Hunting Shadows: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery by Charles Todd Page A

murder.
    “Back again, are you, sir? Anything I can help you with, then?”
    But there was a guardedness in the offer.
    Rutledge handed him his identification, and McBride studied it for longer than necessary, and then, getting to his feet, he said in a slightly aggrieved voice, “I’m sorry, sir, but you didn’t tell me who you were.”
    “I hadn’t yet reported to Inspector Warren in Ely. I’d been caught out in that mist the previous night, got thoroughly lost, and when I realized that I was in Wriston, I wanted to take a preliminary look at that cross.”
    “Yes, I see.” But it was clear he didn’t. “Is there anything new, sir? From Ely?” He held up the newspaper still in his hand, then set it aside. “There’s nothing in here. And the last report I’d had from Inspector Warren was three days ago. Even that was not what you might call informative.”
    “What does the Ely paper have to say about the murders?”
    “Precious little. A nine days’ wonder, as it were. It’s no longer on the first page.” Gesturing to the chair on the other side of the desk, he sat down. “How can I help you, sir?”
    “Tell me what happened here in Wriston.”
    “Surely Inspector Warren has already done that.”
    “I’d like your point of view. You live here.”
    McBride gave him a concise report. It differed very little from what Rutledge already knew. “We searched and we found nothing. Not even a cartridge casing. The shot must have been a difficult one. Night, flickering torchlight. I’d not have tried it, I can tell you that. I mean to say, what if he’d missed?”
    But whoever it was had had no problem making his shot count.
    “The question is, what ties these two deaths together? There has to be a very good reason. For one thing, they were killed within days of each other, and only a matter of miles apart. For another, they were fairly prominent men. This wasn’t a grudge killing between neighbors, because they weren’t in any sense neighbors.”
    McBride shook his head. “I’ve spent hours thinking about that, sir. I can’t see how they could have known each other. Perhaps someone only believed they did.”
    Which, Rutledge thought, was a very perceptive comment.
    “The war. Is there a connection there?”
    “I can’t think how that could be. The Swifts have been farmers here for generations. Our Mr. Swift spent most of his war in Glasgow, serving with the Navy as a civilian. Still, he liked Scotland, it seems. He wrote the Rector to say that when he could, he’d take long walks. He thought it cleared his head. He was still mourning his wife.”
    “Did Swift have enemies?”
    “We haven’t found any. If you want my opinion, whoever did this isn’t a Wriston man, and that means the quarrel, if there was one, didn’t have its roots here. Mr. Swift wasn’t one to visit Ely or Soham or Burwell often, but he went there if it was a matter of business. I’d say look at his clients or their enemies. A quiet man, and well liked. He’d have won, you know. Hands down. I daresay his killing could even have been political, although that’s a stretch, in my view.”
    “What about his opponent?”
    “I doubt he could be bothered. What he liked best, if truth be told, were the free beers his supporters bought for him down at The Wake.”
    “What was Mr. Swift talking about the night he was killed?”
    “He was hardly into what he’d planned to say. It had to do with the war ending, but the legacy of the war was still with us. I doubt anyone would argue with that.”
    “His private life, then.”
    McBride smiled. “As to that, his wife ruled the roost until she died in childbirth. It nearly killed him as well. I don’t believe he’d have gone on, if the war hadn’t changed things. Scotland was good for him, taking him away from here.”
    “Someone wanted him dead.”
    “It’s true, but try as I will, I can find nothing in his life to explain that. Unless . . .” McBride’s gaze stared