Hamish said, “It isna’ a small thing she wants.”
Her small, bright eyes glared balefully at Rutledge, as if he’d hanged her husband with his own hands. Which, in a way perhaps, he had. He’d been the investigating officer, after Philip Nettle had dropped dead of a burst appendix. It was his evidence, built on Nettle’s original investigation, that had put Benjamin Edward Shaw on trial for murder, in August 1912. Six years and more ago…
4
The shock of her certainty, the ferocity with which she faced him, were overwhelming.
And as the implication of her words sank in, Rutledge felt cold.
If this locket had been found in someone else’s possession at the time of the trial, what difference might that have made to the outcome?
He tried to find something to say. Something that would dispute her conclusions. Or support his own position Hamish warned him. “It’s no’ wise to be o’wer hasty.”
The small, deadly bit of gold jewelry glittered on his desk, mocking Rutledge, seeming to take on a life of its own.
They had searched the Shaw house from top to bottom-the locket had never been found. Was not there. He would have sworn to that under oath.
Yet here it was-all these years later Where had it been? And why?
And, gentle God, did it matter?
Yes, it mattered-if he had hanged the wrong man.
When Rutledge failed to answer her, Mrs. Shaw regarded him with disdain. “You don’t want to believe me, is that it? Because my Ben was hanged for a murderer, you think I’m no better than he was!” She leaned forward. “Well, it won’t wash, do you hear me? I’ve come to ask for my rights, and if you won’t help me, I’ll find someone who will!”