A Test of Wills (11 page)

Royston smiled wryly. “I hope they include a sum for the church. We’ll have Carfield ranting on the doorstep if there isn’t. He’s very determined to have a new organ, and something has to be done about the roof as well. The old parsonage could come down around his ears for all he cares, but the church is a different matter.”

A proper setting for a proper man of God.

“Why isn’t he interested in the parsonage? He lives there, doesn’t he?”

“To tell you the truth, I always believed that he had his eye on Mallows. By way of Lettice, of course. Charles said he would as soon see her married to a giant slug.”

Rutledge laughed. It was cruel but apt.

He retied the ribbons and said, “I’ll keep this if I may. When are the solicitors coming down from London?”

“Not until after the funeral. I’ve spoken with them, and there are contingency measures to see to the running of the estate, that’s no problem. Frankly, I don’t think Lettice is up to hearing the Will read, and I told them as much.”

“I expect to have the Inquest tomorrow.”

“Adjourned, of course?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

“For the time being. Yes.” Rutledge considered him. “Did you ever have a falling-out with Harris?”

Royston shrugged. “We didn’t always see eye to eye on management of the estate. But you don’t kill a man over marrows and hay. Or a new barn.”

“Did you envy him? After twenty years, Mallows must carry your imprint more than his. But Harris survived his wars. He came home, eager to take charge. If Miss Wood inherited, you’d be master here again. In all but name.”

“No,” he said tightly. “That’s ridiculous.” But then he glanced away.

“Are you in financial trouble of any sort?” There was a sizable bequest to Royston in the Will, following the recommendation that he be kept on as agent.

Royston flushed but said, “No. I don’t gamble, I haven’t time for wasting my money in other pursuits, and I’m well paid.”

“Have you ever borrowed money from Harris?”

Unprepared for that, Royston’s eyes flickered. “Once,” he said tightly. “Many years ago, when I got into the devil of a scrape and couldn’t get out of it on my own. I was twenty-one.”

“What did you do?”

Royston hesitated. “I borrowed his car without his knowledge. There was a girl I desperately wanted to see down in Dorset because I thought I was madly in love with her. Colonel Harris—Captain, he was then—was in Palestine, and at the time it didn’t seem like such a crazy thing to do, taking the car.” He stopped, and then added quickly, “There was an accident. I wasn’t a very experienced driver, and so it was my fault, whatever the law said. I paid for what I’d done—in more ways than one. And there were hospital bills. Among other things I’d badly damaged a kidney. That’s what kept me out of the war, later. Charles lent me the money to settle it all. Within five years I’d paid him back every penny.”

“It must have been a large sum.”

“Any sum is large when you’re twenty-one and frightened out of your wits. But yes—it was large. The car wasn’t mine, remember. And—someone was hurt. It took every ounce of courage I had to confess to Charles. All he said was, ‘You’ve had a bad experience. But there’s no going back to change it. So try to learn from it. That’s the only restitution you can offer.’”

“And did you?”

The eyes meeting his were level and sober. “For eight years or more I had nightmares about it. The accident, I mean. Reliving it. I don’t hold with Freud’s nonsense about dreams, but I can tell you that nightmares strip the soul.”

Rutledge found no answer for that.

Sally Davenant watched her cousin for a while, then said, “Mark, that’s the fifth time you’ve read that page. Put the book down, for God’s sake, and tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing,” he said, smiling up at her. “I was thinking, that’s all.”

“Don’t tell me ‘nothing’ when I know there is something. You’ve walked around like a man in torment for days now. And why aren’t you at Mallows? Lettice must be frantic with grief, and surely there’s something you can do for her, if only to hold her. You did that for me after Hugh died, and it was all that got me through those first ghastly days. And there are practical considerations—who’s arranging the funeral? You can’t leave it to that dreadful man Carfield, he’ll give us a sickeningly long eulogy comparing poor Charles to Pericles or Alexander. And the solicitors in London could do worse, with something coldly formal and military. Lettice will know best what Charles would have wanted—the right scripture, hymns, and so on.”

“She’s still under Dr. Warren’s care—”

“Do you think being drugged into helplessness is going to solve anything for her? What’s wrong, I ask you again. Something is! You spent every free moment at Mallows until the day Charles died, and it’s going to look decidedly odd if you aren’t there now!”

He took a deep breath, then said, “If I’m suspected of the murder—and they wouldn’t have brought in Scotland Yard, would they, if they’d believed it was Mavers, they’d have hauled him to jail and been done with it!—I can hardly go to Lettice with that sort of thing being whispered all through the county.”

She regarded him thoughtfully, half in amusement and half in exasperation. “Mark, my dear, that’s carrying good manners to absurd extremes! Do you think Lettice will care what the county believes? She’ll want you beside her, and that in itself will silence most of the gossips!”

There was such desperate grief in his eyes now that she was suddenly appalled. “Mark—,” she began, anxiety changing her voice, making it strained and wary.

“The first time I went, I was turned away—if I go again, and it happens a second time, what do you think will be made of that?”

Almost weak with relief, she said, “She’d been given a sedative! Did you expect Dr. Warren to invite you to her bedroom, with no chaperone in the house? Betrothed or not, he wouldn’t have countenanced that!” Rising from her chair, she came to kneel beside his, taking his hands in hers. “My dear. Lettice probably has no idea what’s been said. Who’s going to tell her?”

“Rutledge for one.”

She bit her lip. “Yes. Rutledge. The man’s a menace, probing and digging.”

“He’s no fool, Sally. And he won’t leave until he’s got what he wanted.”

“If only you and Charles hadn’t quarreled so publicly that last night—”

“How were we to know that the servants were still about? Besides—” He stopped, then lifted her fingers, kissed the tips, and let them go. She didn’t rise, but stayed there beside him, her hands dropping to her lap.

“I wish you would tell me what that was all about. How can I help you if I don’t know?”

He rubbed his eyes, and they burned as if he hadn’t slept for a week. They had felt that way in France, he remembered, when there was a push on, and the planes went up as long as the pilots could stay awake to man them. Until blind exhaustion sent you stumbling back to quarters and the nearest bed. “It wasn’t even a quarrel, come to that. We never got to the point of quarreling. He said something that took me completely off guard, and the next thing we knew, we were both murderously angry.”

Mark looked at her, his eyes bloodshot from the rubbing, his tiredness there for her to see. “It died with Charles. At least pray God it did,” he added vehemently.

“But the timing—”

“Yes, I know, there’s no getting around that, is there, Sally? And Rutledge will have me exactly where he wants me if he ever finds out the whole of it. Hickam was a bloody nuisance, but I could have dealt with him. As it is, Charles might still reach out from the grave and take me with him.”

She got to her feet and said with conviction, “Then you must go to Lettice! Now, before everyone in Upper Streetham notices that you aren’t there! Mark, don’t you see? You’re being very foolish!”

Rutledge went to find Johnston before he left Mallows, but instead came face-to-face with Lettice as she slowly descended the main staircase. It was, he thought, the first time she’d left her room since Dr. Warren had taken her there, and she seemed abstracted, her body moving without the volition of her mind, which was turned inward toward private visions no one else could share. Whatever they were, she drew no comfort from them, for she looked tired, empty.

“I thought you had gone away,” she said, frowning as she saw him and recognized him. “Well? Did you want something—or someone?”

“I’ve just spoken to Royston. I wanted to let you know that the Inquest will be tomorrow—”

“I won’t be there,” she said quickly, with an edge of panic. “I won’t attend!”

“I shan’t expect you to attend. There will be—we must address certain formalities, and then I intend to ask for an adjournment,” he amended, to spare her. There was no need to go into more detail than that, since Royston had identified the body, not Lettice.

She turned to go back the way she’d come, and he stopped her. “I went to see Catherine Tarrant.”

With her hand on the banister as if she gained strength from its support, she came down the rest of the stairs. “And?” she asked when she was on eye level with him. It was almost as if she thought he might be tricking her.

“She told me about Linden.”

“And?” she repeated.

“And I understand the debt you referred to this morning—your fiancé’s life for her lover’s. But there’s another aspect of the situation, one less pleasant. Could Miss Tarrant have shot Colonel Harris in revenge for Linden’s death? Brooding over what happened and convincing herself that he might have saved the German if he’d tried? Punishing him—and indirectly, you?”

Lettice Wood began to laugh, bitterly at first, and then in wild denial. “Oh, God,” she said, “that’s too diabolical to contemplate!” The laughter turned to tremors that racked her body. “No, I won’t think about it! Go away, I don’t want to talk to you anymore!”

Rutledge had seen soldiers close to the breaking point begin to shake after a battle, and he moved quickly to lead her to one of the ornate chairs standing against the wall. Once he got her seated, he gripped Lettice’s shoulders firmly and said, “Stop it! That’s enough.” His voice was quiet, but pitched to reach her through the emotional frenzy.

She fought him, then collapsed in tears, and for a moment he knelt by her chair and simply held her, offering what comfort he could. She smelled of lilies of the valley, and her hair was soft against his face.

It was not professional, and Hamish was clamoring in the back of his head about the seduction of witches, but there was nothing else he could do.

When the worst was over, he went into the drawing room to ring for Mary Satterthwaite.

Waiting for his summons to be answered, he stood by the high back of the chair with one hand on Lettice’s shoulder, knowing from experience that the warmth of human contact was often more important than words.

And thinking to himself that this rather blew to the four winds his earlier impression that Lettice Wood knew who had killed her guardian….

9

Dr. Warren had spent a harried morning in his surgery, and added to that had been a sleepless night attending to Hickam. He was tired, irritable, and behind in his schedule. As he started out on his rounds, he was grumbling about a retirement long overdue and the ingratitude of villagers who seemed to think he was on call twenty-four hours of the day.

He looked in on the new baby he had delivered and found it flourishing, but tongue-lashed the father when he discovered that the mother had spent her morning bent over a full tub of washing.

“I’ve told you Mercy had a hard birth,” Warren finished, “and you’d have seen it for yourself if you hadn’t been ten parts drunk that whole day. Now either you find someone from the village to lend a hand in the house or I’ll find a good woman and bill you for her. If Mercy hemorrhages, she’s as good as dead. And then where will you and that child be?”

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.”