anyone noticing his absence.
Rutledge considered first of all Mavers's cunning, and the distance from here to the meadow where Harris died.
The gun was a problem. If Mavers went to his house first, retrieved the shotgun, then went to the meadow, waited for Harris, shot him, put the gun back, and returned to Upper Streetham, he would need at the very least some ninety minutes, possibly even two hours.
Too long. He'd have been missed.
All right then, what if he'd taken the shotgun and left it somewhere along the hedge before coming down to the village? Harangued the crowds, disappeared, and after the killing, concealed the shotgun again in the high grass before returning to his post? A long hour? Could he have done it that quickly? It was a risk, a calculated risk, and Rutledge wasn't sure that Mavers was willing to run it. On the other hand, Mavers liked nothing better than thumbing his nose at his betters…
Rutledge nodded to the woman he'd seen earlier with Sally Davenant, his attention on Mavers's movements. And then he brought himself up sharply and caught up with her as she crossed the street in the direction of the greengrocer's. Touching her arm to attract her attention, he introduced himself and said, 'Were you in Upper Streetham last Monday morning? Did you by any chance hear the man Mavers speaking out here in the street?'
She was a pleasant-faced woman, dressed well and carrying a small basket nearly full of parcels. But she grimaced as Rutledge asked his question. 'You can't miss him during one of his tirades,' she said. 'More's the pity!'
'Could you tell me if he was there, by the market cross?'
'Yes, he was, as a matter of fact.'
'All the time? Part of the time?'
She frowned, considering, and then called to another woman just coming out of the ironmonger's shop. 'Eleanor, dear-'
Eleanor was in her fifties, with short iron gray hair and a look of competence about her. She came across to them, head to one side, her stride as brisk as her manner.
'Inspector Rutledge from London, Eleanor,' the first woman said. 'This is Eleanor Mobley, Inspector. She might be able to help you more than I can-I was here only very early that morning.'
Rutledge remembered the name Mobley from Forrest's list of witnesses. He repeated his questions, and Mrs. Mobley watched his face as she listened. 'Oh, yes, he was here by the market cross very early on. At least part of the time. He went down along the street there, closer to the shops and the Inn, for a while. Later I saw him near the turning to the church. But he came back to the cross, he usually does.' She gave him a wry smile. 'I was trying to line up tables for the Vicar's summer fete. A fund-raiser for the church. You know how it is, everyone promises to contribute something for the sale. All the same, you can't let it go at that, can you-you have to pin them down. Not my favorite task, but this year I'm on the committee, and market day brings most everyone into town, I just catch them as I can. I must have been up and down this street a dozen times or more.'
'He moved from place to place, but as far as you know, he didn't leave? To go to the pub, for instance, or step into the Inn?'
'Not as far as I know. But since I wasn't paying him much heed, I can't be certain that I'm right about that. He just seemed to be underfoot wherever I turned, putting people's backs up, spoiling a perfectly lovely morning.'
Someone passing by spoke to the other woman, calling her Mrs. Thornton. She acknowledged his greeting, adding, 'I'll be along directly, tell Judith for me, will you, Tom?'
Mrs. Mobley was saying to Rutledge, 'Is that any help at all?'
'Yes, very much so. What was on his mind that morning? Do you recall anything he might have been saying?'
Mrs. Mobley shook her head. 'He was running on about the Russians, you can usually depend on that. Something about the Czar and his family. I remember something about unemployment too, because I was thinking to myself that he was a lovely one to talk! The strikes in London.'
'You don't really listen, do you? He's not a very pleasant man at the best of times!' Mrs. Thornton put in. 'And riding his hobbyhorse, he's-repellent. As Helena Sommers put it, any good he might do is lost with every word that comes out of his mouth!'
'Was Miss Sommers here on Monday?'
'Yes, just around noon, I think it was, buying some lace for her cousin,' Mrs. Mobley said. 'I put her down for two cakes; I was glad to have them.'
Mrs. Thornton bit her lip, then said, 'You'll think it silly of me, but I don't feel it's safe for two women in a cottage in the middle of nowhere. Since the Colonel's death, I mean. Since we don't know- And Helena might as well be alone, her cousin is such a ninny! I went out there to call one afternoon, and Margaret was working in the garden. Well, that goose gave my horse such a fright, and she was absolutely too terrified even to drive the silly thing away with a broom!'
'I think they're probably safe enough,' Rutledge said, refusing to be drawn.
'If you say so.' Mrs. Thornton seemed unconvinced. 'Now, if there's nothing else, Inspector?'
He thanked them both and went back to the market cross, threading his way between a buggy and a wagon piled with lumber.
If Mavers had moved from place to place that Monday morning, and given some forethought to the shotgun, he might-just might-have killed Harris and gotten away with it… From the market cross, Rutledge made his way to the lane where Hickam had seen the Captain and the Colonel together. Where Sergeant Davies had found Hickam drunk and rambling about the two men.
He looked about the lane for several minutes, then walked to the first house and knocked on the door, asking questions.
Did you see Daniel Hickam in this lane on the Monday morning that Colonel Harris was shot? Did you see Captain Wilton in this lane, walking? Did you see the Colonel, on his horse, riding through here, stopping to talk to anyone? Did you see Bert Mavers anywhere in the lane, coming or going toward the main street?
The answer was the same at every house. No. No. No. And no.
But at one of the doors, the woman who answered raised her eyebrows at finding him on her doorstep. 'You're the man from London, then. What can I do for you?' She looked him up and down with cool eyes.
He didn't need to be told what she was, although she was respectably dressed in a dark blue gown that was very becoming to her dark hair and her sea-colored eyes. A tall woman of middle age and wide experience, who saw the world as it was, but more important, seemed to take it as it was.
Rutledge asked his questions, and she listened carefully to each before shaking her head. No, she hadn't seen Hickam. No, she'd not seen the Captain that morning, nor Mavers. But the Colonel had been here.
'Colonel Harris?' Rutledge asked, keeping his voice level as Hamish clamored excitedly. 'What brought him this way, do you know?'
'He came to leave a message by the door, knowing it was an early hour for Betsy and me, but he wanted to put our minds at rest about the quarrel we'd had with the Vicar.' Her mouth twisted, half in exasperation, half in humor. 'Mr. Carfield is often of a mind to meddle; he likes to be seen as a thunderbolt, you might say, flinging the moneylenders out of the temple, the whores out of the camp. Not that there's that much to go on about in Upper Streetham. It's not what you'd call a regular Sodom and Gomorrah.'
She caught the responsive gleam in Rutledge's eyes. 'The Colonel, now, he was a very decent man. We pay our rent, regular as the day, but Vicar had been onto that Mr. Jameson about us, and he called around, talking eviction. I could have told him who put him up to it! But there was no changing his mind. So the next time I saw the Colonel on the street, I stopped him and asked him please to have a word with Mr. Jameson about it.'
'Jameson?'
'Aye, he's the agent for old Mrs. Crichton, who lives in London, and he manages her holdings in Upper Streetham. Well, the short of it was, Mr. Jameson agreed he'd been a little hasty over the evicting.'
'Do you still have the message?'
She turned and called over her shoulder to someone else in the house. 'Betsy? Could you find that letter of the Colonel's for me, love?'
In a moment a thinner, smaller woman came to the door, apprehension in her eyes and a cream-colored
