by Charles Todd
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EXTRAORDINARY ACCLAIM FOR THE
WORK OF CHARLES TODD
WINGS OF FIRE
“Todd writes exceptionally about a time when people found not just meaning but healing in poetry, when intuition was viewed as kind of ‘second sight,’ and when everyone was stamped by war—not just the legless men, but also the women who lost their loves and so their futures.”
—San Jose Mercury News
“Novelist Charles Todd now joins that growing little circle of American authors like Elizabeth George and Martha Grimes who have made themselves at home in the exclusive field of the British literary mystery.”
—The Buffalo News
“Todd’s writing is graceful and evocative of a bygone time and place.”
—The Miami Herald
“[Rutledge] makes a welcome return in the haunting WINGS OF FIRE . . . Thoughtful and evocative, Todd’s tale offers interesting, three-dimensional characters.”
—The Orlando Sentinel
“Splendid imagery, in-depth characterization, and glimpses of more than one wounded psyche: an excellent historical mystery.”
—Library Journal
“A brilliant return . . . Memorable characters, subtle plot twists, the evocative seaside setting and descriptions of architecture, the moors and the sea fully reward the attention this novel commands.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
A TEST OF WILLS
named a New York Times Notable Book of the year and one of Publishers Weekly’s six best mysteries of the year
“ . . . Both a meticulously wrought puzzle and harrowing psychological drama about a shell-shocked police inspector who investigates a murder.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“The emotional and physical carnage of World War I is used to remarkable effect in A TEST OF WILLS, an excellent new mystery and, one hopes, the first of a series.”
— Chicago Tribune
“Psychologically sophisticated, tautly written, and craftily plotted.”
—San Jose Mercury News
“Todd seems to have perfect pitch in his ability to capture the tenor and nuances of English country life with its clearly defined social strata. A TEST OF WILLS may on the surface be another whodunit, but Todd raises disturbing issues of war and peace that still confront us today.”
—Orlando Sentinel
“A newcomer returns us to the essential pleasures of the well-crafted puzzle . . . an absorbing story . . . Todd, depicts the outer and inner worlds of his character with authority and sympathy as he closes in on his surprising—and convincing— conclusion.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
ST. MARTIN'S PAPERBACKS TITLES
BY CHARLES TODD
SEARCH THE DARK
WINGS OF FIRE
WINGS
OF FIRE
Charles Todd
St. Martin's Paperbacks
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.“
WINGS OF FIRE
Copyright © 1998 by Charles Todd.
Excerpt from Search the Dark copyright © 1999 by Charles Todd.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 97-39643
ISBN: 0-312-96568-0
EAN: 80312-96568-6
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / March 1998
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition /May 1999
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7
For D
You know why.
1
T he bodies were discovered by Mrs. Trepol, widow, occupation housekeeper and cook to the deceased.
It was not a morning of swirling sea mists and gray drifting sheets of rain, although afterward Mrs. Trepol remembered it that way.
In fact, the clouds had lifted in the night. The sea was gleaming in patchy May sunlight down below the headland, the house cast long shadows across the wet grass, and an unseasonable warmth already touched the light breeze as she came out of the wood at the side of the big kitchen garden. Her eyes jealously studied the cabbages in their neat rows, measuring them against the size of her own, deciding that hers still had an edge. Weil, of course they should! She’d always had the finest garden in the village, and hadn’t she proved it with ribbons won at every Harvest Festival? The onions were taller—surely they hadn’t been that high on Saturday? But anyone could grow onions. Her peas were already straggling up the sticks she’d set beside them, and growing peas was an art. No sticks stood beside these sad little stalks! She’d be cooking hers before these saw their first blossoms. Old Wilkins, who had kept the Hall’s gardens and stables since the lads had all gone off to the war, knew more about horses than vegetables.
Not that he didn’t crow over his work.
“Your carrots look a mite small, Mrs. Trepol,” he’d say, hanging over the rock wall by her front walk. “Compared to mine, that is.” Or, “Them beans is spindly. Put ‘em in late, did ye?”
Nosy old fool!
Her complacency restored, she went up the three steps to the kitchen door and let herself in with her key as she always did. Not that this was her day to clean. Mondays normally were her day off. But tomorrow she wanted to visit her sister—Naomi’s husband had offered to take them both to market in the morning—and Miss Livia never minded if occasionally she shifted her time.
The long stone passage was cool and quiet. At the end of it, she took off her coat, hung it on the peg as she always did, pulled her apron over her head, then stepped into the heart of her domain. And noticed at once that the breakfast dishes, usually neatly stacked on the drain board, hadn’t been brought down. She looked around the kitchen, saw that it was much as she’d left it on Saturday evening, not even a crumb marring her scrubbed floor, saw too that no one had opened the curtains.
Oh, my dear! she thought, pityingly, Miss Livia must’ve had another bad night, and she’s still asleep!
Going up to the back parlor, she found that those curtains were also closed. And for the first time she felt a tremor of alarm.
Mr. Nicholas always opened them at first light, to watch the sea. He’d said once that it made him feel alive to see the dawn come and touch the water ...
Miss Livia must have had a terrible night, then, if he’d missed the dawn on her account! Mrs. Trepol had never known that to happen in all the years she’d worked in the house. Mr. Nicholas was always up at first light... always ...
She went out into the hall and looked up the curving stairs.
“Mr. Nicholas?” she called softly. “I’ve come. Is there anything I can do? Would you care for a cup of tea?”
The silence around her echoed her words and she felt very uneasy now. Surely if he was sitting by Miss Livia’s bed, he’d have heard
her and come out to speak to her?
Unless something was wrong with him—
She hurried up the stairs and went down the passage to Mr. Nicholas’ room, tapping lightly on the panel. No one answered. After a moment’s uncertainty, she turned the knob and opened the door.
The bed was made. From the look of it, it had not been slept in. Mr. Nicholas could always make it neatly, but never as smoothly as she did. This was her work. Saturday’s work . . .
She went back down the passage and knocked lightly at Miss Livia’s door. Again there was no answer. She opened it gently, so as not to disturb Miss Livia, or Mr. Nicholas, if he’d fallen asleep in the chair by his sister’s bed, and peered around the edge.
That bed too was untouched. The coverlet was as smooth as glass. Like Mr. Nicholas’. And there was no one in the chairs.
Suddenly very frightened, she listened to the house around her. Surely if Miss Livia had been taken down to the doctor’s surgery in the night, there’d be a message left in the kitchen! But this wasn’t her day; Mr. Nicholas wouldn’t have known she was coming in. Well, then, someone would have mentioned it at services on Sunday morning. Eager to gossip—
Going to the long study at the end of the gallery, which Mr. Nicholas and Miss Livia shared, Mrs. Trepol knocked and waited, then reached for the knob as she had twice before.
And then fright turned suddenly to terror. She quickly drew her hand back, bringing it to her flat chest almost protectively, her heart thudding uncomfortably beneath her fingertips.
She stood there for several seconds, staring at the shut door, her voice refusing to call Mr. Nicholas’ name, her hand refusing to reach again for the brass knob.
Whatever was behind that door, it was something she couldn’t face, not alone, not with her heart hammering like it was going to jump out of her chest and run away.
She turned and fled down the stairs, stumbling on the old, worn treads, nearly falling headfirst in her haste, thinking only of the safety of the kitchen but not stopping there, rushing down the passage, on into the early sunlight and back the way she’d come, toward the village and Dr. Hawkins. Only then did she remember her coat, but nothing would have taken her back into that house. Shivering, on the verge of tears, driven by uncertainty, she ran heavily and awkwardly through the gardens, heedless of the cabbages, and towards the copse of trees where the path to the village began.
What was left of the family gathered in the drawing room for a drink when everyone else had finally gone home, but conversation was stilted, uneasy, as if they were strangers meeting for the first time and had yet to find common ground. The truth was, they felt like strangers. In the circumstances. Unsettled, uncomfortable. Isolated by their thoughts.
Then Stephen said abruptly, “Why do you suppose they did it?”
There was an odd silence. No one, thank God, had asked that all the long day! Not through the services nor the burials nor the reception at the Hall afterward, where friends and villagers had mingled, talking in subdued voices. Remembering Olivia and Nicholas, recalling some small incident or ordinary encounter, a conversation—all safely in the past. Avoiding the how and why of death, as if by tacit agreement. Avid curiosity dwelt in their eyes, but they were sensitive to the delicacy of the situation. Suicides.
No one had spoken of the poems, either.
Susannah said quickly, “What business is it of ours? They’re dead. Let that be the end of it.”
“Good God, Nicholas and Olivia were your brother and sister—”
“Half brother and sister!” she retorted, as if that might distance her from real pain.
“All right, then, half brother and sister! Haven’t you even wondered about it? Don’t you feel anything?”
“I feel grateful that they could be buried with Mother in the family vault,” Susannah answered. “Thanks to the rector’s kindness! In the old days, it wouldn’t have been allowed, you know that. Suicides weren’t buried in the churchyard, much less in the crypt! And we’d have been ostracized along with them. It’s still bad enough, God knows. London will be an ordeal, facing all my friends, knowing pity’s behind their sympathy—” She stopped, unwilling to lay her emotions out, raw and painful, for the others to paw over. “I don’t want to talk about it! What we’ve got to face now is, what’s to become of the house?”
Daniel said, “I’d always understood it was left to the survivors to sell.” He glanced around the room. Susannah. Rachel. Stephen. Himself. He was Susannah’s husband, but he’d always been treated as one of the family. That had been a source of great pride to him. With feelings running so high over the Troubles in Ireland, he might have been seen as less, well, acceptable socially, without the Trevelyan connection behind him. Not that the Trevelyans were so high and mighty, but they were old blood, respected. His eyes moved on. Cormac. Olivia and Nicholas’d left Cormac out of their wills. Daniel had found himself wondering, sometimes, who Cormac’s Irish mother had been—if it had made a difference. Cormac was a FitzHugh, but not a Trevelyan. Not Rosamund’s child. Nor wed to one of Rosamund’s children. Nor, like Rachel, a cousin on the Marlowe side.
Rachel said, “Yes, that’s what I’d been told. Unless they changed their minds. At the end.” As they’d changed their minds about living ... She took a deep breath and refused to think about it. And instead found herself listening again. To the sounds of the house. Since she’d walked through the door two days ago, she’d felt it. Swallowing her, drawing the very breath from her body. Frightening her with a stillness that wasn’t stillness ...
Stephen said, moving his cane along the pattern of the Persian carpet’s intertwined medallions. “Well, I for one know what I think we should do. We should turn this place into a memorial. A museum in Livia’s memory.”
Susannah stared at him in surprise.
Cormac said, “Don’t be ridiculous! It’s the last thing she’d have wanted! Olivia spent her entire life hiding from people. Do you think she’d be pleased to have strangers wandering about in here now?” He moved gracefully around the room, tall and oddly beautiful in a very masculine way.
“It isn’t up to you,” Stephen retorted. He tried not to watch. He tried not to resent that grace. And couldn’t help it. The war had left him with half a foot. And this damned cane. Trenchfoot and gangrene, for God’s sake, not honorable wounds! No more long walks over the Downs, no more tennis, no more dancing, no more riding to hounds. He could still bowl at cricket, but awkwardly, terrified he’d lose his balance and fall flat on his face.
“All the same, Cormac’s right,” Rachel said. “I can’t imagine this place a museum. Livia would feel it was a betrayal.”
“Think of the cost,” Daniel added. “You’d need money for upkeep, repairs, staff. A trust of some sort. Olivia may have been famous, but she wasn’t that rich! In her own right, I mean.”
“We could afford it,” Stephen persisted. “Or perhaps the National Trust would be interested.”
“Not without a handsome endowment,” Cormac replied, stopping by the windows, his back to them. “It would take more than three quarters of your inheritance.”
“What are you saying? That we divide up the furniture— the sideboard for me, the piano for you, and who’s going to take the grandfather’s clock?—then sell the house and grounds? Pretend Olivia and Nicholas never existed, that the family—what’s left of it—doesn’t care?” Stephen was steadily losing his temper.
“You want a museum to your own memory, not hers,” Susannah said suddenly. “It’s your immortality you’re thinking about, don’t pretend it isn’t!”
“Mine?”
“Yes, yours! The war’s changed you, Stephen—and not for the better. Oh, I’ve heard you at dinners since she was found out, simpering when someone asks who the love poems were written about. You think it’s you, her darling, her favorite!” There was heavy sarcasm in her quiet voice. He’d been Mother’s favorite too. He was Susannah’s twin—and always so much more than her equal.
&nb
sp; “Well, what if they were written about me? I’ve as much right as any of you to think what I please. You’re greedy, that’s what it is, wanting the money, wanting every penny you can squeeze. And that’s why she left her literary estate to me. A pity she didn’t include the house as well!”
“Who died last?” Rachel put in diffidently, not sure she wanted to know. “If it was Nicholas, then it’s his will we’re haggling over, not hers.”
“They were the same. Everything to each other, and if that failed, the poems to Stephen, and the house to the four survivors, jointly,” Cormac told her over his shoulder. There was no resentment in the level voice that he hadn’t been included.
“I’d hate to see day-trippers wandering through here,” Susannah said, “staring like spectators at a hanging, then eating their pasties and cider out on the lawns overlooking the sea.” She shuddered. “It’s horrid.”
“More horrid if this place is lost,” Stephen declared. “She’s a major English poet, for God’s sake!”
“When was the last time you were in Stratford? Or Word-worth’s home in Grasmere?” Rachel asked. “Empty, musty, travesties of houses. Like mummified bodies, on view because of vulgar curiosity. I don’t want to see this place kept like a waxwork long beyond its usefulness, genteelly crumbling at the edges. I want—to be finished with it.”
“Or is it yourself you’re thinking about?” Stephen demanded. “Is it your own secrets they might find, browsing around in here?”
Rachel looked at him coldly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That all of us have private lives, and one day biographers will be delving into them, laying them bare in the name of scholarship. To learn more about Olivia, how she lived, who her family was—that’s the lot of us—how she came to be a poet in the first place.”
