by Charles Todd
Davies settled back in his chair, frowning as he marshaled his facts. Inspector Forrest had been very particular about how any account of events was to be given. The Sergeant was a man who took pride in being completely reliable.
“A shotgun. Blew his head to bits—from the chin up, just tatters. He’d gone out for his morning ride at seven sharp, just as he always did whenever he was at home, back by eight-thirty, breakfast waiting for him. That was every day except Sunday, rain or shine. But on Monday, when he wasn’t back by ten, his man of business, Mr. Royston, went looking for him in the stables.”
“Why?” Rutledge had taken out a pen and a small, finely tooled leather notebook. “On this day, particularly?”
“There was a meeting set for nine-thirty, and it wasn’t like the Colonel to forget about it. When he got to the stables, Mr. Royston found the grooms in a blue panic because the Colonel’s horse had just come galloping in without its rider, and there was blood all over the saddle and the horse’s haunches. Men were sent out straightaway to look for him, and he was finally discovered in a meadow alongside the copse of trees at the top of his property.”
Davies paused as the swift pen raced across the ruled page, allowing Rutledge a moment to catch up before continuing. “Mr. Royston sent for Inspector Forrest first thing, but he’d gone looking for the Barlowe child, who’d gotten herself lost. By the time I got the message and reached the scene, the ground was well trampled by stable lads and farmhands, all come to stare. So we aren’t sure he was shot just there. But it couldn’t have happened more than a matter of yards from where we found him.”
“And no indication of who might have done it?”
The Sergeant shifted uneasily in his chair, his eyes straying to the squares of pale sunlight that dappled the polished floor as the last of the rain clouds thinned. “As to that, you must know that Captain Wilton—that’s the Captain Mark Wilton who won the VC—quarreled with the Colonel the night before, shortly after dinner. He’s to marry the Colonel’s ward, you see, and some sort of misunderstanding arose over the wedding, or so the servants claim. In the middle of the quarrel, the Captain stalked out of the house in a temper, and was heard to say he’d see the Colonel in hell, first. The Colonel threw his brandy glass at the door just as the Captain slammed it, and shouted that that could be arranged.”
This was certainly a more colorful version of the bald facts that Rutledge had been given in London. Breakfast forgotten, he continued to write, his mind leaping ahead of Davies’ steady voice. “What does the ward have to say?”
“Miss Wood’s in her room, under the doctor’s care, seeing no one. Not even her fiancé. The Captain is staying with Mrs. Davenant. She’s a second cousin on his mother’s side. Inspector Forrest tried to question him, and he said he wasn’t one to go around shooting people, no matter what he might have done in the war.”
Rutledge put down his pen and finished his toast, then reached for his teacup. He didn’t have to ask what the Captain had done in the war. His photograph had been in all the papers when he was decorated by the King—the Captain had not managed to bring down the Red Baron, but he seemed to have shot down every other German pilot whose path he had crossed in the skies above France. Rutledge had watched a vicious dogfight high in the clouds above his trench one July afternoon and had been told later who the English pilot was. If it was true, then Wilton was nothing short of a gifted flier.
Colonel Harris had been a relatively young man for his rank, serving in the Boer War as well as the Great War and making a name for himself as a skilled infantry tactician. Rutledge had actually met him once—a tall, vigorous, compassionate officer who had known how to handle tired, frightened men asked once too often to do the impossible.
Without warning, Hamish laughed harshly. “Aye, he knew how to stir men. There were those of us who’d have blown his head off there and then if we’d had the chance, after that third assault. It was suicide, and he knew it, and he sent us anyway. I can’t say I’m sorry he’s got his. Late is better than never.”
Rutledge choked as his tea went down the wrong way. He knew—dear God, he knew!—that Hamish couldn’t be heard by anyone else, and yet sometimes the voice was so clear he expected everyone around him to be staring at him in shock.
He waved Davies back to his chair as the Sergeant made to rise and slap him on his back. Still coughing, he managed to ask, “That’s all you’ve done?”
“Yes, sir, then we were told to leave everything for the Yard and so we did just that.”
“What about the shotgun? Have you at least checked on that?”
“The Captain says he used the weapons at the Colonel’s house, if he wanted to go shooting. But none of them has been fired recently. We asked Mrs. Davenant if she had any guns, and she said she sold her late husband’s Italian shotguns before the war.” The Sergeant glanced over his shoulder, and Barton Redfern came across the parlor to refill his cup. When the young man had limped away again, the Sergeant added tentatively, “Because of that quarrel, of course, it looks as if the Captain might be the guilty party, but I’ve learned in this business that looks are deceiving.”
Rutledge nodded. “And the murder was three days ago. After last night’s rain, there’ll be nothing to find in the meadow or anywhere else along the route the Colonel might have taken on his ride. Right, then, do you have a list of people to talk to? Besides the ward—Miss Wood—and Wilton. And this Mrs. Davenant.”
“As to that, there aren’t all that many. The servants and the lads who found the body. Laurence Royston. Miss Tarrant, of course—she was the lady that Captain Wilton had courted before the war, but she turned him down then and doesn’t seem to mind that he’s marrying Miss Wood now. Still, you never know, do you? She might be willing to throw a little light on how the two men got on together. And there’s Mr. Haldane—he’s the Squire’s son. He was one of Miss Wood’s suitors, as was the Vicar.”
Davies grinned suddenly, a wholly unprofessional glint in his eyes. “Some say Mr. Carfield took holy orders because he saw the war coming, but actually had his heart set on the theater. He does preach a better sermon than old Reverend Mott did, I’ll say that for him. We all learned more about the Apostle Paul under Mr. Mott than any of us ever cared to know, and I must admit Mr. Carfield’s a welcomed change!” He recollected himself and went on more soberly, “The two Sommers ladies are new to the district and don’t go about much. I doubt if they’d be helpful, except that they live near where the body was found and might have seen or heard something of use to us.”
Rutledge nodded as Redfern returned with a fresh pot of tea, waiting until his cup had been filled before he commented, “Miss Wood seems to have been very popular.”
“She’s a very—attractive—young lady,” Davies answered, hesitating over the word as if not certain that it was appropriate. “Then of course there’s Mavers. He’s a local man, a rabble-rouser by nature, always putting his nose in where it doesn’t belong, stirring things up, making trouble for the sake of trouble. If anything untoward happens in Upper Streetham, the first person you think of is Mavers.”
“That’s not a likely motive for shooting Harris, in itself.”
“In Mavers’s case, it is. He’s been annoying the Colonel since long before the war, nothing we’ve ever been able to prove, you understand, but there’ve been fires and dead livestock and the like, vindictive acts all of them. The last time, when one of the dogs was poisoned, the Colonel threatened to have Mavers committed if it happened again. He’s got a very sound alibi—Inspector Forrest talked to him straightaway. All the same, I’d not put murder past him.”
Rutledge heard the hope in Davies’ voice, but said only, “I’ll keep that in mind. All right, then, if that’s the lot, we’ll start with Miss Wood. She may be able to give us a better picture of this quarrel, what it was about and whether it might have had anything to do with her guardian’s death. I’ll want you there. Inspector Forrest can spare you?” He capped his pen, stowed
the notebook in his pocket, and reached for his cup.
Davies looked stunned. “You didn’t bring a Sergeant with you, then?”
“We’re shorthanded at the Yard at the moment. You’ll do.”
“But—,” Davies began, panic sweeping through him. Then he thought better of what he had been on the verge of saying. The man to speak to was Forrest, not this gaunt-faced stranger from London with his clipped voice and bleak eyes.
Then he bethought himself of the one fact he’d avoided so far, the one bit of evidence no one wanted to accept. He had been told to wait until Rutledge brought it up, but the man hadn’t mentioned it. Because he discounted it? That would be too much to hope for! More than likely, the Inspector intended to rub the Sergeant’s nose in it, now that he had his chance. But Davies knew it had to be dragged into the open, like it or not. You couldn’t just ignore it, pretend it didn’t exist—
He cleared his throat. “There’s more, sir, though I don’t know what it’s worth. Surely they told you in London?” Staring at Rutledge, waiting for some indication that the man knew, that he didn’t need to go into embarrassing detail, Sergeant Davies read only impatience in the face before him as the Inspector folded his napkin and laid it neatly beside his plate.
“A possible witness, sir. He claims he saw the Colonel on Monday morning.” No, the man didn’t know; it was hard to believe, but for some reason he hadn’t been told! Davies hurried on. “In the lane that cuts between Seven Brothers Field and the orchard. And he saw Captain Wilton standing there beside the horse, holding on to the bridle and talking to the Colonel, who was shaking his head as if he didn’t like what he was hearing. This must have been about seven-thirty, maybe even a quarter to eight. Then the Captain suddenly stepped back, his face very red, and the Colonel rode off, leaving the Captain standing there with his fists clenched.”
Rutledge silently cursed London for ineptitude. He pulled out his notebook again and asked curtly, “How far is this place from where the Colonel was found dead? And why didn’t you mention this witness sooner?”
The Sergeant’s face flushed. “As to how far, sir, it’s at most two miles east of the meadow,” he answered stiffly. “And I was sure they’d have told you in London—You see, the problem is that the witness is unreliable, sir. He was drunk. He often is, these days.”
“Even an habitual drunk has been known to tell the truth.” Rutledge added another line, then looked up. “We can’t discount what he says on those grounds alone.”
“No, sir. But there’s more, you see. He’s—well, he’s shell-shocked, sir, doesn’t know where he is half the time, thinks he’s still at the Front, hears voices, that kind of thing. Lost his nerve on the Somme and went to pieces. Lack of moral fiber, that’s what it was. It seems a shame for a fine man like the Captain to be under suspicion of murder on the evidence of an acknowledged coward like Daniel Hickam, doesn’t it? It isn’t right, sir, is it?”
But London had said nothing—Bowles had said nothing.
In the far corners of his mind, behind the spinning turmoil of his own thoughts, Rutledge could hear the wild, derisive echoes of Hamish’s laughter.
2
Misunderstanding the horrified expression on Rutledge’s face, Sergeant Davies nodded sympathetically. “Aye,” he said, “it’s hard to swallow, I know. You were in the war, then? My youngest brother was in the Balkans, lost both arms. Took it like a man. Not a shred of weakness in Tommy!”
He began to fiddle with his cup as he went on, as if to distract himself from the rest of what he had to say. “Of course we didn’t know about Hickam at first, I just came across him that same morning, lying under a tree on the lane, sleeping one off. When I tried to wake him up and send him off home, he swore he was sober as a judge, and told me I could ask the Colonel and the Captain, they’d vouch for him. I thought he meant generally, you see.”
The cup spun out of his fingers, clattering against the sugar bowl and almost tipping over the cream pitcher. Davies caught it, returned it to his saucer, then plowed on, trying to conceal the sense of guilt that was still plaguing him. “I didn’t pay any heed to him at first, I was in a hurry to find Inspector Forrest and tell him about the murder, but Hickam’s place was on my way back to Upper Streetham and he was in no shape to get there on his own. By the time I’d reached his house, listening to him ramble all the way, it was beginning to sound a bit different from what I’d first thought. So Inspector Forrest went to talk to him that afternoon and got a little straighter version, and we couldn’t just shrug it off, could we? Right or wrong, we had to take note of it, didn’t we?”
It was an appeal for forgiveness, an admission of responsibility for what had plunged Warwickshire and London into this present predicament. If he’d left well enough alone, if he hadn’t bothered to stop in the first place, no one would ever have thought to question the likes of Hickam about the Colonel or the Captain. There would have been no reason, no need.
Rutledge, still fighting his own battle for control, managed to keep his voice level, but the words came out harsh and cold, apparently without any sympathy for the Sergeant’s moral dilemma. “What did Captain Wilton have to say about Hickam’s story?”
“Well, nothing. That is, he says he wasn’t in the lane that morning, he was walking in a different direction. He says he’s seen Hickam from time to time in the mornings, reeling home or sleeping wherever he was or having one of his crazy spells, but not on that occasion.”
“Which doesn’t mean that Hickam didn’t see him.”
Sergeant Davies was appalled. “You’re saying the Captain’s lying, sir?”
“People do lie, Sergeant, even those who have earned the Victoria Cross. Besides, Hickam’s description of what he saw is strangely complete, isn’t it? The Captain holding the Colonel’s bridle, the Captain’s face turning red, the Captain stepping back with clenched fists. If it didn’t happen that morning, if Hickam saw the two men together on another occasion, it could mean that their quarrel on the night before the murder had its roots in an earlier confrontation. That there was more animosity between the Colonel and his ward’s fiancé than we know at this point.”
Sergeant Davies was dubious. “Even so, Hickam might have misread what he saw, there might have been a perfectly reasonable explanation. What if the two men were in agreement instead of quarreling? What if they’d been angry at someone else, or about something that neither of them liked?”
“Then why would Wilton deny that he’d met Harris in the lane? If this encounter did have some perfectly innocent explanation? No, I think you’re on the wrong track there.”
“Well, what if Hickam confused what he saw with something that happened at the Front? He doesn’t like officers—he might even have made mischief on purpose. You can’t be really sure, can you? Hickam might be capable of anything!” The disgust in Davies’ face was almost a tangible thing.
“I can’t answer that until I’ve spoken to Hickam and the Captain.” Hamish’s laughter had faded, he was able to think clearly again. But his heart was still pounding hard with the shock.
“Shall we start with them, then? Instead of Miss Wood?”
“No, I want to see the Colonel’s house and his ward first.” The truth was, he wasn’t prepared to face Hickam now. Not until he was certain he could do it without betraying himself.
Had anyone guessed in London? No, surely not! It was sheer coincidence, there were any number of shell-shocked veterans scattered across England…. Rutledge got to his feet. “My car is in the back. I’ll meet you there in five minutes.” He nodded to Barton Redfern as he walked out of the dining room, and the young man watched the two policemen until they were out of sight, then listened to Rutledge’s feet beating a quick tattoo up the carpeted stairs while the Sergeant’s heavy leather heels clicked steadily down the stone passage leading to the Inn yard.
Upstairs in his room, Rutledge stood with his hands flat on the low windowsill, leaning on them and looking down into the busy
street below. He was still shaken. Only a half dozen people knew about his condition, and the doctors had promised to say nothing to the Yard, to give him a year to put his life back together first. The question was, had Bowles kept silent about Hickam because he hadn’t thought it was something that mattered? Or because he had known it was and might embarrass Rutledge?
No, that was impossible. It had been an oversight—or at most, Bowles had tried to make this murder investigation sound more attractive than it was. A kindness…? He remembered Bowles from before the war, good at his job, with a reputation for ruthless ambition and a cold detachment. Sergeant Fletcher, who’d died in the first gas attack on Ypres, used to claim that Bowles frightened the guilty into confessing.
“I’ve seen ’em! Shaking in their boots and more afraid of old Bowles than they were of the hangman! Nasty piece of work, I’ve never liked dealing with him. Mind you, he did his job fair and square, I’m not saying he didn’t. But he wasn’t above using any tool that came to hand….”
Not kindness, then, not from a man like Bowles.
Still, what London had done didn’t matter now.
Because here in his own room, away from Davies’ watchful eyes and Redfern’s hovering, Rutledge was able to think more clearly and recognize a very tricky problem. What if Hickam turned out to be right?
If it should come to an arrest—so far there was not enough evidence to look that far ahead, but assuming there was—how could the Crown go into a court of law with a Daniel Hickam as its prime witness against a man wearing the ribbon of the Victoria Cross? It would be ludicrous, the defense would tear the case to shreds. Warwickshire would be screaming for the Yard’s blood, and the Yard for his.
He had wanted an investigation complex enough to distract him from his own dilemmas. Well, now he seemed to have got his wish in spades. The question remained, was he ready for it? Were his skills too rusty to handle something as difficult as the Harris murder successfully? Worse still, was he too personally involved? If so, he should back out now. This instant. Call the Yard and ask for a replacement to be sent at once.
