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. Rut- ledge, drawn into the scene before him, held his ground.
