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    Hunting Shadows: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery
    Hunting Shadows: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery
    Hunting Shadows: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery
    Ebook408 pages6 hours

    Hunting Shadows: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery

    By Charles Todd

    4/5

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    A dangerous case with ties leading back to the battlefields of World War I dredges up dark memories for Scotland Yard Inspector Ian Rutledge in Hunting Shadows, a gripping and atmospheric historical mystery set in 1920s England, from acclaimed New York Times bestselling author Charles Todd.

    A society wedding at Ely Cathedral in Cambridgeshire becomes a crime scene when a man is murdered. After another body is found, the baffled local constabulary turns to Scotland Yard. Though the second crime had a witness, her description of the killer is so strange its unbelievable.

    Despite his experience, Inspector Ian Rutledge has few answers of his own. The victims are so different that there is no rhyme or reason to their deaths. Nothing logically seems to connect them—except the killer. As the investigation widens, a clear suspect emerges. But for Rutledge, the facts still don’t add up, leaving him to question his own judgment.

    In going over the details of the case, Rutledge is reminded of a dark episode he witnessed in the war. While the memory could lead him to the truth, it also raises a prickly dilemma. To stop a murderer, will the ethical detective choose to follow the letter—or the spirit—of the law?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateJan 21, 2014
    ISBN9780062237118
    Author

    Charles Todd

    Charles Todd is the New York Times bestselling author of the Inspector Ian Rutledge mysteries, the Bess Crawford mysteries, and two stand-alone novels. A mother-and-son writing team, Caroline passed away in August 2021 and Charles lives in Florida.

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    Reviews for Hunting Shadows

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    • 4/5
      When a British Army officer is killed by a rifle marksman while standing outside the church at a wedding, there are virtually no clues. The only witness says the shooter looked like a monster. Then a candidate for Parliament is killed in similar fashion, and farmer is wounded but survives. When Inspector Ian Rutledge from Scotland Yard is assigned the case, he is told it will be like hunting shadows.“Hunting Shadows” (2014) is a solid entry in Charles Todd’s Ian Rutledge mystery series. British mysteries can sometimes be difficult for American readers to follow, but that is not the case here. But then Charles Todd is an American, actually two Americans — a mother and son. (There are several Americans writing British mysteries, Elizabeth George being among the most prominent.)As it is 1920, just two years since the Great War ended, Rutledge reasons the killer must be a veteran, perhaps a former sniper, who somehow managed to bring his rifle home with him. But what ties the three victims together? Or are they tied together? Might the killer just be someone who came to like killing?Rutledge, himself a veteran of the war, works alone, except he is rarely alone. Accompanying him in his mind is Hamish, a Scottish soldier whose death haunts Rutledge. Hamish tends to butt in with commentary at key moments, yet he is mostly silent in this novel, much to the relief of both Rutledge and the reader.The ending comes with multiple surprises, as one hopes to find in a good mystery.
    • 3/5
      While I enjoyed this Inspector Ian Rutledge book I have enjoyed previous ones more.
    • 4/5
      Ahhhhhh this one was good! And tied up some loose ends! And didn't race to the ending!!! Ahhhh happy I am tonight!
    • 4/5
      Inspector Ian Rutledge is sent to fen country by Scotland Yard to help two small villages solve recent homicides. A wedding guest is gunned down as he approaches the church with the groom, and a man running for political office is shot in the face as he begins a campaign speech. But the only "witness" to either murder sees a monster. After figuring out that the suspect would have to have sniper training, Rutledge questions veterans of WWI. Since no one talks about the war, and snipers are particularly maligned for killing men who don't know they are being shot at, it's difficult to determine who has the skills. Making things more difficult is the fact that Rutledge is a veteran suffering post traumatic stress, and his friend Hamish, who died in the war, talks to him constantly.The storyline is complex and it wasn't easy to keep all the characters straight. But the book was pretty good and I didn't guess the murderer.It's interesting that Charles Todd is actually a mother/son duo Caroline and Charles Todd. Hunting Shadows is the 16th in the Ian Rutledge series and the first one I've read. It looks like the series is going strong.
    • 2/5
      I sill enjoy the characters and the tone, but the stories need help. Murders are solved by Rutledge rushing around England (here the fens) in his motorcar. Mysteries involve post WWI soldiers suffering one disability or another. Plots difficult to keep track of. A disappointing entry in the series.
    • 5/5
      Wonderfully written mystery with a WWI shell-shocked veteran as the detective. The setting is marvelous and haunting, and the mystery turns out to be very intriguing indeed. The detective is thorough, but makes mistakes, which adds to the complexity of his character. The solution is hidden in plain sight... no cheating on the author's part, but most readers will be surprised by the ending. Probably not your cup of tea if you're into thrillers, but if you like a great mystery story that brings alive a time and place, this is highly recommended.
    • 5/5
      Often mystery book series it can get to a point where the books develop an assembly line feel. That is definitely not the case in this mother/son writing duo's 16th Inspector Rutledge mystery. This standalone '20s period mystery follows Rutledge as he investigates into two seemingly unrelated murder victims, both killed by an expert sniper. The writing for this novel is so vivid that you can feel the foggy atmosphere and easily imagine the individual characters. The mystery stands up to scrutiny as the Inspector makes connections and digs into the past for clues. I would say this would be a great bedside read except once you start the book you'll be up all night to finish it! Read this book and go back and read the other Inspector Rutledge's mysteries!I received this book in exchange for a fair and honest review.
    • 5/5
      Charles Todd interests me because "he" is actually a mother and son writing team. That fact just blows me away. They live in different states, yet manage to collaborate on excellent books. This is the latest in their Inspector Ian Rutledge series.Set in England just after World War I many of the characters are suffering from physical and mental problems due to their service in that horrible war. Rutledge is too. He is accompanied everywhere he goes by the voice of a Scottish soldier named Hamish, a sensible man who was killed in the trenches. Rutledge blames himself so Hamish is always with him and gives him good advice.Rutledge is sent to the Fens as the local police have requested help solving two murders. First an army officer is killed as he approaches the cathedral in Ely for a society wedding. Then a local man standing for Parliament is shot and killed just as he begins a speech in the middle of the village of Wriston one evening. Bystanders carry torches so it's difficult to see but one woman sees a "monster" in a window above the ironmonger's shop. The Fens are very much a character in the story as is the relative isolation of villages in the area. I didn't know anything about this part of England but found it very interesting. There are windmills to direct water for irrigation and drainage, little bridges, and all of the land except where roads and villages are has been lowered to stave off flooding. There are nights when misty fog makes any travel impossible, and wouldn't you know it's on such a dangerous night that Rutledge arrives. The people have been shaped by geography and the difficulty of making a living.The mystery fooled me. I kept mentally accusing the wrong man, but when I reached the end, the whole story made perfect sense. Rutledge's own difficulties with his war experiences make him more interesting than the average detective, and I loved Hamish. Wonderful read.Highly recommended.Source: William Morrow Imprint of HarperCollins
    • 5/5
      I really enjoyed this latest Charles Todd mystery. The mother/son writing duo brought to life the fen countryside, the post WWI fatigue and depression of England, and the oh so brooding Inspector Rutledge.
    • 4/5
      This is the first book I have read by the mother/son writing team that go by the moniker Charles Todd. This is the story of a Scotland Yard investigator that must find the murderer of two prominent men done by a marksman with a high powered rifle. The book takes place in England right after WW1. The book is well written and the story is clearly defined. It also has a very satisfying ending that is logical and interesting once the plot plays out. What I found tough to take was the tiny bit of usable information that the investigator gets from each person that he interviews. This causes the book to move along at a snails pace much of the time. Also,, it seems every person he talks to has some shred of information for him to build on to solve the crime. Isn't that convenient!
    • 3/5
      I enjoy the method of writing for the mother/son team called Charles Todd. The characters are well developed and the setting becomes visible with their description. My only problem with this team is the extensive cast of characters. The ending exposes the killer and the need for vengeance for wrongs of the past. I like Ian Rutledge and his battle with the demons of the war, but at times, he seems so lonely. The story gives a realistic rendering of village life in England after WWI.
    • 3/5
      Scotland Yard Inspector Ian Rutledge is headed north to “fen country,” help two small Cambridgeshire village police departments solve murders on their turf. It is 1920, and two men have been murdered by what appears to be sniper fire. Rutledge’s first instinct is to look at war veterans who may have been snipers – a fact of war experience most men wouldn’t brag about. Rutledge’s early efforts, mostly unsuccessful, are to find a tie between the two men – something that would give at least a small clue about the sniper’s motivation.As usual, Rutledge spends a lot of time motoring between the villages. That’s time that, in earlier books in this series, would have given rise to extended conversations between Rutledge and Hamish, a man Rutledge, a military officer, was forced to execute during The Great War. One manifestation of Rutledge’s post-traumatic stress is Hamish’s voice in his head. But Hamish is pretty much sidelined in Hunting Shadows, which takes away one thing that makes Inspector Rutledge’s stories different than other historical mysteries set in the period. And Hamish was a character that cut the tension in the books with a little bit of humor.This is a good series that’s not gotten significantly better over the years. I don’t know if I’m the only one to notice how much of the books is taken up with transportation. Actually, my husband was the first to point that out to me and I have now noticed the same thing. I think the different casts of characters in the villages which Rutledge travels between make the story more complicated than it needs to be. I long for a mystery in which Rutledge goes to point A and stays there for the duration, rather than traveling back and forth – especially without Hamish as a traveling companion.
    • 5/5
      It is a couple of years since I've caught up with this series, despite the best intentions of reading them all. HUNTING SHADOWS makes me want to read more.However Ian Rutledge hasn't moved on very far in that time. The setting is 1920, he is still working on demand out of Scotland Yard, and still suffering from post-war stress. World War One is still raw in the memories of rural England, where so many young lads went off to war and either did not return or came back maimed in body and soul.Rutledge comes from London to the Fens to solve a murder at Ely Cathedral. The expectation both by his boss in London and the local Inspector in charge is that it won't take long. On the face of it there are no connections between the first murder and the second, nor with the shooting that follows. But of course there are connections as Rutledge will eventually ferret out.The plots in this series are so well constructed, and there is enough of Rutledge's continuing story to maintain the reader's interest too. There is a post-war flavour that comes out well, and some interesting characters and occupations, some of which no longer exist.
    • 4/5
      "Hunting Shadows" tells the story of Inspector Ian Rutledge of Scotland Yard to investigate two murders. Both men were killed by rifle shot but evidence is hard to find.The story takes place after WWI and some of the story connects to battlefield actions.The book follows Rutledge's investigation and we learn of the area and the people. At one point he visits a town and we see people who work as an ironmonger, a cooper and a hurdle maker.The characters are unique and interesting and the story moves at an appropriate liesurly pace.I think readers of historical mysteries will enjoy this book.
    • 4/5
      Hamish and Rutledge are back again solving two seemingly unrelated murders in two different small towns.Ian Rutledge is working on finding a "shadowy" figure who shoots to kill and then disappears without a trace. Rutledge has a difficult time finding clues and connections that would lead to the murderer's identification. The first shooting was at a wedding and the second at a political rally. No one seems to be able to understand how the two are related nor the reason for the murders.HUNTING SHADOWS is another great read by Charles Todd; in fact, HUNTING SHADOWS is my favorite of his mysteries, and I have read a number of his books. Sometimes his murders get too tied up with the war, but HUNTING SHADOWS seems more geared to the people in the story and the plot. So if you didn't like some of his other books, this one is different, so give it a try.I always enjoy Mr. Todd's mysteries mostly because of the time period and the twists and turns that ultimately occur. Rutledge and Hamish are always characters that keep you on your toes. The other characters in HUNTING SHADOWS who perfectly portray the way of life at that time in history will keep your interest.If you enjoy a murder mystery at its best along with wonderful description and imagery, don't miss Todd's newest Ian Rutledge mystery. 4/5This book was given to me free of charge by the publisher in return for an honest review.
    • 4/5
      Returning for his 16th novel, WWI survivor and Scotland Yard Inspector Ian Rutledge is on the road again, solving murders in the appropriately named Hunting Shadows.This time, the story begins with an old soldier who largely keeps to himself but feels he needs to pay his respects to another soldier by attending his funeral in the Fens country. He stops short of entering the church upon seeing an old enemy, a former officer. He waits until the man returns to the area for a wedding and, drawing on his sniper experience during the war, kills the man in front of the bridegroom.The public slaying horrifies the area. People are even more scared when another man, a quiet country solicitor running for Parliament, also is killed by an unknown assailant in public.En route to the small villages where the murders took place, Rutledge is lost in the fog one night on the Fens, guided by a ghostly presence who leads him to eventual safety. As with many people Rutledge meets in his investigations, people are suspicious of the police yet expect them to solve crimes, preferably before they happen.Mixed in with the prickly characters are those who intrigue Rutledge as people, whether they may know much about the murders or even be suspects. There are at least two who would be worth seeing in subsequent novels in this series.One of the highlights of this novel is the focus on the role of snipers in WWI. Although they saved many lives, their ability to blend into their surroundings to kill was seen by many as cowardly, as not forthright or sporting. The snipers often keep their past a secret, to avoid being shunned. It's an interesting commentary on warcraft and the needs of the battlefield.The novel also does a wonderful job of bringing the bleak, blandly treacherous Fens to life. This is the landscape in which Lord Peter Wimsey got lost in The Nine Tailors, and this Todd novel recalls that classic tale as well as tells its own strong story.Rutledge remains haunted by Hamish MacLeod, although the corporal whose execution Rutledge ordered does not disrupt the narrative. He serves as Rutledge's inner guide, asking the right question at the right time and being a bit of a worrywart. Rutledge still suffers from being in the trenches. As his investigation brings back the horrors of those times, he relives them as well.But he also is soldiering on in that he shows signs of trying to move on by doing his job with diligence, wishing happiness for those he cares about and showing a wee bit more of his human side in his consideration of people he comes across in this outing.Hunting Shadows is a superb entry in one of the most consistently entertaining historical mystery series around.
    • 5/5
      This book is part of an ongoing series of Inspector Rutledge and the Scotland Yard. Fortunately, you don't have to have read other books in the series to get into this one. I like series where I can jump in and not be lost about all the relationships between the characters.The place for this mystery is an area of England called the Fens, a marshy, boggy area prone to heavy fogs and surface flooding during heavy rains. The time is just after WWI. The mystery itself is well hidden, with plenty of red herrings to keep us guessing. I was really fooled until the end. All in all, a good read.
    • 4/5
      Caroline and Charles Todd are a mother and son writing team who specialize in mysteries set in Britain and France during and immediately after the First World War. Their Bess Crawford mysteries follow the adventures of the intrepid WWI nurse as she unravels murder mysteries both at home and while serving in France. The Ian Rutledge series is a darker, more atmospheric one, set in post-war Britain and featuring a veteran who struggles with his demons from the war. Ian Rutledge returned from the war ready to lose himself in his work for Scotland Yard. His superior is not happy to have him back and tries, at every opportunity, to send him off to work on those cases that have the least chance of resolution and are preferably located farthest from London. And this enables us, as readers, to venture into those parts of the UK that we might otherwise have missed.In this, the 16th in the Inspector Ian Rutledge series, the Inspector is sent to the Fens to find a mysterious rifleman who shot an Army officer outside of Ely Cathedral where a society wedding was about to take place. But Rutledge was sent only after a second shooting, this time of a political candidate, which occurred in a nearby town. This shooting was also committed in public as nearby residents gathered to hear the politician speak. A witness claims that the shooter, whom she glimpsed in a window, was a "monster."Two shootings, apparently unconnected, except that they were both committed using a rifle in a public place. A rifle that should have been turned in when the troops left France at the end of the war.So Rutledge cranks up his motorcar and heads up to Cambridgeshire. On his way to Ely, the fog closes in so densely that he can no longer see to drive. Getting out of the car, he is led to a nearby house by a stranger, who then disappears into the fog. And that is a pretty clear definition of this mystery, where strangers, suspects, appear and disappear and all clues are shrouded in a clinging, heavy fog. There are no DNA samples, and the single physical clue will remain meaningless until the killer is found. The detecting in this novel is done through dialog as Inspector Rutledge, with some help from the local police, tracks down possible suspects, or those who might have some tangental information on either death that could tie them together. The two victims, one a social climbing Army officer, and the other a well liked local politician seem to have nothing in common except their service during the war. But they shared that with most men of their age in the UK. It is up to Rutledge to find what connects them to each other and to the murderer.This satisfying mystery takes place in the flat marshlands of eastern England; its horizon dotted with the decaying windmills that were used to drain the Fens before being replaced by coal powered steam engine pumps. The flat surface allows the fog to roll in and violent storms to rage across the land, unhindered by any hills or valleys. Todd deftly includes the details that flesh out how life was lived in the late teens and early twenties. He evokes the post-war atmosphere at home, as lonely young women are consigned to spinsterhood in the absence of marriageable men. Post traumatic stress disorder plagues our protagonist, who is still hearing the faint voice of Hamish, the young Scot who served under him and was shot for refusal to obey orders. Todd does a much better job of portraying Rutledge's torment in this novel than he did in his first of the series, A Test of Wills. A Test of Wills was one of those books I struggled to finish. As fascinating as I find that era, and as good a job as Todd does in using it as a setting, the Hamish thing left me cold. It felt too much like a "hook," a way for the author to distinguish his work from others of the same era. Since I don't believe in ghosts, I never found Hamish believable. I felt that a voice so realistic would be more symptomatic of schizophrenia than of battle fatigue, shell shock or PTSD. It irritated me and took me completely out of the story. In Hunting Shadows Hamish makes far fewer appearances, and those not as intrusive. The flashbacks and nightmares that Ian Rutledge experiences are more than enough to make his trauma obvious without the need for the voice of a dead Scot. And the mystery itself is well constructed and told. It really needs no other hook.
    • 3/5
      The Fens seem to be a recurring setting in a number of books I've read this year. I'm beginning to think I need to schedule a trip!
    • 4/5
      Rifle fire in the Fens kills two seemingly disparate men and Rutledge is called to sort it out. Many loose ends need to be followed during the early days of his sleuthing. With his usual patience and the occasional plod, he sorts it out for a surprising but satisfactory finish. Hamish seems to be fading as a muse and a literary device. Which is probably a good thing for Rutledge and this good series.
    • 4/5
      A satisfying mystery in the continuing series of Inspector Rutledge of Scotland Yard, surviving after service in WWI, with the on-going presence of Hamish, commenting in the back of his head. Murders in the Fen country. Great sense of place and time and a good mystery to solve. 4.5 stars.
    • 4/5
      This is my first Ian Rutledge novel but not my first Charles Todd novel. I’ve read several in the Bess Crawford series and enjoyed them so I thought I venture into this other series. This book opens not with our hero but rather with the soon to be murderer as he spots a man he feels is responsible for the death of someone he cared about. Not long after the first murder a second one occurs in a village not far away but there seems to be no connection between the two victims. The local police soon reach a dead end so Scotland Yard is called in to find the answers.Ian Rutledge is barely holding himself together after the war. He is (literally) haunted by the ghost of his war buddy Hamish who invades his sleep and talks to him at odd times often providing insights into his current situation. Rutledge is heading out to visit one of the two small towns when he gets lost in the fog and this sets up the best part of the book – the scene descriptions. This mother/son writing duo really knows how to set their scenes. I felt the cold of that mist just sitting in my living room.Rutledge spends a lot of time going back and forth between the two villages and London – always in his motorcar – finding clues and building towards the surprising ending. Where the book falls down is in its character development. As Rutledge motors about he meets a lot of people and therefore so do we as readers but it becomes difficult keeping track of them all. Very few are fleshed out beyond the basics so they don’t really leave enough of an impression to stand out.The bits and pieces slowly come together and Ian, with Hamish’s help (or is it his subconscious?) realizes exactly what the connection is between the two men and why they were killed. He stirs up a lot of old history along the way; history that in some cases is better left in the past. All the while wresting with what we would now call PTSD from his experiences during the war.I did enjoy the book despite the issues I mentioned above. I know many others are disappointed with this book compared to others in the series but since I’ve not read any others I have nothing to compare it to – I can only go on this one book. I would definitely read another in the series.
    • 4/5
      Another good addition to the Rutledge series that I personally like much better than the Bess Crawford books. The setting , in the Fens, is very descriptive and adds atmosphere to the book. A lengthy cast of characters, lots of red herrings , keep the story moving, although slowly at times. I think I like this series as much for the historical placement as I do for the evolution of Rutledge's character.
    • 5/5
      Someone with a grudge to settle, kills an Army Captain on his way to a wedding. No witnesses, no clues, and no one could even guess where the shot was fired from. A little more than a week later another man was shot at a political rally where he was going to give his speech declaring why he should be the one elected and sent to parliament.With no real clues left behind, the local police felt obliged to call in Scotland Yard. This is where Rutledge is brought in. When he is sent on his way, the interim commander once again implies that speed to a conviction is the most important part of his job. Much to Ian’s irritation. On his way to Ely the fog rolled in, so thick he couldn't see past the end of the bonnet and ended up in Wriston, the other town he needed to visit. With the help of a stranger that didn't bother to introduce himself, he was led to a little cabin. Later he found out how close he came to falling into an old burned building. Lots of things are hidden in the fens, not just by the fog.Ian has a slow start to his investigation since the shooter was so thorough in covering his tracks. The local constables help where they can but there just isn’t much to go on. The hardest part is finding some kind of connection between the victims. When a third almost joins the ranks of the deceased, the pressure really is on.I really enjoy the Ian Rutledge books and these bring to life England in the 1920’s, just after the war. People are still adjusting, both those left behind and those who returned, some whole, others not so much. Ian being one who hides his problem a little better than most. It also highlights how people with PTSD (then known as Shell Shock) were treated. I think this is one of the best I’ve read in the series and highly recommend it, even if you haven’t read any of the previous books.
    • 5/5
      I absolutely love Charles Todd's Bess Crawford series, but funnily enough I've only read one or two of the Inspector Ian Rutledge mysteries. And I'm not sure why, as I really enjoyed Hunting Shadows, the 16th entry in this series.Inspector Ian Rutledge of Scotland Yard is called in by the local constabulary when they are stymied by not one, but two murders - both perpetrated by a sniper. The two victims are completely disparate and it's up to Rutledge to find the common denominator - and the killer.Todd writes wonderful historical mysteries - the times, the social customs and mores, the language and more are just lovely to immerse yourself in. It's a gentler time, but it's also coloured by the aftermath of World War 1. (Hunting Shadows is set in 1920) Shell shock (what we now call PTSD) plays a part in both the plot and with our main character. Rutledge often converses with Hamish, a dead soldier from Rutledge's past.I enjoyed and savoured the slow building of the case. Finding clues, conducting interviews, visiting scenes - it's all done in a measured manner that is just a treat to read. Yes, it's a murder mystery, but it's such a rich, atmospheric read on top of that. There's so much detail in Todd's prose, bringing the time period, the settings and the supporting cast to life.The final whodunit is a satisfying end to some excellent plotting - one a reader will not guess beforehand. Definitely recommended.
    • 2/5
      Inspector Rutledge searches for a sharp shooter that has recently killed two men in a rural community. Lots of minutia in following the trail of the killer, with more and more possibilities added. Got to be confusing, and since I wasn't following carefully, rather boring.
    • 5/5
      "Hunting Shadows," is the 14th in the series of Ian Rutledge belonging to the 'Mystery' genre. The title and cover are very appropriate for the story. It is set against rural and isolated villages in England, where gossip is the main source of news. There are good references to the local areas, and the description of the characters are well developed. All the characters are strong, with loneliness a common thread among them. The story is well plotted and well written. With the war never far from his mind, a voice from the past like a shadow, he must solve a crime by a sniper using a WW1 weapon. The story holds on to the end, but the end doesn't seem like a big surprise - more like something expected.
    • 1/5
      HUNTING SHADOWS bored me, and I finished reading it only because it was a book group choice and I will be leading the group this month.If you've never read Charles Todd, as I hadn't, I would not suggest you start with this book, number 16 in a series. My friend started with number 1 and liked it. Perhaps it would have made a difference if I had read the series in order, but number 16 bored me so much that I don't want to read anymore of Todd's books.The setting is various cities in England in 1920, shortly after World War I. Two murders and one attempted murder have occurred, and Scotland Yard's Inspector Ian Rutledge has been brought into the investigation. So we follow Rutledge (along with Hamish, who is never adequately explained in this 16th book in the series) as he tries to solve the murders, which seem to all be committed by one person.But Rutledge encounters many suspects and many other characters along the way. It may be a trick for you to remember them all. Also, you will have to pay close attention to seemingly unimportant comments Rutledge makes early in the story; late in the book, he discovers what he wondered way back then.This may be more interesting if you read the previous 15 books in the series first.
    • 5/5
      rend all is by far the mystery which lives in your everyday rxperience
    • 4/5
      A man with a rifle shoots first a former military officer, and then a man running for elective office. What is the connnection? Lots of great locale scenes and atmosphere.Such a great series. Ian struggling with his demons from the Great War, often hunting men in the same condition. This one takes place in the Fens and has lots of atmosphere and colorful locale and locals as well as the psychological depths these books keep exploring.

    Book preview

    Hunting Shadows - Charles Todd

    DEDICATION

    For Robin Hathaway, author of the Dr. Fenimore series, the Dr. Jo Banks series, and countless short stories.

    Robin was a voracious reader, had an eclectic library that filled three houses, and possessed one of the most creative minds we’ve ever come across. She had plots and stories yet untold, and a love of the written word that was deep and abiding. And she was a good friend, something that was very precious to a great many people, including us. . . . What she didn’t have was Time.

    Here’s to the Chrysler Building, Robin. And all that it stood for.

    CONTENTS

    Dedication

    Chapter 1

    Chapter 2

    Chapter 3

    Chapter 4

    Chapter 5

    Chapter 6

    Chapter 7

    Chapter 8

    Chapter 9

    Chapter 10

    Chapter 11

    Chapter 12

    Chapter 13

    Chapter 14

    Chapter 15

    Chapter 16

    Chapter 17

    Chapter 18

    Chapter 19

    Chapter 20

    P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

    About the author

    About the book

    Read on

    Books by Charles Todd

    Praise

    Credits

    Copyright

    About the Publisher

    Chapter 1

    The Fen Country, Cambridgeshire, August 1920

    He read the telegram with dismay, and a second time with a heavy sense of loss.

    Major Clayton was dead. He’d been in hospital outside London since the closing days of the war, fighting a different battle. Sometimes winning. More often than not losing. They had kept in touch until three months before, when Clayton had been too ill to write, and his sister had been too distressed to write for him.

    Dropping the telegram on the table, he gazed out his window. Clayton would be brought back to the Fen country for burial. Services would be held at two o’clock Friday next in the Church of St. Mary’s, Burwell. Only a few miles away.

    He intended to be there.

    He’d tried hard to put the war behind him. Avoiding weddings and funerals alike, refusing even to deliver the eulogies for men he’d known well. It would bring back too many memories, and he wanted them to stay buried, along with the dead left behind in the torn earth of Flanders Fields. Unable to explain, he’d simply cited ill health as his reason for declining. Burying himself here, he had shut out as much of the rest of the world as he could. He had even stopped reading obituaries. They were too sharp a reminder of the fact that he had survived when so many had not. For the dying had not stopped with the Armistice.

    The service for Major Clayton was different. Clayton had saved his life, and in doing so nearly lost his own. The leg had never healed correctly, and in the end it had become the source of the gangrene that overtook first his foot, then his knee, his leg, and finally his body. Dying by inches, he’d called it.

    For Major Clayton, he would have to make an exception. He hadn’t been asked by Clayton’s sister to deliver the eulogy, even though he knew the man better than anyone living. And he was just as glad.

    Instead the sister had invited a Colonel from London to do that honor. He wondered what Clayton would have made of that, given his feelings for HQ and the generals who had given orders they themselves would never have to carry out. Decisions that sent men to their deaths, maimed them, made them numbers on interminable lists, names and ranks and dates but never the faces or shortened lives that should have reminded the generals that they were dealing in flesh and blood.

    Of course St. Mary’s would be full for the service. He reminded himself that he would have to stay well back, where he wouldn’t be noticed.

    Only for Clayton, he thought on the Friday as he shaved and then dressed himself with more than his usual care. The Major had been a stickler for appearances; he’d said often enough that if a man respected his uniform, he would respect himself. It would not do to be less than parade perfect even in civilian clothes.

    At half past one, he set out for Burwell, planning his journey to arrive shortly before the mourners went inside to take their places. He had no desire to greet anyone, exchange pleasantries or memories. Or to offer condolences to the sister. He barely knew her, and his brief words of sympathy would not lessen her grief.

    As it was, by the time he’d reached Burwell and walked on to St. Mary’s by a roundabout way, ending up on the street just above it, the hearse had arrived and only a handful of people were still standing by the west door. He slowed his pace, waiting until everyone else had gone inside ahead of him, and listened to the heavy bell above his head toll the brief years of Clayton’s life. Thirty-five. It was a hell of a thing to die at thirty-five with so much to live for, leg or no leg.

    He glanced up at the bell and then back at the church doorway. And there, to his utter astonishment, he saw a face he had never wanted to see again. Much less find one day here in this isolated corner of Cambridgeshire.

    He brushed a hand across his eyes, certain that in the bright sunlight he’d been mistaken. That in his distress over the Major’s death, other memories had forced themselves to the forefront of his mind. It would be too cruel—

    But no. There he was, bold as brass, smiling and chatting with one of the men in uniform next to him. There could be no mistake.

    Captain Hutchinson. What the hell was he doing here? He hadn’t known Clayton, had he? Why was he among the mourners?

    Quickly stepping back into the shadows cast by a large tree overhanging the street, he tried to think.

    Hutchinson must have traveled up from London with the Colonel. That would explain his being here. Hutchinson was always quick to see an advantage. Or had he somehow discovered that Clayton’s sister was inheriting everything and fixed his eye on her? There was a well-set-up estate in Gloucestershire, and the older property here in Burwell, presently occupied by a tenant. Both would bring in a tidy income.

    It would be like Hutchinson, to curry favor before the will had been read, to prove he was no fortune hunter. But he was.

    He felt ill, perspiring in the late summer heat like someone with a fever, his legs trembling.

    The last of the mourners had stepped inside the church, the coffin had been lifted out of the hearse and shouldered to follow the Rector down the aisle of the nave. And still he stood where he was.

    He couldn’t—in God’s name he could not now walk inside. He couldn’t share a roof with Hutchinson. Not even for Major Clayton’s sake. Not with the man who’d killed Mary.

    He closed his eyes, trying to steady himself.

    A woman’s voice came from just behind him.

    Are you all right, sir?

    Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Thank you, he said hoarsely, and in spite of himself, in spite of everything, he started moving toward the church door.

    But that was as far as he could go.

    Turning on his heel, he walked quickly back toward the shelter of the shadows under the tree. It was as good a vantage point as any from which to keep watch.

    Standing there during the service only hardened his resolve. He would be absolutely certain before he left Burwell. It was imperative that he be sure his own emotional state hadn’t made him mistake someone else for Hutchinson. But when the service was over and the mourners began to file out, preceded by the coffin, he saw Hutchinson quite clearly. He was there, a few feet from the Colonel, his hand on Miss Clayton’s elbow as she walked with head bowed, her shoulders shaking with her sobs.

    If he had had a weapon of any sort, he’d have used it then and killed the bastard. He could feel the rifle in his hands, the familiar smoothness of the wood, the heat of the barrel from long hours of use, the weight of it, so real to him that for an instant he could almost believe it was there. And with all his heart he wished it was true.

    The procession was moving on toward the churchyard.

    But just before the procession turned into it, something happened that held him pinned where he was.

    Hutchinson lifted his head, like prey scenting the air, and for an instant he was sure that the Captain had stared directly at him.

    It was impossible, of course. It was his imagination.

    The moment passed, Hutchinson’s back was to him now, and he almost went down on his knees, to vomit.

    He stumbled away like a drunkard, away from the church and the churchyard, and somehow, he was never sure afterward just how, he made it to the sanctuary of his house. The first thing he did was to pour himself the stiffest whisky he’d had in five years. The second was to open the wardrobe door and reach far into the back where he knew the Lee-Enfield was hidden.

    Drawing it out, he felt on top of the wardrobe for the cartridges. They were still there behind the carved pediment. He wasn’t supposed to have brought either the weapon or the ammunition back. But he had, because the rifle had become a part of him. And no one searched his kit.

    Thank God he had.

    He was already loading the rifle, hurrying to reach Burwell and the churchyard in time.

    And then he stopped, reason finally overcoming the strain and emotion that were driving him.

    Foolish to do such a thing. First of all, it would mar Major Clayton’s last rites. And that would never do. Secondly, he’d be taken up at once and tried and hanged. He would be damned if he’d hang for the likes of Hutchinson.

    The man deserved to die. But not this way. Not sacrificing himself.

    He removed the cartridges and put the rifle back into the wardrobe, shutting the door firmly.

    There had to be a better way.

    Look at it from a different perspective. God had brought this man to him once. He would do it again. All he had to do was wait. However long it took.

    He began to read the newspapers, as many as he could find. Cambridge, Ely, Burwell, the Times from London. Even the racing news in nearby Newmarket. And he burned them in the grate as soon as he’d finished them, to be certain that once the deed was done, there was nothing lying about that would cause talk or arouse anyone’s suspicion. He traveled as well, to Boston and King’s Lynn, to Bury and Colchester, as far south as St. Albans, looking for anything that might be useful in carrying out his task. He studied people, the way they moved and talked and behaved. It became something of an obsession, the need to survive what he was about to do. There was no satisfaction in it otherwise.

    His patience paid off.

    Captain Hutchinson was to be a guest at a fashionable wedding to be held in Ely Cathedral in three weeks’ time. His name was there, leaping off the page of the Ely newspaper, even though his was only one of a great many other names. Hutchinson was, it appeared, a cousin to the bridegroom.

    The first of September.

    He was ready. He’d already laid the groundwork. Now it was just a matter of fitting the plan to the place. Thinking through each step, finding flaws, looking for opportunities on the ground, and looking as well at possible escape routes. He covered the Fen country on his bicycle until he knew every lane and track, until he felt he could reach any point in the dark of night. And then he walked the length and breadth of it.

    The Fens were dangerous for the unwary. Narrow flat fields stretched for miles, where a boot in the rich black soil would leave its mark for the hunter to find. Irrigation ditches, sometimes crossed by a road or a bridge over a pump, where a false step could mean falling in and drowning. And the roads themselves, running arrow straight, so that any movement could be seen, even at a great distance. No trees, no buildings to hide behind until the chase had passed. Indeed, nothing to offer cover at all, unless one had learned beforehand where to find it.

    He’d thought he’d known the countryside well all his life. Now he knew it intimately.

    He was ready.

    And Hutchinson would come to him for the killing.

    Chapter 2

    The day of the wedding in Ely, a small crowd had gathered to watch the arrival of the wedding party.

    A barricade had been set up so that only the bride, her father, and her attendants could drive directly to the Cathedral door. The bridegroom and the wedding guests would walk across the grassy Palace Green to the church, a parade of handsomely dressed gentlemen and their ladies, a sprinkling of men in uniform, and a dash of clergymen, for the bride’s family included several deacons and a Bishop.

    By the Cathedral clock, it was two hours before the ceremony. Last-minute preparations were under way, flowers and candles being carried in, a carpet being laid down the long aisle, the organist practicing for the following Sunday’s service. But for the most part, the afternoon was quiet, an island of serenity before the excitement of the ceremony.

    No one noticed the elderly man on an equally elderly bicycle who came up the street from the direction of the school and the Cathedral offices, his thin white hair blowing in the light wind as he pedaled. It wasn’t unusual for pedestrians coming up the road to pass in front of the west door on their way to the busy streets on the far side of the church.

    He paused by the wall enclosing the Cathedral precincts and wiped his brow, looking tired and thirsty. But he mounted the bicycle once more and got as far as the abutments that reached up to the tower. There was a narrow recess there where he could leave his bicycle out of sight.

    The old man appeared to be a knife and scissors sharpener, his clothes threadbare and his canvas carryall dusty from the roads. He started to leave the carryall on his handlebars, walking away before thinking better of it. He went back, picked it up, and put it firmly under his arm, then stepped into the shadow of the Galilee Porch that led to the west doorway, leaning there, as if the shade was welcome, this warm afternoon.

    No one challenged him. No one paid him any attention. Behind his back, the enormous Cathedral seemed to crouch, waiting.

    After a while he turned and went inside, into the wide space beneath the towers. Beyond, in the nave, the choir was just finishing a last rehearsal, and someone was putting a final touch to the flowers, pinching off any wilted blossoms. No one turned to look up the long handsome aisle to see who had entered. The sound hardly reached the nave.

    He stood there for a moment, then turned and made his way to the right, where there was a door to the tower. It was a long walk, fifteen feet or more, and he was at his most exposed.

    No one came out of the nave to call to him, to ask his business or demand that he clear off.

    The tower door was unlocked, as it had been the last three times he’d tested it. He looked back over his shoulder. No one was in sight.

    The old man slipped inside the tower door, closing it quietly behind him, then began to make his way up the long flights of stairs, taking his time. It was dim and musty in the shaft, the bell ropes swaying a little, making him feel light-headed, and he dared not look down. The canvas carryall seemed to grow heavier with every step. He was winded when at last he reached the stone parapet just above the chamber where the bells were hung.

    They wouldn’t ring until the wedding party was leaving the sanctuary. He would be gone by then. One way or another.

    Sitting down on the warm, sloping cone of the roof, he waited for a quarter of an hour, letting his heart rate settle again. Then he opened his carryall and began to assemble the rifle. It had served men like him well in France. It would serve him now. Better than the older versions.

    A pigeon landed on the parapet, staring unwinking at him, and he stayed where he was. Finally satisfied that the carryall held nothing edible, the pigeon took off again.

    He waited with infinite patience, as he’d been taught to do. There was no hurry. His quarry would come to him. Finally he heard the great organ begin to play once more, this time the first of the set pieces selected by the bride’s family. There was a stir below as onlookers who had gathered behind the barricades to watch the guests arrive saw the first motorcar pull up. A ripple of applause quickly followed.

    It was time.

    Getting carefully to his feet, keeping low, he made his way to the outer wall, peering between the battlements. A motorcar moved away as several more behind it took its place. As the guests alighted, others moved up in line. Unseen from below, he took out the German scope and attached it to the rifle. They hadn’t used scopes during his training. And the Germans in France had taken great care to prevent theirs from being captured and turned against them. The first time he’d looked through this one, he’d been surprised by the clarity it had added to his own keen eyesight.

    He scanned the guests as they crossed the Palace Green toward the west door, but he didn’t recognize any of them. Earlier in the week he’d paced the distance from where the motorcars stopped and where he himself would be waiting. He knew he was well within range of his target. He could take his time and wait for the perfect angle.

    Not too soon. Not too late. He knew, almost to the blade of grass, where he wanted his victim to be. He could see the Russian gun clearly, at the opposite end of the Green from the West Tower, the long muzzle of the cannon pointing outward, as if its intent was to protect the Cathedral from the townspeople.

    Kneeling there, his weapon beside him, he was fairly sure he was invisible from the ground, but to be safe, he pulled an old dark gray hood out of the scissor sharpener’s blouse and draped it over his head and shoulders. It was, he knew, almost exactly the same color as the stone around him.

    Once more, he settled down to wait.

    It was ten minutes to the hour when he saw his quarry alight from a motorcar that had just pulled up. Another man and a woman arrived with Hutchinson, chatting quietly as they turned toward the Cathedral. He could see the man’s face clearly now, smug and satisfied with himself, a slight smile lifting his lips as he spoke to the woman beside him.

    The angle was excellent. The target unsuspecting. He let the Captain come a little closer across the greensward, just clear of where the motorcars were stopping, steadied his breathing and emptied his mind of any emotion. Then he took careful aim, almost without thinking adjusting to the man’s measured pace and the light wind. Old habits die hard.

    And calmly, slowly, he squeezed the trigger.

    The echoes against the stone were deafening, but he took no notice, his scope still trained on the quarry as Hutchinson’s body reacted to the hit before he could even flinch from the sound of the shot. Without a word, he crumpled to the ground and did not move. Only the red stain spreading across his stiff white shirtfront showed that he had been struck.

    The woman, her hands to her face, was screaming, and everyone at the barricade turned to stare in her direction, then looked wildly around for the source of the shot. The other man was kneeling, frantically trying to loosen Hutchinson’s cravat and open his shirt. But it was useless. That had been a heart shot, there was nothing to be done. Still the man kept working, unable to believe that it was hopeless.

    Satisfied, the scissor sharpener ejected the single cartridge casing and began to disassemble his rifle, taking his time, ignoring the screams and cries below. He knew what was happening, he didn’t need to look. Some were running to the assistance of the fallen man, others fleeing toward the street behind them, toward The Lamb Inn, out of range for fear there would be a second shot. A few would be scanning the rooftops and windows of buildings on either side of the grass, looking in vain for the shooter. The greeters at the door had rushed into the sanctuary, crying havoc. He could hear the unnerved guests as they hurried out to see, and all the while, the organ music went on, as if in the loft the organist was unaware of what was happening below in the nave. Then the last notes trailed off as he must have realized something was wrong.

    The scissors grinder made his way to the stairs and started down them, taking his time, careful not to lose his footing. When he reached the bottom step, he peered out a crack in the door, then opened it wider. No one. Either they were cowering in the nave or already outside. The bride’s motorcar was just arriving, adding to the chaos.

    He began that long walk again, taking his time, reaching the Galilee Porch and the open doorway. Appearing bewildered and afraid, he stared vacantly around. No one paid him any heed. He inched sideways, making his way to his left. His bicycle was where he’d put it, but he didn’t mount it. Instead he walked it down the quiet street, back the way he’d come, toward the school. Several people from there were running toward the Cathedral, and one or two called out to him, asking what had happened.

    He shook his head. Terrible, he said, terrible. His voice was shaking, he looked as if he might fall down from the shock, and they ran on. He continued his slow, painful way to the arch by the school. There just as the police were passing, he mounted his bicycle and pedaled sedately off, a graying scarecrow with a lined face and bony knees.

    The police spent five hours searching the streets around the Cathedral, searching inside it despite the anxious wedding guests waiting to have their statements taken.

    A constable reached the church tower, walking out into the narrow space around the battlements. He was an older man, staying on because the men who should have replaced him had long since rotted in the graveyards of Flanders or had come home without a limb or with other injuries. He looked down from this height at the target area and felt his stomach lurch as a wave of dizziness overcame him. Swiftly concluding that it was impossible to make such a shot from this position without being seen, he hurried back to the stairs, staring anxiously into the dim abyss, and nearly lost his dinner. By the time he’d reached the last step his heart was jumping in his chest.

    Nothing up there but the bats, he told another constable on his way to climb to the Lantern tower over the crossing where the transepts met.

    When it came time to take statements from those by the barricade, everyone’s attention had been focused on the arriving guests. They had seen nothing. As one constable put it, A herd of green pigs could have come by, and if they were dressed to the nines, no one would have taken a bit of notice.

    In the end, the wedding went off at six o’clock, the bride red-eyed from hysterics, the bridegroom grim-faced. Captain Hutchinson had been in his family’s party. It was generally accepted that only a madman could have done such a thing, with so many people to witness it.

    Wherever the madman was, he had cast a pall over the day, and more than one guest leaving after the ceremony had felt his hackles rise as he skirted the place where Hutchinson had fallen, expecting to hear the report of a rifle once more.

    Two weeks after the murder, the police had made no progress at all. It was then that they called in Scotland Yard.

    But not before the killer had struck again.

    Chapter 3

    The by-election was scheduled for the next week. The popular Tory candidate, Herbert Swift, arranged a torch-lit parade down the High Street, to end with a speech at the market cross. It was Medieval, the cross, the last seven feet missing. But the base was still intact, and Swift was to stand on it so that he could be seen as well as heard.

    All went according to plan. The parade began at the pub named for Hereward the Wake, the eleventh-century hero of the Fens, and some thirty supporters followed their candidate down to the cross, chanting his name, their torches smoking and leaving a reeking trail behind them. The constable, a man named McBride, walked along with them, with an eye to keeping the peace, but the marchers were orderly and in good spirits.

    It was all very dramatic, Swift thought, enjoying the spectacle. His rival, the Liberal candidate, was a dour man with no sense of style in his dress, his voice rough and his language rougher, and his meetings in a hired hall were enlivened only by the occasional snore from one of his audience.

    Swift reached the plinth of the cross and prepared to step up on the base. He looked at the gathering crowd, many of them villagers come for the show, and felt a sense of satisfaction. It was a better turnout than he’d expected.

    The torchlight flickered in the darkness, casting lurid shadows up and down the street and across the eager faces waiting for the speech to begin. The shops on either side of the two village Commons had closed for the day, their windows unlit and blank. Above the shops most of the shopkeepers or their tenants had already drawn their curtains. And the trees by the pond were dark sentinels at the far end of the second Common. This had been an ideal setting to hold his rally, and broadsheets had announced it for three days.

    Swift savored the moment as he took his place on the broad footing of the cross and turned toward his supporters, his back to the pond. He was a student of history, and he thought that the scene before him could have taken place a hundred—two hundred—years earlier. It added a sense of continuity to what he was doing: standing for a seat in the House of Commons. A long line of men stretching back in time who were prepared to serve King and Country to the best of their ability were in the shadows of those trees, he thought, watching this twentieth-century descendant, judging him, and with any luck at all, approving of him.

    He raised a hand for silence.

    The war is over, he began, his voice carrying well, as it always did, giving his words added power. "And we are embarking on a peace that will last through our lifetime and that of the generations following us. Their children will not know what war is. Men have gathered at Versailles to hammer out the terms of that peace, and we here in England have paid a very high price for it. We are still paying. Even now our families don’t have enough to eat, work is hard to come by, and what work there is doesn’t bring a man enough in wages to keep his—"

    His face vanished in a spray of blood and bone, and before anyone could move, he crumpled without a sound into the startled crowd just as the single shot rang out and seemed to fill the night with endless, mindless reverberations.

    Chapter 4

    London, September 1920

    Rutledge stepped into the office of the Acting Chief Superintendent with some trepidation.

    He had had a loud and vituperative argument with Markham at the end of his last case, accused of following his own instincts rather than official direction. The fact that in the end Rutledge had been proved right had added to Markham’s displeasure. He was a hardheaded, straightforward man who viewed intuition with suspicion and put his faith in the obvious. The dressing down had been personal as well as professional.

    Keeping his own temper with an effort, Rutledge had drawn a deep breath, asking himself if every inquiry in Yorkshire, where Markham had come from when Chief Superintendent Bowles had had his heart attack, ended in a tidy packet tied with righteous ribbons. He had grimly withstood the storm, and then Markham had calmed down sufficiently to ask him if he was absolutely convinced of his facts.

    He was. And said as much. Markham had thanked him and then dismissed him.

    This morning Markham was finishing a report as Rutledge crossed the threshold, and looking up, he nodded in greeting.

    Cambridgeshire—the Fen country. Know it?

    Around Ely? Yes, a little.

    Someone’s walking around up there with a rifle, and so far he’s killed two people. A Captain Hutchinson who was about to attend a wedding, and a man named Swift who was standing for Parliament—just as he was beginning a speech.

    A rifle? Rutledge frowned. They were turned in before we left France.

    Then someone failed to do as he was ordered.

    Are the two victims related in any way?

    If Hutchinson was his intended target, no. If he got Hutchinson by mistake, we don’t know. The wedding that afternoon was to be attended by prominent churchmen, members of the government, a number of the aristocracy, and military men. If his target was one of them, it will take weeks to interview them and find a connection.

    Was Swift a wedding guest as well?

    He was not.

    Are we certain the killer was a soldier?

    We’re certain of nothing but the fact that we have two men dead, and too little to go on. Which is why the Yard has been asked to take over the inquiry. He paused, considering Rutledge. It would not do to hear of a third murder by this madman.

    In short, a swift conclusion to the inquiry was expected.

    I’ll remember that, Rutledge said, not smiling.

    Two hours later, he’d cleared his desk, packed his valise, and set out for Cambridge in his motorcar.

    He spent the night there and the next morning headed north.

    The sunny weather of yesterday had changed to damp, lowering clouds that obscured the unmade road, and the motorcar’s powerful headlamps bounced back at him from the soft, impenetrable wall of mist. At the crossroads, the narrow boards giving the names of villages in each direction appeared and disappeared like wraiths, and sound was muffled, confusing. At one

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