door was the man he’d seen earlier. He was pale, his face beaded with sweat.
“Are you all right?” Rutledge asked. “I saw what happened.”
“Bloody brat! His mother can’t do anything with him. Needs a man’s firm hand. Preferably applied to the seat of his pants!” He cleared his throat and said, “I’m all right. As right as I’ll ever be.”
Something in the timbre of his voice made Rutledge turn to look at him. “Canadian, by any chance?”
“I lived there for a time. Alberta. Damned beautiful part of the country! Ever been there?”
“Never had the chance,” Rutledge answered. “I met a number of Canadians in the war.”
The man held out his hand and Rutledge took it. “My name’s Shaw. You aren’t a Dorset man.”
“Rutledge. I’m from London.”
“I hate the bloody place. Too crowded, too dirty, too old. A man can’t breathe there.”
“No,” Rutledge said, knowing what Shaw meant. “Do you have family here?” It was the opening he’d waited for, to bring up the subject of the Mowbrays.
“I’m Denton’s nephew. He’s kept an eye on me since I left hospital. The doctors won’t let me go back to Alberta, and I’ve not made up my mind what to do with myself.” Shaw grimaced. He wasn’t used to telling strangers his life story. It was a bad habit to get into … . “Sorry! I’m not usually this garrulous. It’s the fault of that bloody child!”
“I don’t mind, if it helps. Anything is better than what they give out in hospital for the pain.”
“God, yes!” Shaw got to his feet and took a deep breath. “It never lasts long,” he said, although the tension around his eyes hadn’t gone away. “Thanks for not making a fuss.”
As Rutledge nodded, Shaw opened the door and went inside. As if afraid that staying would lead him into other confessions he didn’t want to make.
5
R utledge turned toward his parked car and then changed his mind, walking back up the street instead. He knocked several times at the constable’s door, without an answer.
A woman busily sweeping her walk shaded her eyes and said, “If you’re needing Constable Truit, he’s out.”
“Know where I might find him?”
“Business or trouble?”
Rutledge laughed. “I wanted to ask him how to grow fine marrows.”
She grinned, not a bit affronted. “Well, he’s not likely to be back before the day’s out. There’s no Mrs. Truit, you see, and he’s got courting on his mind.”
Rutledge said with interest, “Makes a habit of not being at home, does he?”
“Makes a habit of being wherever Mrs. Darley’s daughter is. In my view, she’s leading him a merry dance before choosing Danny Marker. Danny works over to Leigh Minster and comes to Charlbury only at the week’s end.”
A born gossip …
“I wanted to ask Truit about the day that man in Singleton Magna killed his wife. I’d like to know if there were any strangers in Charlbury at that time.”
She cocked her head and looked him over. “You aren’t from the London papers?”
Rutledge said apologetically, “No.”
She sighed. “I thought not. You must be the London policeman, then, the one they was expecting over to Singleton Magna.” She waited, pointedly, until he gave her his name. “There was a guest at the Wyatts’, that came by car. But no one on foot, no woman with small children, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s a long walk, anyway, for little’uns. D’ye know what I think?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer. He’d have her opinion, wanting it or not. “They’re buried in a churchyard. What’s a better grave than a fresh one, to hide bodies in!”
“Anyone dead of late in Charlbury?” he asked, amused by the ghoulish relish with which she offered her suggestion.
“No.” There was disappointment in the admission. “We’ve got a maid missing, but no one’s likely to want to kill her. She was uppity, and good riddance, Mrs. Bagley says.”
“How long has she been
“Are you all right?” Rutledge asked. “I saw what happened.”
“Bloody brat! His mother can’t do anything with him. Needs a man’s firm hand. Preferably applied to the seat of his pants!” He cleared his throat and said, “I’m all right. As right as I’ll ever be.”
Something in the timbre of his voice made Rutledge turn to look at him. “Canadian, by any chance?”
“I lived there for a time. Alberta. Damned beautiful part of the country! Ever been there?”
“Never had the chance,” Rutledge answered. “I met a number of Canadians in the war.”
The man held out his hand and Rutledge took it. “My name’s Shaw. You aren’t a Dorset man.”
“Rutledge. I’m from London.”
“I hate the bloody place. Too crowded, too dirty, too old. A man can’t breathe there.”
“No,” Rutledge said, knowing what Shaw meant. “Do you have family here?” It was the opening he’d waited for, to bring up the subject of the Mowbrays.
“I’m Denton’s nephew. He’s kept an eye on me since I left hospital. The doctors won’t let me go back to Alberta, and I’ve not made up my mind what to do with myself.” Shaw grimaced. He wasn’t used to telling strangers his life story. It was a bad habit to get into … . “Sorry! I’m not usually this garrulous. It’s the fault of that bloody child!”
“I don’t mind, if it helps. Anything is better than what they give out in hospital for the pain.”
“God, yes!” Shaw got to his feet and took a deep breath. “It never lasts long,” he said, although the tension around his eyes hadn’t gone away. “Thanks for not making a fuss.”
As Rutledge nodded, Shaw opened the door and went inside. As if afraid that staying would lead him into other confessions he didn’t want to make.
5
R utledge turned toward his parked car and then changed his mind, walking back up the street instead. He knocked several times at the constable’s door, without an answer.
A woman busily sweeping her walk shaded her eyes and said, “If you’re needing Constable Truit, he’s out.”
“Know where I might find him?”
“Business or trouble?”
Rutledge laughed. “I wanted to ask him how to grow fine marrows.”
She grinned, not a bit affronted. “Well, he’s not likely to be back before the day’s out. There’s no Mrs. Truit, you see, and he’s got courting on his mind.”
Rutledge said with interest, “Makes a habit of not being at home, does he?”
“Makes a habit of being wherever Mrs. Darley’s daughter is. In my view, she’s leading him a merry dance before choosing Danny Marker. Danny works over to Leigh Minster and comes to Charlbury only at the week’s end.”
A born gossip …
“I wanted to ask Truit about the day that man in Singleton Magna killed his wife. I’d like to know if there were any strangers in Charlbury at that time.”
She cocked her head and looked him over. “You aren’t from the London papers?”
Rutledge said apologetically, “No.”
She sighed. “I thought not. You must be the London policeman, then, the one they was expecting over to Singleton Magna.” She waited, pointedly, until he gave her his name. “There was a guest at the Wyatts’, that came by car. But no one on foot, no woman with small children, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s a long walk, anyway, for little’uns. D’ye know what I think?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer. He’d have her opinion, wanting it or not. “They’re buried in a churchyard. What’s a better grave than a fresh one, to hide bodies in!”
“Anyone dead of late in Charlbury?” he asked, amused by the ghoulish relish with which she offered her suggestion.
“No.” There was disappointment in the admission. “We’ve got a maid missing, but no one’s likely to want to kill her. She was uppity, and good riddance, Mrs. Bagley says.”
“How long has she been
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