envelope in her hand. She handed it silently to the older woman. 'Is everything all right, Georgie?'
'Yes, yes, the Inspector is asking about the Colonel, that's all.' She gave the envelope to Rutledge, adding, 'He never came here-as a caller. He was a proper gentleman, the Colonel, but fair. Always fair. If you'd asked me, I'd have said I knew most of the men in Upper Streetham better than their own wives, and I can't think of one who'd want to shoot Colonel Harris!'
There were two words on the front: Mrs. Grayson.
'That's me, Georgina Grayson.'
Rutledge took the letter out of its envelope, saw the Colonel's name engraved at the top, and the date, written in a bold black hand. Monday. He scanned it. It said, simply, 'I've spoken to Jameson. You needn't worry, he's agreed to take care of the matter with Carfield. If there should be any other trouble, let me know of it.' It was signed 'Harris.'
'Could I keep this?' he asked, speaking to Mrs. Grayson.
'I'd like it back,' she said. 'But yes, if it'll help.'
Turning to Betsy, Rutledge went over the same questions he'd asked earlier, but she'd seen no one, not Mavers-'He knows better than to show his face around here!'-not Hickam, not Harris, not Wilton-'More's the pity!' with a saucy grin. 'But,' she added, a sudden touch of venom in her voice, 'I did see Miss Hoity-toity just the other day, Thursday it was, following after that poor sot, Daniel Hickam. He'd spent the night on the floor here, too drunk to find his way home, and we got a little food into him, then let him go. She was onto him like a bee onto the honey, slinking after him into the high grass toward the trees.' She pointed, as if they had only just disappeared from sight, down toward the track that eventually led up the hill to Mallows.
The one called Georgie smiled wryly at Rutledge. 'Catherine Tarrant.'
'What did she want with Hickam?' Rutledge asked. Thursday was the day she'd come into town to speak to him about Captain Wilton.
Betsy shrugged. 'How should I know? Maybe to pose for her-she asked Georgie to do it once, and Georgie told her sharpish what she thought about that! But it was him she did want! She caught up with him where she didn't think I could see, and stopped him, talking to him, and him shaking his head, over and over. Then she took something from her pocket and held it out to him-money enough to get drunk again, I'll wager! He turned away from her, but after only a few steps turned back and began speaking to her. She interrupted him a time or two, and then she gave him whatever it was she was holding, and he shambled off into the trees. She walked back down to where she'd left her bicycle, head high as you please, like the cat that got the cream, and then she was gone. She's a German lover, that one. Maybe she's got a taste for drunks as well!'
The eyes of hate and jealousy…
Mrs. Grayson said, 'Now, then, Betsy, it won't help the Inspector to do his job if you run on like that. Miss Tarrant's business is none of ours!'
He left them, the letter in his pocket, his mind on what it represented-the fact that the Colonel had been in the lane on Monday morning, just when Hickam had said he was. And Catherine Tarrant had given Hickam money… When Rutledge arrived at the Inn, Wilton and Sergeant Davies were waiting. There was a distinctly sulfurous air about them, as if it hadn't been a pleasant afternoon for either of them. But Sergeant Davies got to his feet as soon as he saw Rutledge, and said, 'We think we've found the child, sir.'
Turning to Wilton, Rutledge said, 'What does he mean? Aren't you sure?'
Wilton's temper flashed. 'As far as I can be! She's-differ- ent. But yes, I feel she must be the one. None of the others matched as well. The problem is-'
Rutledge cut him short. 'I'll only be a minute, then.' He went up to his room, got the doll, and came down again, saying, 'Let's be on our way!'
'Back there?' Wilton asked, and the Sergeant looked mutinous.
'Back there,' Rutledge said, walking down the rear hallway toward his car. He gave them no choice but to follow. 'I want to see this child for myself.'
He said nothing about Georgina Grayson as he drove to the cottage. While it was, as the crow flies, only a little farther from Upper Streetham than the meadow where the Colonel's body had been found, it was necessary to go out the main road by Mallows, through the Haldanes' estate, and up the hill, the last hundred yards on rutted road that nearly scraped the underpinnings of the car.
On the way, he asked instead for information about the child's family.
'She's Agnes Farrell's granddaughter,' Davies answered. 'Mrs. Davenant's maid.'
'The one we met at her house on Thursday morning?'
'No sir, that was Grace. Agnes was home with the child. Lizzie's mother is Agnes's daughter, and the father is Ted Pinter, one of the grooms at the Haldanes'. They live in a cottage just over the crest of the hill from where the Captain says he was walking when he saw Lizzie and Miss Sommers that Monday morning. When Meg Pinter is busy, the little girl sometimes wanders about on her own, picking wildflowers. But she's quite ill, now, sir. Like to die, Agnes says.'
Rutledge swore under his breath. When one door opened, another seemed to close. 'What's the matter with her?'
'That's just it, sir, Dr. Warren doesn't know. Her mind's gone, like. And she screams if Ted comes near her. Screams in the night too. Won't eat, won't sleep. It's a sad case.'
The car bumped to a stop in front of the cottage, a neatly kept house with a vegetable garden in the back, flowers in narrow beds, and a pen with chickens. A large white cat sat washing herself on the flagstone steps leading to the door, ignoring them as they walked by.
Agnes Farrell opened the door to them. He could see the lines of fatigue in her face, the worry in her eyes, the premature aging of fear. But she said briskly, 'Sergeant, I told you once and I'll tell you again, I'll not have that child worried!'
'This is Inspector Rutledge, from London, Agnes. He needs to have a look at Lizzie. It won't be above a minute, I promise it won't,' he cajoled. 'And then we'll be on our way.'
Agnes looked Rutledge over, her eyes weighing him as carefully-but in a different manner-as Georgina Gray- son's had done. 'What's a policeman from London want with the likes of Lizzie?' she demanded.
'I don't know,' Rutledge said. 'But I believe I've found the child's doll. It was in the hedge near the meadow where Colonel Harris was killed. Captain Wilton here says he met her on his walk that morning, and she was crying for the doll. I'd like to return it, if I could.' He held out the doll, and Agnes nodded in surprise. 'Aye, that's the one, all right! Whatever was she doing in the meadow?'
'Looking for Ted, no doubt.' Meg Pinter came forward and touched the doll. Her face was drawn with lack of sleep and a very deep fear for her child. 'She goes out to pick flowers, and that's all right, she comes to no harm. But once or twice she's gone looking for her father because he lets her sit on one of the horses in the stables, if the Haldanes aren't about.'
Rutledge said, 'Do you think she was in the meadow that morning? When the Colonel was killed?'
'Oh God!' Meg exclaimed, turning to stare at her mother. 'I'd never even thought-' Agnes's face twisted in pain, and she shook her head.
'She might have seen something,' he added, as gently as he could. 'But I'd like to have a look at her, give her the doll.'
'No, I'll take it!' Meg said quickly, tears in her eyes, but he refused to part with it.
'I found it. I'll return it.'
The two women, uncertain what to do, turned to the Sergeant, but he shook his head, denying any responsibility. In the end, they led Rutledge through the neat house to the small room with its silent crib.
Lizzie lay as quietly as a carved child, covers tidily drawn over her body, her face turned toward the wall. It was a bright room, very pleasant with a lamp and a stool and a small doll's bed in one corner, handmade and rather nicely carved with flowers in the headboard. It was very much like the crib, and empty. Even from the door he could see how the little girl's face had lost flesh, the body bony under the pink coverlet. There had been so many refugee children in France with bones showing and dark, haunted eyes, frightened and cold and hungry. They had haunted him too.
Rutledge walked slowly toward the child. Wilton stayed outside the door, but the Sergeant and the two women followed him inside.
'Lizzie?' he said softly. But she made no response, as if she hadn't heard him. As if she heard nothing. A thin
