why not her? What the War Office did is anybody's guess. Some ignorant fool sitting at a cluttered desk in Whitehall might have felt it his personal duty to prevent any relationship between prisoners and the home population, whatever the Colonel said about it. Bad for morale and all that. And come to that, it wouldn't have mattered; the war was nearly over, and if he'd lived, Linden could have spoken for himself. Who could have guessed that Linden would die of influenza. Still, it decimated the country, for God's sake, no one was immune.'
'But because he was sent from here, he died alone, and no one told Catherine. Not until long afterward.'
Wilton laughed harshly. 'In war you can't keep up with every poor sod you send out to die. I was a squadron leader, I knew the hell of that. A man's blown to bits in a trench, shot down in flames, chokes on gas and lies rotting in the mud. You do your best, you write letters about his bravery, how much he'd done for his country, how much his comrades looked to him for an example-and you don't even recall his name, much less his face! Linden took his chances, like any soldier. At least she knows what became of him, where he's buried!'
Rutledge watched his face, remembering how Catherine Tarrant had looked when she spoke of searching for Linden. And remembering what Sally Davenant had said about Wilton's love of flying changing to agony in the heat of battle and death and fear.
'That's cold comfort to a grieving, passionate woman.'
'Is it? After all the killing, I came home to a hero's welcome. Safe and whole. Invited to the Palace and to Sandring- ham. Treated like royalty, myself. But I was there in a hospital in Dorset when they brought in a man they'd found wandering in France. Didn't even know who he was, whether he was British or German-a shell of a man, starving and begging on the roadside for a year or more, more animal than human, worse than Hickam, and I looked at him, and thought, I used to have nightmares about burning to death in a crash, but there are worse things than that! Worse than being blind or without a limb, lungs seared with gas, face shot away, guts rotted. Coming home safe-and not knowing it's over- that's the bleakest hell I'm capable of picturing!'
Rutledge felt the blood run cold in his body. Wilton nodded and walked away, unaware of what he'd done.
In the dark recesses of his mind he heard Hamish laughing, and finished his whiskey at a gulp. It burned going down, almost bringing tears to his eyes as he fought to keep from choking. Or were the tears for himself?
Think of anything, he commanded himself roughly. Anything but that! His mind roiled with emotion, then settled into the dull pain of grief and despair. Think, man, for God's sake!
What was it they'd been talking about? No, who? Catherine Tarrant.
What to do about Catherine Tarrant, then, how to find a key to her? Waving Redfern away and getting to his feet, the whiskey still searing his throat, he walked out of the bar.
The person to answer that question was another woman. Sally Davenant.
11
The next morning just before the Inquest Rutledge had an opportunity to ask Inspector Forrest if he knew the source of Mavers's pension. But Forrest shook his head.
'I didn't know he had one. But that explains why he's never had to lift his hand to a stroke of work if he didn't feel like it. His father served the Davenants. Ask Mrs. Davenant if she knows anything about it.'
The Inquest, held in one of the Inn's parlors, was crowded with a cross-section of spectators who settled in early for the best seats and waited with patient expectation for something interesting to happen. They quietly took note of who was- and was not-present, and wondered aloud how the man from London would present his findings, and more importantly, what they would be. No one knew anything about an arrest-never a good sign-but rumor claimed that Sergeant Davies had spent most of the night in Warwick, and this could mean that the killer hadn't been an Upper Streetham man after all. More than a few had pinned their hopes on Bert Mav- ers. Such expectations were destined for disappointment.
The Coroner's Court progressed with smooth timeliness, from the finding of the body to the request for an adjournment while the police pursued their inquiries. Half an hour, and it was finished. The coroner, an elderly man from Warwick, agreed to the police request, stood up with decision, and said, 'That's it, then,' before nodding to Forrest and walking out to find his carriage. A murmur of dissatisfaction trailed him like ghostly robes as he went.
Sergeant Davies had returned from Warwick around six o'clock that morning, since he had to give evidence about finding the Colonel's body. It had been a long night, he was tired and irritable, and his trip had been for nothing.
'There's no reason to believe the killer came on the trains,' he said. 'All strangers are accounted for, and there aren't any reports of stragglers along the road from Warwick. That's not to say someone couldn't have come from another direction, but I'd give you any odds you like that he didn't arrive from Warwick.'
Which was more or less what Rutledge had expected. He thanked the Sergeant and then hurried to catch up with Sally Davenant, who was walking along with another woman, dark haired and neatly dressed in gray. They parted just as Rutledge reached them, and Sally turned to him, smiling politely.
'Good morning, Inspector.'
It was a beautiful morning, the sky that particular shade of blue that comes only in June. The air was scented with roses, wild in the hedgerows and blooming in gardens, birds everywhere, children laughing. Not a day to consider the ramifications of a man's death.
'I'd like to speak with you,' he said. 'May I offer you a cup of tea?'
'Yes, I'd like one, after that ordeal.' She turned to walk with him back toward the Shepherd's Crook. 'I only came for Mark's sake. I'm glad you didn't require Lettice's presence. Mark says she's had a very rough time.'
Refusing to be drawn, Rutledge said, 'I wanted to ask you about Mavers. About a pension he may have received from your husband. Or rather, a pension that might have been left to his father, as the shotgun was.'
Sally frowned. 'I don't know anything about a pension, Inspector. Hugh had a very high regard for the man's father- he was dependable, honest, and knew his job. Quite different from his son. In every respect. I can tell you, Hugh had no such regard for the Mavers you've met.'
'Yet he left him a shotgun.'
'He left it to the father, and no one ever thought to change that article in the Will. When the Will was read, I made no objection to letting the shotgun go to the son because it was easier at the time than trying to fight over it. I had many problems with my husband, Inspector. He was a man who could charm anyone, but he wasn't easy to live with. That doesn't mean I didn't love him-I did. But his death was a difficult time for me. Emotionally. I was torn between grief and relief, to be honest. And the problem of dealing with someone like Mavers was beyond me. I'd never have heard the end of it anyway, whatever the lawyers promised, and I wasn't going to put up with a lifelong vendetta, as Charles did. How that man endured the endless bickering and trouble I'll never know! Probably because he was never here long enough to be driven crazy. But I was, you see.'
When they were seated in the dining room, where Redfern was trying to keep up with the demand for refreshment, Rut- ledge ordered tea, then said to Mrs. Davenant, 'What can you tell me about Catherine Tarrant?'
Her surprise showed in her face. 'Catherine? Whatever does she have to do with Charles's death?'
'I don't know. I'd like a woman's opinion of her.'
Sally Davenant laughed wryly. 'Ah yes, the men flock to her defense, don't they? I don't know why. Not that they shouldn't, you understand!' she added quickly. 'It's just that men and women see things quite differently.'
Which still told him very little about Catherine.
When the tea things had been set before them, and Sally had poured, Rutledge tried again. 'Did you know the German? Linden?'
'As a matter of fact, I did. He worked on her land, and several times when I went to call he came around to take my horse. Tall, fair, quite strong.' She hesitated, then added, 'He was a little like Mark, you know. I don't know quite how to put my finger on the likeness. I'd never have mistaken one for the other. But a fleeting resemblance- something you felt rather than saw?'
Rutledge said nothing, reaching for one of the little cakes on a gold-rimmed china plate. They were amazingly
