A Game of Fear: A Novel (Inspector Ian Rutledge #24)
Charles Todd
Dedication
This book is especially for Sammy. His endless energy and capacity for love was a comfort for those who knew him. Sammy was the light of his home and all those that lived with him. Dogs, cats, and people will miss him desperately.
Hunter was a kind and gentle dog most of the time. His happy smile greeted everyone the same. Sammy’s companion and cohort, they were inseparable. Hunter could sit for hours as long as he was touching someone. Sammy and Hunter shared a loving home where they received as much love as they gave. It is never easy to say goodbye to anyone or even a pet who has shared years with us. The loss of these two wonderful spirits is deeply felt and their fond memories will be with us forever.
November 13, 1934 – August 28, 2021
To my author, mother, and friend. Caroline epitomized what a kind, giving, and caring person should be. Her legacy lives on not only in her works of fiction, but in the hearts of all who knew her, and in those who continue to discover and read Charles Todd for years to come.
Fame and fortune were never a goal for Caroline. From her earliest childhood she wanted to be a writer. She achieved that lifelong dream with the support of so many readers, friends, and colleagues. It all began because Ruth Cavin (then senior editor at Thomas Dunne Books) believed in Ian Rutledge. A Test of Wills was published in 1996.
Caroline had a special place in her heart for reading and sharing that treasure with everyone. Her support of libraries, librarians, and reading was evident in the events she attended. She spoke at libraries around the world.
Caroline loved all living creatures, especially her cats and her children’s cats and dogs. She opened her heart, caring for any animal who came to her back door—from opossums to foxes, birds, and even a lizard—and made sure they were fed.
A child of the Great Depression and World War II, Caroline always gave to charities to help those less fortunate than herself. Providing food and warmth was not only lifesaving, but it also showed people that they were not alone.
A special thank-you to the many friends and readers for their notes of kindness and condolence. Caroline achieved her dream of becoming a writer and touching the hearts of so many readers. I am forever grateful to each and every person who made her dream come true.
Love, Charles
1
London, Late Spring 1921
Too often, Rutledge thought as he shut the door of the flat, carried his valise to the motorcar, and set out for the coast of Essex, humor has a malicious twist to it.
Word had got around that Markham had assigned him the murder inquiry in Essex, and as he quickly cleared his desk and took the remaining files down to Sergeant Gibson, he was accompanied by a cacophony of noises that were supposed to represent ghostly sounds. He made the best of it, but he knew that in some cases the noises were intended to remind him of his haunted war years. Of shell shock. Sharper sounds, pencils rapidly tapping the edge of a desk, more like the rattle of machine-gun fire than Marley’s chains—faces hiding their intent behind friendly grins, while their eyes, staring at him, were cold—and Markham in his doorway, watching without any expression at all . . . He’d had to clench his teeth to prevent swearing at them and instead pretend to be amused.
When he’d questioned Markham about the need to send the Yard to Essex in the first place, the Chief Superintendent had said shortly, “Well, something happened, that much we know. I don’t put much stock in the rest of it. Sort it out. The Chief Constable feels obligated. He says he knows the family. Otherwise he’d have left it to the local man.”
Spring was coming to Kent as Rutledge crossed the county line. The orchards were in bloom, great splashes of white or a soft pink everywhere he looked. The hop fields were a low, bright green, just breaking through the soil, not yet ready for the hordes of Londoners who came down to string up the vines.
The reason he’d chosen to drive this roundabout way, rather than through East London, was a light lunch with Melinda Crawford, at her house. He’d promised her more than once that he would come down, then had had to put off his visit. Not that he was deliberately avoiding her. Twice she’d stood by him in a time of great need. Once when word had come that his parents had been killed in a boating accident off the Isle of Skye. And again when he himself had not known where to turn or who to trust. What’s more, she’d been a close friend of his parents and a part of his childhood. He’d always been fond of her.
The thing was, she saw him too clearly—knew him too well. And he’d had to struggle since war’s end to keep Hamish from her. The voice in his head that had never left him, never given him peace, since the Battle of the Somme in ’16. She knew a little of that part of his war—but not the worst of it.
She was Army, generations of Army. And he wasn’t sure how she would feel about his guilt.
And so he tried to keep his distance when he could.
She was expecting him. When he came up the drive, the door opened as he braked to a halt by the steps.
“Hallo,” she said, smiling. “You made good time.”
Rutledge grinned in response. He’d let the big touring car out on the straight stretches. As she must have known he might.
He got down, walked up the steps, and kissed the cheek she presented.