was drunk. He often is, these days.'
'Even an habitual drunk has been known to tell the truth.' Rutledge added another line, then looked up. 'We can't discount what he says on those grounds alone.'
'No, sir. But there's more, you see. He's-well, he's shell- shocked, sir, doesn't know where he is half the time, thinks he's still at the Front, hears voices, that kind of thing. Lost his nerve on the Somme and went to pieces. Lack of moral fiber, that's what it was. It seems a shame for a fine man like the Captain to be under suspicion of murder on the evidence of an acknowledged coward like Daniel Hickam, doesn't it? It isn't right, sir, is it?'
But London had said nothing-Bowles had said nothing.
In the far corners of his mind, behind the spinning turmoil of his own thoughts, Rutledge could hear the wild, derisive echoes of Hamish's laughter.
2
Misunderstanding the horrified expression on Rut- ledge's face, Sergeant Davies nodded sympathetically. 'Aye,' he said, 'it's hard to swallow, I know. You were in the war, then? My youngest brother was in the Balkans, lost both arms. Took it like a man. Not a shred of weakness in Tommy!'
He began to fiddle with his cup as he went on, as if to distract himself from the rest of what he had to say. 'Of course we didn't know about Hickam at first, I just came across him that same morning, lying under a tree on the lane, sleeping one off. When I tried to wake him up and send him off home, he swore he was sober as a judge, and told me I could ask the Colonel and the Captain, they'd vouch for him. I thought he meant generally, you see.'
The cup spun out of his fingers, clattering against the sugar bowl and almost tipping over the cream pitcher. Davies caught it, returned it to his saucer, then plowed on, trying to conceal the sense of guilt that was still plaguing him. 'I didn't pay any heed to him at first, I was in a hurry to find Inspector Forrest and tell him about the murder, but Hickam's place was on my way back to Upper Streetham and he was in no shape to get there on his own. By the time I'd reached his house, listening to him ramble all the way, it was beginning to sound a bit different from what I'd first thought. So Inspector Forrest went to talk to him that afternoon and got a little straighter version, and we couldn't just shrug it off, could we? Right or wrong, we had to take note of it, didn't we?'
It was an appeal for forgiveness, an admission of responsibility for what had plunged Warwickshire and London into this present predicament. If he'd left well enough alone, if he hadn't bothered to stop in the first place, no one would ever have thought to question the likes of Hickam about the Colonel or the Captain. There would have been no reason, no need.
Rutledge, still fighting his own battle for control, managed to keep his voice level, but the words came out harsh and cold, apparently without any sympathy for the Sergeant's moral dilemma. 'What did Captain Wilton have to say about Hickam's story?'
'Well, nothing. That is, he says he wasn't in the lane that morning, he was walking in a different direction. He says he's seen Hickam from time to time in the mornings, reeling home or sleeping wherever he was or having one of his crazy spells, but not on that occasion.'
'Which doesn't mean that Hickam didn't see him'
Sergeant Davies was appalled. 'You're saying the Captain's lying, sir?'
'People do lie, Sergeant, even those who have earned the Victoria Cross. Besides, Hickam's description of what he saw is strangely complete, isn't it? The Captain holding the Colonel's bridle, the Captain's face turning red, the Captain stepping back with clenched fists. If it didn't happen that morning, if Hickam saw the two men together on another occasion, it could mean that their quarrel on the night before the murder had its roots in an earlier confrontation. That there was more animosity between the Colonel and his ward's fiance than we know at this point.'
Sergeant Davies was dubious. 'Even so, Hickam might have misread what he saw, there might have been a perfectly reasonable explanation. What if the two men were in agreement instead of quarreling? What if they'd been angry at someone else, or about something that neither of them liked?'
'Then why would Wilton deny that he'd met Harris in the lane? If this encounter did have some perfectly innocent explanation? No, I think you're on the wrong track there.'
'Well, what if Hickam confused what he saw with something that happened at the Front? He doesn't like officers- he might even have made mischief on purpose. You can't be really sure, can you? Hickam might be capable of anything!' The disgust in Davies' face was almost a tangible thing.
'I can't answer that until I've spoken to Hickam and the Captain.' Hamish's laughter had faded, he was able to think clearly again. But his heart was still pounding hard with the shock.
'Shall we start with them, then? Instead of Miss Wood?'
'No, I want to see the Colonel's house and his ward first.' The truth was, he wasn't prepared to face Hickam now. Not until he was certain he could do it without betraying himself.
Had anyone guessed in London? No, surely not! It was sheer coincidence, there were any number of shell- shocked veterans scattered across England… Rutledge got to his feet. 'My car is in the back. I'll meet you there in five minutes.' He nodded to Barton Redfern as he walked out of the dining room, and the young man watched the two policemen until they were out of sight, then listened to Rutledge's feet beating a quick tattoo up the carpeted stairs while the Sergeant's heavy leather heels clicked steadily down the stone passage leading to the Inn yard.
Upstairs in his room, Rutledge stood with his hands flat on the low windowsill, leaning on them and looking down into the busy street below. He was still shaken. Only a half dozen people knew about his condition, and the doctors had promised to say nothing to the Yard, to give him a year to put his life back together first. The question was, had Bowles kept silent about Hickam because he hadn't thought it was something that mattered? Or because he had known it was and might embarrass Rutledge?
No, that was impossible. It had been an oversight-or at most, Bowles had tried to make this murder investigation sound more attractive than it was. A kindness…? He remembered Bowles from before the war, good at his job, with a reputation for ruthless ambition and a cold detachment. Sergeant Fletcher, who'd died in the first gas attack on Ypres, used to claim that Bowles frightened the guilty into confessing.
'I've seen 'em! Shaking in their boots and more afraid of old Bowles than they were of the hangman! Nasty piece of work, I've never liked dealing with him. Mind you, he did his job fair and square, I'm not saying he didn't. But he wasn't above using any tool that came to hand…'
Not kindness, then, not from a man like Bowles.
Still, what London had done didn't matter now.
Because here in his own room, away from Davies' watchful eyes and Redfern's hovering, Rutledge was able to think more clearly and recognize a very tricky problem. What if Hickam turned out to be right?
If it should come to an arrest-so far there was not enough evidence to look that far ahead, but assuming there was-how could the Crown go into a court of law with a Daniel Hickam as its prime witness against a man wearing the ribbon of the Victoria Cross? It would be ludicrous, the defense would tear the case to shreds. Warwickshire would be screaming for the Yard's blood, and the Yard for his.
He had wanted an investigation complex enough to distract him from his own dilemmas. Well, now he seemed to have got his wish in spades. The question remained, was he ready for it? Were his skills too rusty to handle something as difficult as the Harris murder successfully? Worse still, was he too personally involved? If so, he should back out now. This instant. Call the Yard and ask for a replacement to be sent at once.
But that would require explanations, excuses-lies. Or the truth.
He straightened, turned from the window, and reached for his coat. If he quit now, he was finished. Professionally and emotionally. It wasn't a question of choice but of survival. He would do his best, it was all anyone could do, and if in the days to come that wasn't enough, he must find the courage to admit it. Until then he was going to have to learn exactly where he stood, what he was made of.
