then walked away from it himself," Bailey pointed out. "I never discovered why he chose to work with his hands, when he might have done much better for himself using his mind."
"If his family rejected his wife, he may have rejected their way of life and taken up something more suitable to hers. As I remember, she was left to fend for herself from an early age. She hadn't been given his opportunities."
"It's true. She had no family to speak of. Nor did Shaw, for that matter. There was a sister, but she died shortly after the hanging. And I recall a cousin, who'd run off to Australia in 1900, after a rift with his father. There was no way to reach the man, and no reason to expect that he would come, if someone had tried. I was told he hadn't come home for his mother's services, when she died, and he'd been as close to her as anyone. Neville, I think his name was? And whatever caused the rift, it was apparently severe."
"Was there anything between Shaw's wife and the neighbor, Cutter? He seemed to speak well of her, when interviewed. Few other people did."
"Cutter liked Mrs. Shaw. Why, I can't tell you. And I won't guess. But the odd thing was, she was very different in his company than she was ordinarily. Mary-my wife-even spoke of it, a time or two."
Hamish said, "Leave it, and speak to Mrs. Bailey . . ." "Leave it, and speak to Mrs. Bailey . . ."
For once Rutledge agreed. He asked a final question, clearing up another possible direction, as he stood to bring the interview to an end. "Did Mrs. Cutter visit the poor or the infirm, as part of her duties as a member of this church?"
"Most of the women have served on committees to visit those who are no longer able to come to services. It's considered a Christian duty. Again, Mary would know more about that. She has served on most of the women's committees-the duty of a churchman's wife."
Rutledge thanked him and left. He found the rectory just around the corner on a side street, a fresh coat of paint on the door setting it apart from its neighbors. Mrs. Bailey answered his knock, drying her hands on her apron. "If you're looking for my husband, you'll find him in the church office, this time of the morning."