thread of milk drained out of her mouth on the sheet under her head, and her eyes stared at the wall with no recognition of what she was seeing.
'Speak to her,' he said over his shoulder to Meg. She came to the bed, calling her daughter's name, half cajoling, half commanding, but Lizzie never stirred. Rutledge reached out and touched Lizzie on the arm, without any reaction at all.
Meg's voice dwindled, and she bit her lip against the tears. 'I'd never thought,' she said softly, as if Lizzie could hear her, 'that she might have been there. Poor little mite- poor thing!' She turned away, and Agnes took her in her arms.
Rutledge went around to the other side of the crib, between the child and the wall. He stooped to bring his face more in line with her eyes, and said, with a firmness that he'd learned in dealing with children, 'Lizzie! Look at me.'
He thought there was a flicker of life in the staring eyes, and he said it again, louder and more peremptorily. Agnes cried out, telling him to mind what he was doing, but Rut- ledge ignored her. 'Lizzie! I've found your doll. The doll you lost in the meadow. See?'
He held it out, close enough for her to see it. For an instant he thought that she wasn't going to respond. Then her face began to work, her mouth gulping at air. She screamed, turning quickly toward the door, her eyes on the Sergeant, then on Wilton beyond. It was a wild scream, terrified and wordless, rising and falling in pitch like a banshee's wail. Deafening in its power from such a small pair of lungs. Curdling the blood, numbing the mind. Agnes and Meg ran toward her, but with a gesture Rutledge held them back. But the screaming stopped as quickly as it had started. Lizzie reached out and Rutledge put the doll in her open arms. She clasped it to her with a force that surprised him, her eyes closing as she rocked gently from side to side. After a time one hand let go of the doll and a thumb found its way to her mouth. Sucking noisily, she clutched the doll and began a singsong moan under her breath.
Agnes, watching her, said, 'She does that when she's falling to sleep-'
There was the sound of a voice, then the front door slamming. A man's voice called, 'Meg, honey-I saw the car. Who's come? Is it that doctor Warren was going on about?'
Lizzie opened her eyes, wide and staring, and began to scream again, turning her back to the doorway. The sound ripped through the silence in the small room, ripped at the nerves of the people standing there. Meg ran out of the room, and Rutledge could hear her speaking to her husband, leading him away from Lizzie, then the slamming of the front door.
After a time, Lizzie stopped screaming and began to suck her thumb again, the doll held like a lifeline in her other hand. After a minute or so the singsong moaning began as well. The child's eyes began to drift shut. A deep breath lifted her small chest, and then she seemed to settle into sleep. Or was it unconsciousness?
'That's the first time she's rested.' Agnes stood watching for a time, then shook her head slowly, grieving. 'She adored her father-it's cut him to the heart to have her like this, carrying on so when he comes into the house, not wanting him near her.'
Rutledge studied the child. 'Yes, I think she really is asleep,' he said, gesturing to the Sergeant and Agnes to leave. 'Let her keep the doll. But I'll need it. Later.'
He followed them out of the room, and saw Wilton's white face beyond the Sergeant's stolid red one. The screams had unnerved Davies, but Rutledge thought that it was the doll, and the child's reaction, that had worried Wilton more.
Agnes said, her voice shaking, 'What's to be done, then? If she saw the man, what's to be done?'
'I don't know,' Rutledge told her honestly. 'I don't know.'
Out by the car, a horse was standing, reins down. In the middle of the yard, Meg was holding her husband in her arms. As they came out of his house, he stared over her head at them, raw pain in his eyes.
'I want to know what's going on,' he said, 'what's happening to Lizzie.'
'She-your daughter was possibly a witness to Colonel Harris's murder,' Rutledge said. There was no easy way to break the news. 'She may have seen him shot. I found her doll in the meadow there. Captain Wilton'-he gestured toward Mark-'saw Lizzie that morning as well. Crying for the doll. I'm not sure yet how all of this fits together, but that child is frightened to death of you. Can you think of any reason why?'
Ted shook his head vehemently. 'I've nothing to do with it. She was like that when I came home Monday from the stables for lunch. Meg found her wandering lost like, and brought her home. She didn't speak, she wasn't herself. Meg- gie put her to bed, and she's-it's been like that ever since.' His voice was husky with feeling. 'Are you sure about this? I'd not like to think of her there in that meadow with a murderer. Or a man killed. She's never had a harsh word spoken to her in her life, she's been a quiet, cheerful, good little thing-' He stopped, turned away.
The horse he'd been riding ambled over and nudged his shoulder. Ted reached up to its muzzle without thinking, stroking the soft nose. Rutledge watched him.
'Does your daughter like horses?'
'Horses? Aye, she's been around them most of her life. Not to ride, but I've let her sit on their backs, held her in front of me. Let her touch them. She likes to touch their coats, smooth it, like. Always has.'
Rutledge gestured to Davies and Wilton to get into the car. 'If you want my advice, send for Dr. Warren and let him take another look at her. And stay away from her for a few days, Pinter, if you can. There's a chance that she can sleep now. It ought to help. When she wakes up, if she's at all capable of talking, send for me. Do you understand? It could be very important! For your sake and for hers.'
Ted nodded, his wife and mother-in-law watchful, wary. But Rutledge, looking at them, thought they'd do it. 'Stay away from her, mind!' he added. 'Let her heal, if she can.'
Agnes said, 'I'll see to it. For now.'
'I've seen men suffer like that. In the war,' he added. 'Shock can do that. If that's what's wrong with her. But don't let her be frightened, don't let her scream. That means she's remembering. Keep her warm and quiet and at peace. Let her sleep. That's the main thing now.'
He turned toward the car. Hamish, silent throughout the half hour in the house, said, 'You ought to know about sleep. It's the only time you're safe…' The drive back to Upper Streetham was quiet, only the sound of the tires along the road, and once a dog barking furiously as they passed. When they reached the Inn, Wilton said only, 'God, I'm tired! It's been a damned long day.'
Sergeant Davies got out stiffly and said, 'I'd best say something to Inspector Forrest about this. Unless you'd rather speak to him yourself, sir?'
It was the last thing Rutledge wanted to do. He said, 'No, that's all right, I'll see him tomorrow. There's not much more we can do tonight anyway.'
Davies nodded to Wilton and said, 'Until tomorrow, then, sir,' to Rutledge, before marching off down the street toward his own house.
Wilton waited, making no move to get out of the car, but Rutledge said nothing, leaving him to break the silence. In the end he did.
'Does the child damn me? Or clear me?'
Aware of the envelope in his pocket, Rutledge said only, 'I don't know. Do you?'
'I didn't kill him, Inspector,' Wilton said quietly. 'And I don't know who did.' He got out, closed the car door behind him, and walked away, his limp more pronounced than usual, a measure of the tension in him.
Rutledge sighed. A child, a doll, a drunkard. The evidence was still slim. But the letter from Harris to Mrs. Grayson was something else. It could very well send the handsome Captain to the gallows.
15
That night Rutledge lay in his bed, listening to the street noises dwindle into silence, then the sound of the church bell marking the passage of time. He couldn't get Lizzie out of his mind. She was terrified. But of what? The roar of a shotgun? The bloody death of a man? Of a killer she'd seen-and somehow recognized? Then why hadn't she screamed in terror at sight of Mark Wilton? Her father, not the Captain, frightened her most. Why? He wrestled with the puzzle for an hour or more and came no closer to an answer. Bowles. He was supposed to call London on
