A Fearsome Doubt by Charles Todd Page B

also have underestimated the rector’s wife. . . .
    In a parish where there were no garden tea parties or Sunday luncheons with the gentry, the rector and his wife had learned how people lived with the small degradations of little money, poor health, hard work, and not much beauty. The Baileys would have had few illusions about their neighbors and over the years acquired a rather pragmatic view of their flock. They had ministered in the truest sense, without judgment.
    At what cost to themselves? he wondered.

11
    T HERE WAS A MESSAGE WAITING FOR R UTLEDGE WHEN HE arrived at the Yard.
    Chief Superintendent Bowles wanted to see him.
    Braced for an angry confrontation, Rutledge went along to Bowles’s office.
    Anything but angry, Bowles greeted him with his usual cold stare and brief command to sit down, sit down.
    There were papers all over his desk, and he hunched over them with frowning intensity before saying to Rutledge, “You’ve been in Kent, have you?”
    “Yes. To visit friends.”
    “Hmmm. What’s your opinion of these murders?”
    “I have none. I don’t know anything beyond the fact that there have been more than one.”
    “Looks bad, damned bad. The Chief Constable is not happy, and his people haven’t found anything to be going on with. Incapable lot, apparently.” Bowles had never held a high opinion of police work outside London. “No, that’s not kind. Mainly it’s out of their line of experience. You served in the war. You’ll have a better sense of what’s happening. I’m sending you down to have a look. Be quick about it, if you can. The Chief Constable has friends in high places. Needn’t say more on that score.”
    He passed a sheaf of papers across to Rutledge, who began to scan them as he suggested, “I should think Devereaux would be the best man—”
    But Bowles paid no heed. “. . . Some bloody foreigner to blame, most likely . . .”
    Unexpectedly Rutledge was reminded of the face at the bonfire—in the headlamps of his motorcar. As if in warning.
    Rutledge looked up into the yellow eyes of his superior. They were staring at him. Speculative. Watchful.
    Deliberately taking a different tack to test the waters, Rutledge replied, “The hop-picking season is over. The extra workers have gone back to London or Maidenhead, wherever they came from. I could deal with that end of the investigation. From my desk.”
    “Worth looking into,” Bowles agreed, taking the remark as a course of action. “But they want someone on the ground in Kent. Hand over whatever you’re working on to Simpson. He’ll cope.”
    Inspector Simpson was, as everyone knew, Bowles’s latest protégé. A weak-chinned man with a spiteful nature, he was, in the words of Sergeant Gibson, “Generally to be found toadying up to Old Bowels. Right pair, the two of them!” There was rumored to be a wager on how long it would take Simpson to make chief inspector, over the list.
    Rutledge found himself wondering if it was Simpson who had gone through his desk.
    And as if reading his mind, Bowles added, “I hear a Mrs. Shaw called on you a few days ago.” A bland voice, a glance out the window to indicate that this was mere curiosity on the Chief Superintendent’s part.
    Fishing.
    Rutledge chose to be circumspect. “Yes. Ben Shaw’s widow. His hanging still haunts her. Sad story.”
    “Shall I send Simpson along to have a talk with her?” The yellow eyes were mere slits now.
    “Short of bringing her husband back, I doubt there’s anything anyone can do. Even Simpson.” Rutledge paused. “She hasn’t prospered since Shaw’s death. I expect she was hoping for a handout.”
    “Yes, well, Shaw ought to have considered his family before taking to murder.” Bowles stirred in his chair, preparatory to dismissing Rutledge. “See what you can do in Kent. I’ve already told the Chief Constable you’ll be there smartly!”
    It was an unmistakable warning: Get out of London and don’t meddle with things best