an interest in this business-a professional interest, you could even call it.'
Rutledge studied him. 'You enjoy trouble, that's all.'
'The fact is, I like to think I can take some of the credit for the Colonel's death. That all those hours of standing in the market square speaking out against the landlords and capitalists-while those village fools reviled me-weren't wasted. Who knows, I might have put the idea into some mind, the first glimmer of the Rising to come, and the salvation of the masses from the tyranny of the few.' He cocked his head, considering the possibility. 'Aye, who knows? It might just have its roots in my words, the Colonel's killing!'
'Which makes you an accessory, I think?'
'But it won't stand up in a court of law, will it? I bid you a good day-but I hope you won't be having one!' He started to walk off, pleased with himself.
Rutledge stopped him. 'Mavers. You said something the other day. About your pension. Is that how you live? A pension?'
Mavers turned around. 'Aye. The wages of guilt, that's all it is.'
'And who pays you?'
The grin widened. 'That's for me to know and you to discover. If you can. You're the man from London, sent here to set us all straight.' There was a little dogcart standing in the road outside the Inn when Rutledge strode up the steps, and Redfern came to meet him in the hall, hastily wiping his hands on a towel. 'Miss Sommers, sir. I've put her in the back parlor. Second door beyond the stairs.'
'Has she been here long?'
'Not above half an hour, sir. I brought her tea when she said she'd wait awhile.'
Rutledge went down the passage to the small back parlor and opened the door.
It was a pleasant room, paneled walls and drapes faded to mellow rose at the long windows. There was a writing desk in one corner, several chairs covered in shades of rose and green, and a small tea cart on wheels.
Helena Sommers stood, back straight, at one of the windows, which overlooked a tiny herb garden busy with bees. She turned at the sound of someone at the door and said, 'Hallo. Maggie told me you wanted to see me. Strangers at the house make her uncomfortable, so I thought it best to come into town.'
Rutledge waited until she sat down in one of the chairs and then took another across from her.
'It's about Captain Wilton. The morning you saw him from the ridge. The morning of the murder.'
'Yes, of course.'
'What was he carrying?'
'Carrying?' She seemed perplexed.
'A rucksack. A stick. Anything.'
Helena frowned, thinking back. 'He had his walking stick. Well, he always does, and that morning was no different from the other times I've glimpsed him.'
'Nothing else. You're quite sure?'
'Should he have had something else?'
'We're trying to be thorough, that's all.'
She studied him. 'You're asking me, aren't you, if the Captain carried a shotgun. Has your investigation narrowed down to him? Why on earth would he kill Colonel Harris? The Captain was marrying the Colonel's ward!'
'Wilton was there, not a mile from the meadow, shortly before the murder. We have reason to think he wasn't on the best of terms with Colonel Harris that morning.'
'And so the Captain marched up the hill hoping to run into Charles Harris, carrying a shotgun through the town with him, in the unlikely event he'd have an opportunity to use it? That's absurd!'
Rutledge was very tired. Hamish was growling restlessly at the back of his mind again.
'Why is it absurd?' he snapped. 'Someone killed the Colonel, I assure you; we've got a body that's quite dead and quite clearly murdered.'
'Yes, I understand that,' she said gently, seeming to understand too his frustration. 'But why-necessarily-is the murderer someone in Upper Streetham? Colonel Harris served in a regiment on active duty. He was in France for five years, and we've no idea what went on in his life during the war- the people he met, the things that might have happened, the soldiers who died or were crippled because of his orders. If I wanted revenge-and expected to get away with it, of course!-I'd shoot the man on his home ground but not on mine. You can take a train to Warwick from anywhere in Britain, then walk to Upper Streetham.'
'Carrying a shotgun?'
She was momentarily at a loss, then rallied. 'No, certainly not. Not out in the open. But people do have things they carry without arousing suspicion. A workman with his kit of tools. Salesmen with sample cases. Whatever. And you don't wonder what's inside, do you, when you see someone carrying something that belongs with him. You assume, don't you, that it's all aboveboard?'
Rutledge nodded grudgingly. She was right.
'I'm not suggesting that it happened this way. I'm merely pointing out that Mark Wilton needed a very powerful reason to kill his fiancee's guardian, practically on the eve of their wedding.
And he had heard Lettice, only hours ago, putting off the marriage. Because she was in mourning.
It made sense, what Helena Sommers had said. And it gave him a very sound excuse for ignoring Hickam's statement. But her argument also left him with the whole of England to choose from, and nothing to go on in the way of motive or evidence. Bowles would not be happy over that!
Helena seemed to appreciate his dilemma. She said ruefully, 'I'm sorry. I have no business interjecting my views. I'm an outsider here, I don't know any of these people very well. But I have met them, and I'd hate to think one of them is a murderer. 'Not someone I know, surely!' You must have heard that often enough!'
He had. But he answered, 'I suppose it's human nature.'
As the clock in the other parlor began to chime the hour, she got up quickly. 'I've been away longer than I intended. Maggie will be wondering what's become of me. I must go.' Hesitating she added, 'I've never been to war, of course, and I know nothing about it except what one reads in the news accounts. But Colonel Harris must have had to do many things as an officer that he as a man wouldn't care to talk about-was ashamed of, even. When you find his murderer, you may discover that his death has its roots in the war. Not in the affairs of anyone we know.'
The war.
But if she was right, the war also brought him full circle to Mark Wilton, who had known Harris in France.
Or to Catherine Tarrant…
When he'd seen Helena to the dogcart and watched the Haldane pony trot off down the main street, Rutledge went back to the station to rout out Sergeant Davies. He sent him off to Warwick to find out, if he could, about anyone who had arrived there by train shortly before the murder and come on to Upper Streetham.
A wild-goose chase, Sergeant Davies thought sourly as he set out. He knew his own ground, and there hadn't been any unexplained strangers in Upper Streetham or even in Lower Streetham for that matter-before, during, or after the killing. Except for that dead lorry driver who'd been accounted for. There were always eyes to see, ears to hear, if anyone passed through. And news of it reached him, directly or indirectly, within a matter of hours. Strangers stood out, nobody liked them, and word was passed on. But going to Warwick, waste of time though it was, kept him out of the Inspector's clutches, and that counted for something. As he was finishing his dinner, Rutledge looked up to see Mark Wilton standing out in the hall of the Inn. The Captain saw him at the same time and crossed the dining room to Rutledge's table.
'I've come to speak to you about the Inquest. And the release of the body.'
'I was just on my way out to see Dr. Warren. But that can wait. Can I offer you a drink in the bar?'
'Thanks.'
They went through to the public bar, which was half empty, and found a table in one corner.
Rutledge ordered two whiskeys and sat down. 'The Inquest will be at ten o'clock. I don't expect it will last more than half an hour. After that, you can speak to the undertakers.'
'Have you seen the body?' Wilton asked curiously.
'Three days after death, I didn't expect it to tell me very much. I wasn't there to see it in place, which is what counts.'
