A Test of Wills (20 page)

There was, actually, a certain irony about that appointment, he thought, driving back to the Inn. It was exactly one week from the time Charles Harris died.

The rain came back in the night, and Rutledge lay there listening to it, unable to sleep, his mind turning over everything he’d learned in the past four days. Thinking about the people, the evidence, the way it was coming out now. One or two loose ends to finish tomorrow, and then he’d be on his way back to London.

But the funeral was on Tuesday, and he found himself wanting to be there, to watch Lettice walk down the aisle of the church on—on whose arm? To see her one more time, and in the light. To exorcise the witchery Hamish had been so worried about? He could contrive it; there was enough to do, he needn’t hurry back to that tiny cubicle in London, where his mind was dulled by routine and Hamish had freer rein.

It wasn’t a night for sleeping, in spite of the rain drumming lightly on house roofs and muffling the normal sounds of the village. Rutledge could hear the gutters running, a soft, ominous rush that echoed in his head, and once, a carriage rattling down the High Street. The church clock tolled the quarter hours, and still his mind moved restlessly in a kaleidoscope of images.

Of Catherine Tarrant’s paintings, vivid reflections of her inner force. Of Lettice Wood’s unusual eyes, darkening with emotion. Of Royston’s shame as he watched the faces of parishioners outside the church. Of Carfield’s swift retreat from confrontation. Of Wilton’s lonely grief, and a child’s terror. Of a woman hanging out clothes in the sunlight, a goose penned in the yard behind her. Of Sally Davenant’s cool shell, hiding emotions she couldn’t afford to feel. Of Charles Harris, man and monster, alive and bloodily dead…Of Mavers with his amber goat’s eyes…

At Mallows, Lettice Wood lay on her bed and wished with the fervor of despair that she could turn back the slowly moving hands of the ornate porcelain clock on the table by her pillow. Turn them back to that moment when she had said, with the blitheness of loving, “I’ve never known such happiness—I want it to go on and on forever—I want to feel it in old age, and look back on years full of it, and you, in the center of it.”

And his warm indulgent voice, laughing at her, promising. “My dear girl, when have I ever been able to deny you anything you wanted? We’ll be together always, as long as the seas run and the stars shine and the earth lasts. Is that pledge enough for you?”

The seas still ran, the stars still shone, and the earth was there still. But her happiness had poured out with a man’s blood in a field of wildflowers, and there was no way she could put it back again. And there was nothing—nothing—that would turn back time to that single, glorious gift of love.

Catherine Tarrant sat in her studio, in a darkness lit by heat lightning, the patter of rain on the surrounding glass a counterpoint to her tears. On the easel in front of her was the wrapped portrait of Rolf Linden. She didn’t need to take the cloth off, she knew it by heart. But it was Mark Wilton she was thinking about, and Charles Harris—and how the body ached with longing for a man who would never come back to her. She could forget, sometimes, when she was painting, or in London. Somehow Charles’s death and Mark’s dilemma had stirred her feelings into life again, and left her vulnerable. While memories, like long-buried ghosts, crept around her in the silence, she made herself remember too what she owed Mark.

He was awake as well, metaphorically setting his house in order, arranging his affairs and steeling himself to meet what was coming. There was no way out for him, he had to accept that. Still, he’d found the courage he needed in France, and it hadn’t deserted him yet. It would be there when he needed it now. From hero to gallows’ bait, a great comedown for a proud man, he thought with heavy irony. If only he could guess what Lettice would do—But there was one final duty to perform, and after a while, he decided that the best way to achieve it was with honesty rather than guile….

But in a cottage on a hillside above Upper Streetham, a small child slept with the deepness of death, without dreams for the first time in days.

18

The rain had drifted away by morning, and a watery sun soon broke through the clouds, strengthening rapidly until there was a misty, apricot light that warmed the church tower and touched the trees with gold.

Rutledge walked out of the Inn door and stood for a moment watching the early market goers hurrying to set up booths or find a bargain. A low murmur of voices and laughter, the noises of traffic, people coming and going—he’d seen markets like this in a hundred English towns, peaceful and bustling. A week ago a man had died on market day, Mavers had made his way through the crowds shouting, agitating, locked in hatred, and a child had been frightened nearly to death. But a traveler, strolling through Upper Streetham this pleasant summer morning, wouldn’t hear about it, wouldn’t be touched by it. None of the drama, none of the misery, none of the lasting pain showed.

He turned and moved briskly down the sidewalk, stopping at Dr. Warren’s for a report on Hickam. The man had had rather a restless night, Warren’s housekeeper reported, but he’d eaten a decent enough breakfast and seemed a little stronger.

“That’s when the craving for gin will return, as he improves,” she added. “The poor soul isn’t out of the woods yet, I can tell you! And what he’ll do with himself when he’s well enough to go home is another worry.”

“I’m told he was a cabinetmaker before the war,” Rutledge said.

Surprise spread across her face. “Aye, that’s true. I’d forgotten. And very good he was! But not anymore, not with hands that shake like leaves.” She picked up the broom she’d leaned against the wall while talking to him. “They’ve already started. The tremors. But he’s stronger than he looks, which is a good thing!”

Rutledge thanked her and turned back to the Inn, walking around past the small gardens to the car. Ten minutes later he was pulling up in front of the Davenant house.

Grace let him in, and Sally Davenant came to meet him as soon as she heard his voice. She quickly glanced behind him to see if Rutledge had brought Sergeant Davies with him, looking decidedly relieved to discover that he was alone. “Good morning, Inspector! We’ve been sitting on the terrace, having a last cup of coffee. Won’t you join us?”

He let her lead him to the French doors that opened onto a slate-floored stone terrace overlooking the gardens. There was a wide sweep of lawn, edged by trees and set with beautifully manicured borders, a graceful and pleasing design that someone—he wondered if it had been Mrs. Davenant herself—had chosen to match the architectural grace of the house. An air of peace pervaded it, with birds singing in the trees and a low hum of bees working their way through the blossoms.

Beyond the balustrade, the flower beds looked rather bedraggled from the storm, but the scent of stock and peonies and lavender drifted softly on the morning air. Someone had swept the rain from the terrace and a set of white chairs cushioned in a pattern of gray, rose, and white encircled a wrought-iron table. The breakfast things had already been taken away, but a coffee tray gleamed brightly in the center.

Wilton got to his feet as they came out into the sunlight and stood by the table, not speaking, his eyes on Rutledge.

“Another cup for the Inspector, please, Grace,” Sally was saying over her shoulder. Then, “Do sit down, Inspector. Mark.” They sat, and when the cup came, Sally poured Rutledge’s coffee, passing it to him with a practiced smile.

“Well, I don’t suppose that half of Upper Streetham will dare to show their faces at market this morning!” she began, hiding her own feelings quite well under a pose of wry humor. “I told you before, that man Bert Mavers is a danger to himself and everyone else! How Charles—” She stopped, then said, “How anyone put up with him for this many years is a mystery to me!”

“I don’t think the Inspector came to discuss Mavers,” Wilton said. “You wanted to see me last night, Rutledge?”

He tasted his coffee and then answered, “Yes, as a matter of fact. But it will keep. For the moment. Have you and Royston and Carfield completed the arrangements for tomorrow’s services?”

Wilton stared out over the lawns. “Yes, everything’s in hand. I—was planning to see Lettice this morning, to show her what we’d done, what was expected of her, who would be here. There has been a great deal of mail, telephone calls, wires. Royston and Johnston have kept up with it between them, but I know most of these people personally. Who they are, what they represent. Sally can help Lettice with the proper acknowledgments afterward. As for the reception, we’ve kept Carfield out of it as much as possible.” Disgust tightened his mouth as he turned to Rutledge. “The man’s a threat to sanity! He told Johnston he’d be there most of today to oversee the preparations, the flowers, and so on. Royston had to tell him to his face that he wasn’t needed, that the church was his responsibility and nothing else. And he’ll do that well enough! Writing the funeral oration probably kept him awake most of the night.”

Sally said generously, “He means well, Mark. He’s been a great comfort to Agnes, worried about poor little Lizzie. And when Mary Thornton’s mother died he took care of everything. But I understand how you feel; he’s had his eye on Lettice since she came here in 1917.”

Wilton glanced at Rutledge but said nothing. Rutledge finished his coffee and pushed back his chair. “I’d like to speak to you, privately, Wilton. If you don’t mind.”

Sally rose. “No, no, stay here, I’ve things to see to.”

But there were too many windows overlooking the gardens and the terrace, voices carried. Wilton put his hand on her arm. “Enjoy the sun, my dear; I won’t be long.”

He couldn’t see the look she gave him as he got to his feet and courteously waited for Rutledge to follow. It was a mixture of emotions. Dread. Love. And indecision.

Wilton took Rutledge to the small parlor where they’d talked on his first visit and closed the door, standing there, his back to it, as he said, “I expected you to come with the Sergeant. And a warrant for my arrest.”

“I had planned to. But it occurred to me that marching you to jail in front of all those people coming in to market would cause Miss Wood and your cousin unnecessary embarrassment. If you go with me now, of your own accord, we’ll see to this business as quietly as possible.”

“So it’s finished, is it?” He moved away from the door and crossed to a chair, gesturing impatiently for Rutledge to be seated.

“I know what you and Harris quarreled about. After dinner Sunday evening. In the lane Monday morning. He was calling off the marriage, and you were furious with him.”

There was no reaction in his face. “Who told you this?”

“I have two witnesses. I think they’re reliable enough. A third can prove that Harris was there, in the lane. Another saw him speaking to you.”

“And Lettice? Have you talked to her?”

“Yes. At first she denied it. Then she admitted that Charles had, for reasons of his own, changed his mind about the marriage.”

“I see.” He faced Rutledge quietly enough, but a nerve at the corner of his mouth twitched. After a time, he said, “Yes, all right, Charles changed his mind. I thought he was wrong, and I told him so. We argued. I didn’t think this was information that the world needed to know, that’s why I wouldn’t explain it to you. I felt that—given time—Lettice and I could work out the problem of what to do. Charles Harris was a very strong influence in her life. I had to keep that in mind.”

“Then she went along with his decision?”

Wilton shook his head. “I never had the chance to ask her how she felt. Charles was shot—she was given sedatives by Warren—and the wedding had to be called off anyway. My God, she was grieving, I couldn’t very well barge in there and say, ‘I love you, I still want to marry you, will you go through with it and be damned to Society!’ And then there was the funeral to discuss—hardly the proper ambience for a declaration of love, is it? Now—I haven’t much to offer her now, have I?”

Listening, Rutledge could hear the ring of truth—and the suspicion of a lie. He had to remind himself that Mark Wilton had spent four years in the air over France, surviving on his wits, surviving because he was intelligent, kept his nerve, never let himself be outwitted or outmaneuvered.

“Did she ask you if you’d shot her guardian?”

“No.” It was curt, haughty. Pride speaking.

“What will you tell her when she does? When you’ve been arrested?”

“That you’ve decided I did shoot Harris. That I’ll fight you in court, and with any luck make you look like a fool.” He frowned. “I’m not a barrister, but I’ve got a chance, I think. The evidence against me is circumstantial, no one saw me with a gun, no one saw me actually shoot the Colonel. Calling off the wedding might damn me, but we’ll see about that.” He caught the fleeting expression in Rutledge’s eyes and said, “Oh, yes, I’ve thought it all through! Most of the night. I’ve also considered something else. You’ll probably win in the long run; the trial will end with ‘not proved’ rather than an acquittal. And that doubt, that shadow will hang over me for the rest of my life. Did I or didn’t I kill Harris? In some respects that’s worse than the gallows. I can’t possibly expect Lettice to marry me, knowing she might wonder in the middle of the night if I had done it.”

“Then you won’t come with me now, and give yourself up.”

“If I do, it’s an admission of guilt. In the view of most people.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I can’t afford to damn myself. You’ll have to arrest me. Without fanfare, I can promise you there will be no trouble over it. But it will have to be a warrant.”

“Why did Charles Harris change his mind about you? About the wedding? What had you done to turn him against the marriage?”

To Rutledge’s surprise, a smile flickered deep in Wilton’s eyes. “Ah. I expect that information did die with Charles Harris!”

Then the smile faded, and he said quite soberly, “I need a favor from you, Rutledge. I don’t know if you can grant it, but I’m asking you at least to consider it. I want to go to the funeral with Lettice. She needs someone besides that idiot Carfield. Or Simon Haldane, who’s kind enough but damned ineffectual. The Regiment is sending a representative, but Lettice doesn’t know him, he’s a stranger. It won’t be easy for her, with her guardian dead and her fiancé in jail. You can lock me in a room in the Inn tonight, if that’s any use. I’ll agree to any terms you like. Just let me do this one thing, and I’ll be very grateful.”

“I can’t postpone an arrest.”

“Why? Do you think I’ll shoot myself when you aren’t looking? Or run to France? The only hope I have of a normal life is proving I didn’t shoot Charles! A trial is as important to me as it is to you. Give me twenty-four hours!”

Rutledge looked at him, trying to read the man. Behind the handsome face was an extraordinary strength. And a gambler’s instincts? High in the clouds, pitting his wits against another man, with death as the price of losing, he had come through duel after duel almost unscathed. It was a remarkable record, and his nerve had never broken—

Hamish, who’d been silent most of the morning, stirred to life. “But yours did! That’s why you’ve lost your skills, man, you’ve broken. Nerve, mind, spirit. You aren’t the hunter anymore, you’re the prey!”

He forced himself to think, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind. Wilton was waiting, patient, watchful. He wanted this very badly. And he didn’t like begging.

Dredging up his own instincts, Rutledge sorted them out. And made his decision.

“All right, then. Twenty-four hours. But if you trick me, by God I’ll crucify you!”

Wilton shook his head. “It isn’t for me. It’s for Lettice.”

And driving back to the Inn, Hamish was raging. “The witch again! She’s cast a spell on you with those strange eyes, and you’ve lost your soul—”

“No,” Rutledge said, concentrating on the road. “I’m beginning to think”—he dodged a big yellow dog ambling peacefully across his path—“I’m beginning to think I might have found it.”

“You’ve got the man—witnesses—the shotgun—the reason why yon fine Colonel needed to die that morning. You’ve done your work, man, don’t throw it away!”

“On the contrary. I’ve stumbled around in the dark, letting other people tell me what was happening. I’ve been terrified that someone might see my own terrors and turn them against me. I’ve dreaded failure and done very little to prevent it. I was lost—lost!—and couldn’t find my way back to 1914. If I can’t do any better than this, I deserve to be locked away in that damned clinic with the other wretched dregs of humanity. If I want to survive, I’ve got to fight for it….”

He spent the day organizing his evidence, finishing his report. Before he began he put in a call to Bowles in London and said, “I’ve got enough proof to ask for a warrant. Tomorrow at noon. The case is as strong as I can make it, but not without some problems. I think a good KC can fill them in, and we’ll have our conviction.”

Bowles, listening, finally interrupted. “I hope to God you aren’t telling me we’re going to arrest Wilton! The Palace called this morning; they want to know whether to send a representative to the funeral. Wilton’s marrying Harris’s ward—”

“Tell them to send someone who knew Harris. He was a good soldier, he served the King well. It doesn’t matter about Wilton.”

“Rutledge, if you’ve got this wrong, the Yard will have your head. Do you hear me? Leave the man alone unless you’ve got such proof that Christ Himself couldn’t find a way out of it! I won’t be responsible if you humiliate the Palace and disgrace the Yard!”

“I won’t,” Rutledge said, with more firmness than he felt. “If I do, you’ll have my resignation on your desk by Wednesday morning.”

“A hell of a lot of good that will be, man! After the damage is done!”

“I know. That’s why I’m taking my time.” Rutledge hung up. So much for the confidence and support of his superiors. He felt suddenly isolated, alone.

But loneliness was also a strength. When you trusted, you were more vulnerable. You gave yourself away. He would have told someone about Hamish long ago, if he’d trusted. As long as it was his own private hell, he was, in a sense, far safer. No one could reach him. No one could destroy him. Except he himself, in the muddle that was now his life.