by Charles Todd
He stumped back to his car and swore as he barked his knuckles trying to start it.
The next stop was briefer, to call on an elderly widow ill with shingles, and this time he left her a stronger powder to help with the pain from the long ropes of fluid-filled blisters that looped down her arm. It was all he could do, but the old, cataract-clouded eyes smiled up at him with a pathetic gratitude.
Finally he reached the cottage on the Haldane property where Agnes Farrell’s daughter Meg lived. Agnes was tall, spare, and capable, the most levelheaded woman he’d ever met and—in his opinion—wasted as a housemaid when she’d have made such an excellent nurse. Meg had married well; her husband, Ted Pinter, would be head groom on the estate when his father retired, and the cottage was as pretty as she could make it. Warren had always looked forward to his visits here because Meg was as healthy as her mother and had gone through two pregnancies with no trouble at all, the last one four years ago. She was also a very respectable cook and never failed to send him away with a slice of cake or scones for his tea.
But the kitchen no longer smelled of baking, and the woman who met him at the door had lost the bloom of youth and health. Meg looked forty, and her mother twice that.
Lizzie was a pretty little thing, he thought, bending over the narrow crib to peer down at the pale little face staring blankly at the wall. But she wouldn’t be for long if something didn’t work soon. She was, as far as he could tell, exactly as he’d left her the day before, and the day before that as well—he’d lost count of the string of days he had come here, and yes, nights too, trying to break through that blank stare. Lizzie reminded him even more strongly now of those round-cheeked marble cherubs that the Haldanes seemed to want carved on all their family tombs—and nearly as white and cold where once her skin had had the soft warmth of ripe peaches.
Lizzie didn’t move, she didn’t speak, she never seemed to sleep, and food pressed into her mouth dribbled out it as if she’d somehow forgotten how to swallow.
Except for an array of bruises that were already fading, there was not a mark on her. Warren had looked with great care. No sign of a head injury, spinal injury, bee sting, spider’s bite. No rash, no fever, no swellings. Just this deathly stillness that was broken by fits of wild thrashing and screaming that went on and on until Lizzie was exhausted and dropped suddenly back into stillness again.
Agnes watched him watching the child, and said, “There’s no change. Not that we can see. I got some milk into her again, and a little weak tea. Most of the broth ended up on her gown.”
Meg, her hands twisted tightly together, added, “We thought, Ma and I, that it was darkness she was afeared of, but the screaming only happens when Ted is near her. He’s got so he won’t come into the room.” After a moment she added anxiously, “Why should she be afeared of her own father?”
“She probably isn’t,” Warren said shortly. “Where’s the boy?”
“I sent him over to my sister Polly. The screaming was bothering him, he wasn’t getting any rest at all.” Teddy, six, was the image of his father and seemed to be made entirely of springs, like a jack-in-the-box.
“It doesn’t seem to disturb her when I come near her,” Warren went on thoughtfully. “Who else has been in the house? Men, I mean?”
“No one,” Agnes said. “Well, Polly’s husband, come to get Teddy. He stopped on his way home from the mill, and was too dusty to set foot in the door. But Lizzie must have heard him.” She grinned tiredly. Saul Quarles was the bass in the church choir, with a chest to match. Local wits claimed that his voice carried farther than the church’s bell. “She couldn’t miss him, could she?”
“But she didn’t cry? Scream?”
“Not a peep. Is she going to die?” Meg asked, striving for calmness and failing wretchedly. “What’s wrong with her?”
Warren shook his head. “She needs a specialist. I saw a woman like this once, early in my practice. She’d lost her baby, and couldn’t face it. The spell passed in a week, a little longer perhaps. Grief, fright, sudden changes—they can do things to the brain.”
Meg began to cry softly, and Agnes put her arm around the girl’s shaking shoulders. “There, there,” she whispered, but the words carried no comfort.
Mary Satterthwaite, answering the summons of the drawing room bell, was startled to find Rutledge back at Mallows when she’d seen him out the door two hours earlier. He was standing by one of the hall chairs, a hand on Lettice Wood’s shoulder as if holding her there, and the girl was shaking like a tree in the wind.
Bristling at the sight of her mistress in such distress, she rounded on the Inspector from Scotland Yard and said, “What’s happened, then?”
Rutledge replied quietly, “I think you should ask Miss Wood.”
Lettice had stopped crying before Mary came through the servants’ door, but she accepted the fresh handkerchief the maid thrust into her hand and pressed it to her eyes almost as if to form a barrier between herself and the two people standing over her—a shield. When she lowered it, Rutledge could see that she was thinking again, that she’d used that brief instant of withdrawal to take a firmer grip on self-control. The trembling had stopped, but shock still showed in the pinched whiteness of her face, and in the effort she was making to overcome it. She said huskily, “I’m all right, Mary. Truly I am! It’s just—”
Lettice glanced up quickly at Rutledge’s unreadable face. Mary’s sister was Catherine Tarrant’s housekeeper. Did he know that? She wasn’t sure how he might respond to the lie she was about to tell. If he would understand why. But she had to keep Catherine Tarrant out of this investigation, if she could, and the first step was preventing Mary from gossiping. “There’s to be an Inquest. And I expect—something must be done about the services—”
Mary eyed Rutledge accusingly. “Mr. Royston will see to all that for you, Miss, and the Captain! Don’t worry your head about it. The Inspector shouldn’t ought to have sprung that on you. It was ill done, sir, if you ask me!”
To Lettice’s relief, Rutledge said nothing.
“Shall I get one of Dr. Warren’s powders for you, Miss? It’ll help, I’m sure it will!”
Lettice shook her head vehemently. “No, no more of those! I can’t abide them. The Inspector is leaving, Mary. Will you see him to the door?”
She stood up in dismissal, then faltered, catching her breath, her face even whiter if that was possible, her eyes wide with alarm. Rutledge, still carefully watching her, reached out to steady her. But Mary was there before him, quickly taking Lettice’s arm and chiding, “You must eat something, Miss, to keep up your strength. I keep telling you, it won’t do, sending your tray back untouched. Sit yourself down in the small drawing room and let me talk to Cook, she’ll find something you can fancy, see if she doesn’t!”
Lettice said, “Yes, all at once I feel as if I’m floating, I hadn’t realized—” She made an effort to smile. “Anything will do, it doesn’t matter. Goodbye, Inspector.” She was gradually overcoming the shock, her training and her own fierce will coming to her aid, and as she turned to Rutledge, her chin lifted a little. Pride, he realized. “About that other matter, I’m sure you’re wrong. You took me by surprise, but it’s a horridly convoluted theory, isn’t it, and not very realistic if you actually think about it—”
The bell at the front door sounded. Rutledge could hear it pealing distantly in the servants’ hall downstairs. Lettice closed her eyes, as if shutting out the sound. “I don’t want to see anyone!” she said quickly.
Distracted, Mary turned to the policeman. “It’s my duty to answer that, sir. Mr. Johnston isn’t here just now, he’s gone into Upper Streetham—”
“Take care of your mistress, I’ll see to it,” Rutledge said curtly, and moved to the door before she could stop him. Lettice stepped just across the threshold into the drawing room, a sanctuary of sorts.
He opened the heavy door only far enough to see who was on the step, prepared to be equally curt with the caller.
; It was Mark Wilton, and the man’s face mirrored his own surprise.
“Where’s Johnston? What’s happened?” the Captain said sharply, and shoved the door wide with a suddenness that caught Rutledge off guard. “Is Lettice—?”
Lettice stood in the drawing-room doorway, her pale, troubled face turned in alarm toward the sound of the Captain’s voice. Her emotions were still raw, and Rutledge had seen her reaction, swiftly covered though it was. More to the point, so had Wilton.
Stepping into the hall, he seemed suddenly at a loss for words, his eyes sweeping her with a mixture of love and something else. Concern? Or fear?
Rutledge, intensely interested, watched the pair of them. For an instant neither of them moved, neither spoke. But a question was asked, an answer given, in a wordless exchange that lasted for no more than a matter of seconds.
He would have sworn, before God and in a crowded courtroom, that it was the look of silent conspirators that he saw pass between them.
And then Mark was striding across the marble floor toward her, while Lettice came forward to meet him under the glorious painted Venus overhead.
She moved with exquisite grace, a tall, slim woman in rustling black, her hands held out before her, palms down, a blind look in her eyes, a mixture of emotions in her face.
Mark grasped her hands in his as if they were lifelines, before leaning forward to kiss her gently on her left cheek. “This is the last thing that should have happened,” he said quietly, to her alone. “You know I mean that.”
Yet Rutledge could sense the suppressed feeling in the man, an intensity that was both physical and emotional. And was confused by his own reaction to it. As if his hackles rose…Then he remembered, with a jolt, the way he’d felt the last few times he’d seen Jean—wanting to hold her, desperately in need of her warmth to keep the darkness away, and yet afraid to touch her. Afraid of her rejection.
Hamish, deep in his mind, said ominously, “She’s a witch, man, this one’ll have your soul if you let her! Are ye no’ listening!”
Mary hesitated, then quickly made herself scarce, disappearing down the passage toward the servants’ door. Rutledge, drawn into the scene before him, held his ground.
Lettice gave a quick little shake of her head, as if she couldn’t think of anything to say in response to Wilton’s words. Or in denial?
Still holding Lettice’s hands, Wilton turned to Rutledge and asked, “When will you—er—permit us to make arrangements for the funeral?” Rutledge saw Lettice flinch, in spite of Wilton’s careful words.
“Tomorrow,” he replied briefly, “after the Inquest.”
Wilton stared at him, wariness behind his eyes. But he said only, “Then I’ll speak to you later. At the Inn?”
Rutledge nodded. Wilton was right; this was neither the time nor the place to discuss what form the Inquest was going to take.
There was an awkward silence, as if no one quite knew what to say next. Then Wilton went on, speaking to Lettice now, the words stilted, meaningless, even to his own ears. “Sally sends her dearest love. She wanted to come before this, but Dr. Warren insisted you were to have quiet and rest. If there’s anything she can do, please tell me. You know how fond she was of Charles.”
Lettice said huskily, “Thank her for me, will you? I don’t know what’s to be done next—the service, for one thing. I don’t think I can face the Vicar.” She made a wry face. “Not just now! Or the lawyers. But I ought to send word to someone in the Regiment—”
“Leave Carfield to me. You needn’t see him or anyone else, if you’d rather not. And I’ll deal with the Army, if you like. They’ll want a memorial service, of course, when you’re up to it. But that can wait.”
Rutledge walked away from them, to the still-open door.
And Lettice said unexpectedly, raising her voice a little as if suddenly afraid he was leaving, “I expect you and I must also give some thought to the wedding, Mark. I can’t—the white gown—I’m in mourning. All the arrangements must be canceled, the guests notified.”
Rutledge missed the look on Wilton’s face, but the Captain said only, “My love, I’ll see to it as well, you needn’t worry about any of that now.”
But her eyes were on Rutledge, and as he stopped by the door, he could see that they were nearly the same color.
“Something must be done,” she said insistently. “I can’t go through with it. So many people—the formality—”
“No, of course not! I understand, I promise you,” Wilton said quietly. “You can trust me to take care of it.” Taking her elbow, he tried to lead her down the passage by the stairs, toward the room where Rutledge had spoken with Mary earlier that morning.
There was a frown between Lettice’s eyes now, as if they weren’t focusing properly. “Mary was going to bring me something—some soup. I haven’t eaten—I feel wretchedly lightheaded, Mark….”
“Yes, I’m not surprised. Come and sit down, then I’ll see what’s keeping her.”
Rutledge quietly let himself out, finally satisfied.
But Hamish wasn’t.
“She’s up to something!” he said uneasily. “Yon Captain, now, he’s nobody’s fool, is he? But that one will lead him a merry dance before he’s finished, wait and see. Aye, you’ll find a woman at the bottom of this business, and a terrible hate.”
“Which woman?” Rutledge asked, getting into the car. “Or haven’t you made up your mind? The witch? The painter? Or the widow?”
Hamish growled softly. “Oh, aye, I’ve made up my mind. It’s you that won’t see where the wind’s blowing. You’re the wrong man for this murder, and if you had any wit left, you’d drive straight to London and ask to be relieved!”
“I can’t—if I quit now, you’ll have won. I’ve got to see it through or put a pistol to my head.”
“But you know what will happen if you drag that poor sod, Hickam, into court. They’ll crucify him, and you along with him. Because the women will protect yon fine Captain, mark my words! And there’s no one left to protect you.”
Turning out of the gates, Rutledge said between his teeth, “When I’ve finished, there won’t be any need to drag Hickam anywhere. I’ll have other proof.”
Hamish’s derisive laughter followed him the rest of the way back to Upper Streetham.
Bowles had called from Scotland Yard.
When Rutledge rang him back, Bowles said, “You’ve had two days, what’s happened?”
“We’re holding the Inquest tomorrow. And it will be adjourned. I need more time,” he answered, trying to keep the tenseness, the uncertainty out of his voice.
There was an appreciative silence at the other end of the line, and then Bowles asked, “I’m being pushed for results myself, you know; I can’t put them off with ‘Rutledge needs more time.’ What kind of progress have you made?”
“We’ve found the shotgun. At least, I think we have. The owner has witnesses that place him elsewhere at the time of the murder, but the general consensus is, he’s got the best motive for killing the Colonel. The problem is, I don’t see what it achieved—why now? This feud between them is of long standing. Why not twenty years ago, when it all started? But the man’s house is unlocked, it’s isolated, and anyone who knew about the shotgun could have walked in and taken it. And several people did know. It would have been a simple matter to put it back afterward. I’m presently exploring who had the best opportunity.”
“Not Captain Wilton, I do hope?”
Rutledge answered reluctantly. “Among others, yes.”
“The Palace will have a collective stroke if word of that leaks out. For God’s sake, say nothing until you’re absolutely sure!”
“Which is why I need more time,” Rutledge pointed out reasonably. “Can we afford to make a mistake? Either way?”
“Very well. But keep me informed, will you? I’ve got people breathing down my neck. I can go out on a limb for you at the moment, but we’ll need something soon or heads may start to roll. Mine amon
g them!”
“Yes, I understand. I’ll call you on Monday morning. At the latest.”
He waited, let the silence drag on, but Bowles had finished and cut the connection.
Rutledge hung up, unable to see the pleased smile at the other end of the line as Bowles replaced the receiver. The situation in Warwickshire, in Bowles’s opinion, was progressing exactly as he had planned.
Still turning their conversation over in his mind, Rutledge told himself that the exchange had gone well enough. The Yard wanted answers, yes, but it was also prepared to accept his judgment in the field rather than forcing him into hasty decisions. A sign that nothing had been held back intentionally?
Badly needed encouragement, then, whether the Yard realized it or not—he should feel only a sense of relief.
But Hamish, who had a knack for cutting to the heart of Rutledge’s moods, asked softly, “Why hasn’t he asked about Hickam, then?”
Stopping by Warren’s surgery as he walked toward the Inn, Rutledge asked the housekeeper for a report on Hickam.
“He’s still alive, if that’s any help. But he just lays there, for all the world a dead man. Do you want to know what I think?” She gave him a penetrating look. “He’s gone away, so far back into that mad war he came from that he can’t find his way home again. While he’s there on the bed, not moving, not seeing, not hearing, I keep wondering what’s happening inside his head. Where we can’t follow him.”
“God only knows,” Rutledge answered her, not wanting to think about it.
She frowned. “Do you suppose he’s afraid? I watched him on the street sometimes, and saw the anger in him, and the strangeness that unsettled everybody—well, of course it was unsettling, we didn’t know what to do about it, whether to ignore him or shout at him or lock him up! But when he was sober I saw the fear too, and that worried me. I’d not like to think that wherever he’s gone, he’s taken the fear with him, as well as the horrors of the war. When he can’t move, he can’t run from it.”
Rutledge considered her. “I don’t know,” he told her honestly. “You’re probably the only person in the town who cares.”
