Davies paused as the swift pen raced across the ruled page, allowing Rutledge a moment to catch up before continuing. 'Mr. Royston sent for Inspector Forrest first thing, but he'd gone looking for the Barlowe child, who'd gotten herself lost. By the time I got the message and reached the scene, the ground was well trampled by stable lads and farmhands, all come to stare. So we aren't sure he was shot just there. But it couldn't have happened more than a matter of yards from where we found him.'
'And no indication of who might have done it?'
The Sergeant shifted uneasily in his chair, his eyes straying to the squares of pale sunlight that dappled the polished floor as the last of the rain clouds thinned. 'As to that, you must know that Captain Wilton-that's the Captain Mark Wilton who won the VC-quarreled with the Colonel the night before, shortly after dinner. He's to marry the Colonel's ward, you see, and some sort of misunderstanding arose over the wedding, or so the servants claim. In the middle of the quarrel, the Captain stalked out of the house in a temper, and was heard to say he'd see the Colonel in hell, first. The Colonel threw his brandy glass at the door just as the Captain slammed it, and shouted that that could be arranged.'
This was certainly a more colorful version of the bald facts that Rutledge had been given in London. Breakfast forgotten, he continued to write, his mind leaping ahead of Davies' steady voice. 'What does the ward have to say?'
'Miss Wood's in her room, under the doctor's care, seeing no one. Not even her fiance. The Captain is staying with Mrs. Davenant. She's a second cousin on his mother's side. Inspector Forrest tried to question him, and he said he wasn't one to go around shooting people, no matter what he might have done in the war.'
Rutledge put down his pen and finished his toast, then reached for his teacup. He didn't have to ask what the Captain had done in the war. His photograph had been in all the papers when he was decorated by the King-the Captain had not managed to bring down the Red Baron, but he seemed to have shot down every other German pilot whose path he had crossed in the skies above France. Rutledge had watched a vicious dogfight high in the clouds above his trench one July afternoon and had been told later who the English pilot was. If it was true, then Wilton was nothing short of a gifted flier.
Colonel Harris had been a relatively young man for his rank, serving in the Boer War as well as the Great War and making a name for himself as a skilled infantry tactician. Rutledge had actually met him once-a tall, vigorous, compassionate officer who had known how to handle tired, frightened men asked once too often to do the impossible.
Without warning, Hamish laughed harshly. 'Aye, he knew how to stir men. There were those of us who'd have blown his head off there and then if we'd had the chance, after that third assault. It was suicide, and he knew it, and he sent us anyway. I can't say I'm sorry he's got his. Late is better than never.'
Rutledge choked as his tea went down the wrong way. He knew-dear God, he knew!-that Hamish couldn't be heard by anyone else, and yet sometimes the voice was so clear he expected everyone around him to be staring at him in shock.
He waved Davies back to his chair as the Sergeant made to rise and slap him on his back. Still coughing, he managed to ask, 'That's all you've done?'
'Yes, sir, then we were told to leave everything for the Yard and so we did just that.'
'What about the shotgun? Have you at least checked on that?'
'The Captain says he used the weapons at the Colonel's house, if he wanted to go shooting. But none of them has been fired recently. We asked Mrs. Davenant if she had any guns, and she said she sold her late husband's Italian shotguns before the war.' The Sergeant glanced over his shoulder, and Barton Redfern came across the parlor to refill his cup. When the young man had limped away again, the Sergeant added tentatively, 'Because of that quarrel, of course, it looks as if the Captain might be the guilty party, but I've learned in this business that looks are deceiving.'
Rutledge nodded. 'And the murder was three days ago. After last night's rain, there'll be nothing to find in the meadow or anywhere else along the route the Colonel might have taken on his ride. Right, then, do you have a list of people to talk to? Besides the ward-Miss Wood-and Wilton. And this Mrs. Davenant.'
'As to that, there aren't all that many. The servants and the lads who found the body. Laurence Royston. Miss Tar- rant, of course-she was the lady that Captain Wilton had courted before the war, but she turned him down then and doesn't seem to mind that he's marrying Miss Wood now. Still, you never know, do you? She might be willing to throw a little light on how the two men got on together. And there's Mr. Haldane-he's the Squire's son. He was one of Miss Wood's suitors, as was the Vicar.'
Davies grinned suddenly, a wholly unprofessional glint in his eyes. 'Some say Mr. Carfield took holy orders because he saw the war coming, but actually had his heart set on the theater. He does preach a better sermon than old Reverend Mott did, I'll say that for him. We all learned more about the Apostle Paul under Mr. Mott than any of us ever cared to know, and I must admit Mr. Carfield's a welcomed change!' He recollected himself and went on more soberly, 'The two Sommers ladies are new to the district and don't go about much. I doubt if they'd be helpful, except that they live near where the body was found and might have seen or heard something of use to us.'
Rutledge nodded as Redfern returned with a fresh pot of tea, waiting until his cup had been filled before he commented, 'Miss Wood seems to have been very popular.'
'She's a very-attractive-young lady,' Davies answered, hesitating over the word as if not certain that it was appropriate. 'Then of course there's Mavers. He's a local man, a rabble-rouser by nature, always putting his nose in where it doesn't belong, stirring things up, making trouble for the sake of trouble. If anything untoward happens in Upper Streetham, the first person you think of is Mavers.'
'That's not a likely motive for shooting Harris, in itself.'
'In Mavers's case, it is. He's been annoying the Colonel since long before the war, nothing we've ever been able to prove, you understand, but there've been fires and dead livestock and the like, vindictive acts all of them. The last time, when one of the dogs was poisoned, the Colonel threatened to have Mavers committed if it happened again. He's got a very sound alibi-Inspector Forrest talked to him straightaway. All the same, I'd not put murder past him.'
Rutledge heard the hope in Davies' voice, but said only, 'I'll keep that in mind. All right, then, if that' s the lot, we'll start with Miss Wood. She may be able to give us a better picture of this quarrel, what it was about and whether it might have had anything to do with her guardian's death. I'll want you there. Inspector Forrest can spare you?' He capped his pen, stowed the notebook in his pocket, and reached for his cup.
Davies looked stunned. 'You didn't bring a Sergeant with you, then?'
'We're shorthanded at the Yard at the moment. You'll do.'
'But-,' Davies began, panic sweeping through him. Then he thought better of what he had been on the verge of saying. The man to speak to was Forrest, not this gaunt- faced stranger from London with his clipped voice and bleak eyes.
Then he bethought himself of the one fact he'd avoided so far, the one bit of evidence no one wanted to accept. He had been told to wait until Rutledge brought it up, but the man hadn't mentioned it. Because he discounted it? That would be too much to hope for! More than likely, the Inspector intended to rub the Sergeant's nose in it, now that he had his chance. But Davies knew it had to be dragged into the open, like it or not. You couldn't just ignore it, pretend it didn't exist He cleared his throat. 'There's more, sir, though I don't know what it's worth. Surely they told you in London?' Staring at Rutledge, waiting for some indication that the man knew, that he didn't need to go into embarrassing detail, Sergeant Davies read only impatience in the face before him as the Inspector folded his napkin and laid it neatly beside his plate.
'A possible witness, sir. He claims he saw the Colonel on Monday morning.' No, the man didn't know; it was hard to believe, but for some reason he hadn't been told! Davies hurried on. 'In the lane that cuts between Seven Brothers Field and the orchard. And he saw Captain Wilton standing there beside the horse, holding on to the bridle and talking to the Colonel, who was shaking his head as if he didn't like what he was hearing. This must have been about seven-thirty, maybe even a quarter to eight. Then the Captain suddenly stepped back, his face very red, and the Colonel rode off, leaving the Captain standing there with his fists clenched.'
Rutledge silently cursed London for ineptitude. He pulled out his notebook again and asked curtly, 'How far is this place from where the Colonel was found dead? And why didn't you mention this witness sooner?'
The Sergeant's face flushed. 'As to how far, sir, it's at most two miles east of the meadow,' he answered stiffly. 'And I was sure they'd have told you in London-You see, the problem is that the witness is unreliable, sir. He
