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asked for a telephone. He knew Elizabeth Mayhew was on the ex-
change, but there was no answer to his call. The operator told him after
ten rings, There appears to be no one at home.
But there were servants in the house.
He found himself worrying about Elizabeth and unable to sleep. As
the bells in the clock tower struck the hour of one, Hamish said, It
willna matter what you want. It s her life, and no your own.
The next morning, as Rutledge stood shaving in front of the
framed mirror above his washstand, he began to feel a stirring of intu-
ition as he reviewed what he had seen and heard about the three men
who had been killed near Marling. A stirring that was just out of reach
in his mind, a pattern that was on the edge of consciousness. He had felt
this kind of thing before, when he was working on what seemed at first
to be disconnected events and facts. For there was always a key, in
murder a logical progression of circumstance that led to the destruc-
tion of another human being.
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He knew what had brought these men out into the night, to walk a
lonely road home. It was the wine that was incongruous. How was it of-
fered? And where? Under what pretense? What had happened then?
Had the men been left to die on the roadside? Or had the killer watched
each die, before abandoning the body? That was a macabre thought. . . .
Walking down the stairs to his breakfast, Rutledge tried to re-create
the scene in his mind. Instead, he found himself intercepted by the el-
derly desk clerk, who had been standing behind the reception desk as if
waiting for someone. For him, it appeared
Good morning, Inspector! There are um two persons who
asked for you. I ve put them in the small sitting room.
Two persons. Someone, then, not acceptable in the eyes of the hotel
staff. Rutledge cast about in his memory. Elizabeth s servants, perhaps?
He remembered she hadn t been at home last night when Melinda
Crawford had telephoned.
I ll see them.
He followed the man s directions to the small sitting room, usually
dark and unused at this hour. But watery sunlight poured in now, and
the two women sitting on the edges of the chintz-covered chairs by the
hearth looked up nervously as he opened the door.
One of them rose to her feet, her red face tired and drawn. The un-
becoming black hat she wore matched the threadbare black coat, giving
her an air of poverty and depression. The younger woman accompany-
ing her stood up more slowly, her eyes anxious as they scanned
Rutledge s face. Her blue coat, ill-fitting in the shoulders, was a slightly
different shade from the blue hat she wore with a surprising degree of
grace.
The older woman was Nell Shaw. She had managed to track him
down.
13
Mrs. Shaw Rutledge began, completely unprepared
to find Ben Shaw s widow here in Marling. As out of place in Kent as a
blackbird would be in a gilded cage.
I went to the Yard yesterday and asked for you. A sergeant
Gibson, his name was told me you d gone down to Kent to look into a
murder. I thought you was looking into my Ben s murders!
Rutledge said gently, Mrs. Shaw, I must go where I m sent
But she interrupted him again. I ve traveled all night. Well, nearly.
We got a lift on a lorry from Covent Garden, and then from Maidstone
came most of the way with a farmer carrying pig meat to the butcher
shops hereabouts. And we walked from Helford. Why didn t you come
and tell me you was not in London anymore? We ve been waiting for
word! Her voice was accusing, on the verge of tears.
The young woman beside her blushed and looked down at her
shoes. Rutledge regarded her. Taller than Mrs. Shaw, with fairer hair
and a very fine complexion, she seemed out of place in the older
woman s company.
Catching the shift in his attention, Mrs. Shaw added, This is
Margaret. Ben s and my daughter. She s of an age to be married, and
what prospects do you think she s got, the daughter of a hanged man?
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It s not fair to burden her with what they say her father done. A wrong
ought to be put right!
The flush deepened, and Margaret Shaw bit her lip, as if wishing
the floor might open and swallow her.
Rutledge said, Sit down, Mrs. Shaw. Miss Shaw. I ve done my best
to look into the earlier investigation, as I promised I would.
Seating themselves warily, they regarded him with doubtful eyes.
There s nothing I can point to so far that upholds your belief that
your neighbor was somehow involved. There are a number of ways that
Mrs. Cutter might have come by the locket
Name one! Mrs. Shaw demanded harshly.
He hesitated. Your husband may have given it to her.
A mourning pendant? Inscribed for a man she didn t even know?
And his name all over it, and no way of hiding it? You must be right
barmy to believe my Ben would have done such a stupid thing!
Yes, I know, Mrs. Shaw. I understand
You don t understand! You was like the rest of them, eager to see
my Ben hang for what was done to the old ladies. It was easier than dig-
ging out the truth!
He tried to keep his voice level. As I told you earlier, there s no
proof, he said, that the locket was in your neighbor s drawer. We have
only your word for that.
Oh, yes? Because my husband was hanged, I m a liar, am I? Well,
let me tell you, if it had been in my house all this time, someone would
have discovered it! And you searched the very rafters in the attic, didn t
you? Where do you think I might have hidden it away? In the teapot?
Among my corsets?
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