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

into the past, somewhere behind Rutledge’s left shoulder.
    Rutledge felt an instant burst of panic, then caught himself. No one could see Hamish where he kept watch at Rutledge’s back, as he had done so often in the trenches.
    “There was something before the war. Mr. Swift was serving as a witness in a trial in Ely. There was a man sent to prison for putting another man in hospital with a skull fracture and broken ribs. It was claimed the victim was thrown down a flight of stairs. The man swore it wasn’t true, that the victim, after an argument, turned to have the last word, lost his balance, and fell. But the jury thought otherwise.” McBride lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “That man might’ve held a grudge against Swift, because he gave evidence against him, but I can’t see how Captain Hutchinson fits into it.”
    “Do you remember the man’s name?”
    “That I don’t. The only reason I remember the trial at all is that my wife’s brother was bailiff at the time.”
    “Then I’ll ask him if he recalls the trial.”
    “Dead on Passchendaele Ridge,” McBride answered somberly. “More’s the pity. A good man.”
    “Turn it another way. Who has such a rifle?”
    “There’s the catch,” McBride agreed. “They aren’t lying beneath every bush, are they? The question is, did he keep it back when he left France, or was it one used to train troops?”
    It was time to mention Mrs. Percy.
    “I’ve been told that at least one of the onlookers described our man.”
    McBride pushed aside his newspaper. “Mrs. Percy. I don’t know who spoke to you about her. But I’d discount what she said, if I were you, sir.”
    “Why? She saw something . It wasn’t what you expected from a witness, perhaps. But it was information we have to investigate.”
    “Sir, I can’t see how we can explore what she described. She’s an elderly woman whose eyesight is not the best. I mean to say—a monster.”
    “The question is, was she the only one who looked up just as the shot was fired? There may be other witnesses who don’t want to come forward. We need to find them.”
    “There’s nothing in the statements we collected that show information has been withheld.”
    “I’d like to question her, all the same.”
    “She’s still that upset, sir, I doubt she’ll make any sense.”
    “Then I’ll go alone. She might speak more freely. Tell me where to find her.”
    Mrs. Percy lived in the last cottage on the lane called Windmill Row.
    There was no windmill now. Instead the fields began not twenty feet beyond her door, and a bulwark of earth separated them from the end of her lane. He could just see the darker green of late season crops growing several feet below the level of the higher ground on which her house sat.
    She was snapping beans in the kitchen when Rutledge tapped at her open door. “Come,” she called, and he stepped inside, following the sound of her voice. She was a small woman, gray hair pinned up on her head, blue-veined hands working with the beans in a large earthenware bowl. He didn’t think she even looked down at them, her fingers busy on their own.
    “Who are you?” she demanded, peering at the tall stranger who’d just appeared in her kitchen. “I was expecting the butcher’s boy.”
    “My name is Rutledge, Mrs. Percy. London has sent me to Wriston to find out what I can about the death of Mr. Swift. I understand you were by the market cross that evening, when he was shot.”
    “I was. It was a warm evening, no clouds, and I felt like walking up to the cross to see what the shouting and those torches were all about. When I got there, the smoke made my eyes water. I pushed my way around behind Mr. Swift, where it was a little better, and just then he started to speak. I’d hardly got settled when he dropped like a stone.” She shuddered, her hands pausing in their work. “I wish I’d never gone up. I wish I’d decided to do my mending instead.” Her fingers found their rhythm