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.'
'Which woman?' Rutledge asked, getting into the car. 'Or haven't you made up your mind? The witch? The painter? Or the widow?'
Hamish growled softly. 'Oh, aye, I've made up my mind. It's you that won't see where the wind's blowing. You're the wrong man for this murder, and if you had any wit left, you'd drive straight to London and ask to be relieved!'
'I can't-if I quit now, you'll have won. I've got to see it through or put a pistol to my head.'
'But you know what will happen if you drag that poor sod, Hickam, into court. They'll crucify him, and you along with him. Because the women will protect yon fine Captain, mark my words! And there's no one left to protect you.'
Turning out of the gates, Rutledge said between his teeth, 'When I've finished, there won't be any need to drag Hickam anywhere. I'll have other proof.'
Hamish's derisive laughter followed him the rest of the way back to Upper Streetham. Bowles had called from Scotland Yard.
When Rutledge rang him back, Bowles said, 'You've had two days, what's happened?'
'We're holding the Inquest tomorrow. And it will be adjourned. I need more time,' he answered, trying to keep the tenseness, the uncertainty out of his voice.
There was an appreciative silence at the other end of the line, and then Bowles asked, 'I'm being pushed for results myself, you know; I can't put them off with 'Rutledge needs more time.' What kind of progress have you made?'
'We've found the shotgun. At least, I think we have. The owner has witnesses that place him elsewhere at the time of the murder, but the general consensus is, he's got the best motive for killing the Colonel. The problem is, I don't see what it achieved-why now? This feud between them is of long standing. Why not twenty years ago, when it all started? But the man's house is unlocked, it's isolated, and anyone who knew about the shotgun could have walked in and taken it. And several people did know. It would have been a simple matter to put it back afterward. I'm presently exploring who had the best opportunity.'
'Not Captain Wilton, I do hope?'
Rutledge answered reluctantly. 'Among others, yes.'
'The Palace will have a collective stroke if word of that leaks out. For God's sake, say nothing until you're absolutely sure!'
'Which is why I need more time,' Rutledge pointed out reasonably. 'Can we afford to make a mistake? Either way?'
'Very well. But keep me informed, will you? I've got people breathing down my neck. I can go out on a limb for you at the moment, but we'll need something soon or heads may start to roll. Mine among them!'
'Yes, I understand. I'll call you on Monday morning. At the latest.'
He waited, let the silence drag on, but Bowles had finished and cut the connection.
Rutledge hung up, unable to see the pleased smile at the other end of the line as Bowles replaced the receiver. The situation in Warwickshire, in Bowles's opinion, was progressing exactly as he had planned.
Still turning their conversation over in his mind, Rut- ledge told himself that the exchange had gone well enough. The Yard wanted answers, yes, but it was also prepared to accept his judgment in the field rather than forcing him into hasty decisions. A sign that nothing had been held back intentionally?
Badly needed encouragement, then, whether the Yard realized it or not-he should feel only a sense of relief.
But Hamish, who had a knack for cutting to the heart of Rutledge's moods, asked softly, 'Why hasn't he asked about Hickam, then?' Stopping by Warren's surgery as he walked toward the Inn, Rutledge asked the housekeeper for a report on Hickam.
'He's still alive, if that's any help. But he just lays there, for all the world a dead man. Do you want to know what I think?' She gave him a penetrating look. 'He's gone away, so far back into that mad war he came from that he can't find his way home again. While he's there on the bed, not moving, not seeing, not hearing, I keep wondering what's happening inside his head. Where we can't follow him.'
'God only knows,' Rutledge answered her, not wanting to think about it.
She frowned. 'Do you suppose he's afraid? I watched him on the street sometimes, and saw the anger in him, and the strangeness that unsettled everybody-well, of course it was unsettling, we didn't know what to do about it, whether to ignore him or shout at him or lock him up! But when he was sober I saw the fear too, and that worried me. I'd not like to think that wherever he's gone, he's taken the fear with him, as well as the horrors of the war. When he can't move, he can't run from it.'
Rutledge considered her. 'I don't know,' he told her honestly. 'You're probably the only person in the town who cares.'
'I've seen too much suffering in my life not to recognize it, even in a drunkard,' she said. 'And that man suffered. Whatever he did in the war, good or evil, he's paid for it every hour since. You'll remember that, won't you, when and if you can talk to him? I don't suppose you were in the war, but pity is something even a policeman ought
