came. And then with a courage he could see, she got herself in hand and answered him. 'Are you telling me that he might still be alive if I had? That's very cruel, Inspector, even for a policeman from London!'
'There was no thought of cruelty, Miss Wood,' he said gently. 'In our first interview you yourself seemed to emphasize the fact that you hadn't gone riding that morning. I wondered why, that's all.'
'Had I?' Her dark brows drew together and she shook her head. 'I don't remember-I don't know in what context I might have left that impression…'
'When I asked you if you'd seen the Colonel since his quarrel with the Captain. You answered, 'I didn't go riding that morning.' As if that was somehow important.'
'Important! If he had asked me, I would have gone! But I know-knew-how much his early rides meant to him, and I thought there was all the time in the world-' She checked, shook her head wordlessly, and then after a moment said in exasperation, 'Oh, do sit down! We can't both prowl this room like tigers in a small cage!'
'I'd like to speak to Mary Satterthwaite before I go, if I may.'
She said, 'Of course,' as if it was a matter of indifference to her, and rang the bell, then watched him silently as they waited. Hamish, grumbling deep inside Rutledge's mind, was uneasy with Lettice Wood, his Scottish soul disturbed by those strange eyes and the intensity that churned behind them. But Rutledge found himself drawn to her against his will, to the emotions that seethed just beneath the surface and somehow seemed to reflect his own. A woman of passion…
When Johnston answered her summons, she said, 'The Inspector wishes to speak to Mary. Could you take him to the small parlor, please?'
Five minutes later, Rutledge found himself in a pleasant room overlooking the gardens and face to face with a woman of thirty, neatly dressed and primly correct. She had fair hair and pale blue eyes, and her cheeks were pink from nervousness.
Rutledge asked her to describe what she had seen and heard coming down the stairs the night of the quarrel, and she answered readily, giving him almost verbatim the same words he'd heard from Johnston. But he wanted more.
'You have no idea what the two men were quarreling about?'
'No, sir. None.'
'Was it the sort of quarrel that might have led to blows? Or to hard feelings?'
Mary frowned, trying to bring back the scene as she remembered it. 'They were very angry, sir. Their voices were deeper, rougher, if you know what I mean? I wouldn't have recognized it for the Captain's, not if I hadn't seen him with my own eyes. It wasn't a small matter they'd quarreled over- I've never seen either of them that upset. But they're gentlemen, both of them, it would never have come to blows, however bad it was!' There was a naive certainty in her words, and Rutledge found himself suppressing a smile.
'What reason did Miss Wood give you for coming upstairs early?'
'She didn't give any, sir, but as I was brushing her hair she said she'd left the gentlemen to discuss the marriage, and I asked if she'd be going up to London soon. She said she didn't feel like thinking about what all had to be done in London, not tonight. So I thought she must have a headache starting, especially when she asked for a cloth to cool her face. She was that tense, the way she always is when something's troubling her, so I helped her get ready for bed, and left her to sleep.'
'Strange, isn't it, that she wouldn't have wished to be present if it was an important discussion? Headache or not.'
'You must ask Miss Wood that, sir. But if they was to talk about business matters, now, the settlement or such, it wouldn't have been proper, would it? And she'd seemed a little restive all evening, to tell the truth of it, as if there were things on her mind or the headache was coming on. The first fitting for the gown was next week, and they say brides often get edgy over that.'
'Miss Wood herself never mentioned a headache? Or that she was feeling unwell?'
'No, sir. But I can always tell when there's something bothering her. She doesn't need to say anything.'
'How long have you worked at Mallows?' he asked, as if that was more important to him than the evidence she had given. Her eyes flickered in surprise, but she answered readily. 'Since I was twelve, sir.'
'Was the Colonel a good master?'
'The best, he was. Always considerate, always polite, saying please when he had no need to.' She bit her lip. 'We're all that upset…'
'Yes, I understand. I hear that you have a relative who is housekeeper to Miss Tarrant?'
'That's right, yes, sir. My sister.'
'How long has she been in Miss Tarrant's employ?'
The pale eyes narrowed warily. 'Since 1910, sir, if you please. Or I should say, she was Mr. Tarrant's housekeeper then.'
'Is she happy enough there?' 'It would seem so, sir.' 'And she met Captain Wilton when he was here in Upper Streetham before the war?' The wariness vanished. 'Oh, yes, sir. Vivian thought very highly of him.' 'He was very much interested in flying even then, I understand.' 'Indeed, sir. Mad for it, she said. And teasing Miss Catherine about taking her up, making her laugh and plead with him not to dream of it.' 'A pleasant man, was he? Good- natured, well-mannered?' 'Yes, sir. A gentleman. Not like-' She stopped short. 'Yes? Not like Charles Harris?' She turned a deep red, and he realized that it was with anger, not embarrassment. 'Oh, no, sir! The German, not the Colonel!' And then, with grave dignity, she added, 'I'll say no more, sir, if you please.' And although he persisted for a time, she was true to her word.
8
So he went to see Catherine Tarrant, and found her in her studio. It was a tiled, high-ceilinged room that had been converted from an Edwardian conservatory, with light that illuminated without blinding. And there was an earthy smell about it, mixed with the odors of paint and of turpentine- and oddly enough, the ghostly scent of roses.
She was stretching a canvas when Vivian, who bore a faint resemblance to her sister Mary, led Rutledge there and then left, shutting the door quietly.
'I didn't know, at the Inn,' he said, 'that you were C. Tar- rant. My sister is a great admirer of your work.' He looked around at the paintings drying against the wall, their colors gleaming like jewels in various corners of the room.
'That's always nice to hear. You never tire of praise. The critics are generous enough with condemnation.' She glanced up and said, 'But that isn't what brought you here, is it? What's happened?' Her face was tense, prepared.
'Nothing has happened, that I'm aware of. I've come to ask you about something that has been puzzling me, that's all. The German.'
The slender stretcher in her hands snapped, and she stared at him with a mixture of anger and exasperation. 'I might have known! As a general rule I find that men who were at the Front are the least prejudiced, in spite of what they've suffered. Or saw their friends suffer. I'm sorry you aren't one of them.'
He found a smile for her, although she had made him angry in turn. 'How do you know? To tell you the truth, I don't have any idea what I'm supposed to be prejudiced about. Why don't you tell me, and then we'll see where I stand.'
Putting down the canvas, she walked over to one of the open windows, her back to him. 'As a matter of curiosity, who told you? About the German?'
'Several people have alluded to him,' he said carefully.
'Yes, I expect they have,' she answered, weary patience in her voice. 'But I really don't see what it has to do with this enquiry.' She turned around, lifted one of the paintings stacked against the wall beside her, and began to study it as if she saw something she didn't like about it.
'How can I be sure, until I hear your side of the story?'
She glanced up wryly. 'You've been talking to Lettice, I think. Well, everyone else has pawed over what happened with salacious enthusiasm, why not Scotland Yard? At least you'll hear the truth from me, not wild
