distance. A man stood halfway between, looking over his shoulder, a smile on his face. It was somehow the most desolate painting that Rutledge had ever seen. He'd expected turbulence, a denial, a fierce struggle between love and loss, something dramatic with grief. But instead she'd captured annihilation, an emptiness so complete that it echoed with anguish.
He knew that anguish. And suddenly he was convinced that Lettice Wood knew it also. That that was what he'd responded to in her.
Catherine was watching his face, unable to hear Hamish but seeing the flicker of fear and recognition and a deep stirring of response, while Hamish-Hamish wept.
'It's never been shown-' It was all he could manage to say into the silence.
'No,' she answered with certainty. 'And never will be.' A maid brought in the tea, and Catherine quickly covered the painting, putting it carefully back into its vault, like a mausoleum for her love. Turning back to pour a cup for Rutledge and then for herself, she said unsteadily, 'You've been there, haven't you?' He nodded. 'The war?' 'Yes. But she's still alive. Sometimes that's worse.' She put sugar into her tea and handed him the bowl. He helped himself, finding relief in the ordinary movements of his hands, then accepted the cream. 'Where were you going when you nearly ran me down?' she asked, finally sitting down, allowing him to do the same. It was an overt change of subject. She had closed the door between them again. 'Anywhere. Out of Upper Streetham.' 'Why?' He reached for one of the small, iced tea cakes as an excuse not to meet her eyes. 'To think.' 'What about?' 'Whether or not I have enough evidence to arrest Mark Wilton tomorrow morning. For Harris's murder.' He could hear her suck in her breath, but she didn't say anything. Looking up, he asked, 'Why did you track down Daniel Hickam? On the Thursday you spoke to me? No, don't bother to deny it! I have witnesses. You stopped him, talked to him, and then gave him money.' 'I felt sorry for him… Most people have forgotten that before the war he was a very good cabinetmaker. Better than his father ever was. He made the frames for my first paintings. And that easel. Now-he probably shakes too much to drive a nail straight, much less do finer work. I try to keep an eye on him.' 'No. You wanted to know what he'd said about Wilton. I don't know yet how you found out about Hickam. Possibly from Forrest.' He watched that guess go home. She wasn't as good at hiding her thoughts as Lettice Wood.
'Yes, all right. I was afraid for Mark. I still am. He wouldn't have killed Charles! You come in here from London, asking questions, making assumptions. You judge people even though you know very well they're under a great deal of stress. But it isn't the same as getting under the skin, is it? You can't do that, you can't know them. Not in a few days' time. You haven't got that skill!'
He'd had it. Once. Refusing to be sidetracked, Rutledge said only, 'He had means. Opportunity. Motive. It's all there now. Out into the open.'
'Then why are you telling me this? If you know so much!' She cocked her head to one side, considering him. 'Why were you driving out on the Warwick road when you had all the evidence you need? Why are you involving me?'
'Because I wanted to know what you would say when you heard.'
She set down her teacup. 'And are you satisfied?' He didn't answer. After a moment she asked, 'Have you told London yet?'
'No. Not yet. I'll call Superintendent Bowles early tomorrow morning. I'd prefer to have everything finished before the funeral services on Tuesday. Upper Streetham will be full of people then. Harris's friends, fellow officers, dignitaries. They shouldn't be distracted from their mourning by police business.'
'There'll be a great hue and cry when you do it. It will upset the King, and everyone else, including the Prime Minister. He's got enough on his plate right now, with the peace talks. It will bring the wrath of Scotland Yard down on your head. It will ruin Mark. It could very well ruin you! I'd be very careful before I did something I couldn't undo.'
She was a very perceptive woman. And she knew London.
'That doesn't matter. If he shot Charles Harris, why should Mark Wilton go scot-free?'
'He couldn't have shot Charles! He's marrying the man's ward! You don't seem to understand the importance of that!'
'The wedding has been called off.'
'Of course it has, Lettice is in mourning. But by next spring-or in a quiet ceremony at Christmas, since she's got no family and needs Mark's support-'
'No. Charles himself stopped the wedding. And that's why he was killed.'
Catherine shook her head. 'Called off the wedding? Before he died? You can't be serious!'
'Why would he joke about that? Why should I?'
'No, Mark was going to marry her! And he will, once this nonsense is finished. I'll help him find someone in London to take his case if you go through with this. I refuse to believe that Mark could have done anything of the sort! Or Charles, for that matter! Whoever told you such a thing is either crazy or vindictive. Or both. I absolutely refuse to believe it!' He left soon afterward, stiffly thanking her for the tea and then finding his own way out. Catherine said good-bye with equal reserve, and added as he reached the solarium doorway, his coat over his arm, 'Don't be hasty, Inspector. You owe that to Mark. You owe it to Charles. Be very sure before you act!' Rutledge drove back to Upper Streetham and left the car at the rear of the Inn, going in by the door he'd used on the night of his arrival. The back stairs were empty, the Inn silent.
He felt bone weary. Emotion was drained out of him, and his body ached with tension.
I need to find Forrest, he told himself. I need to attend to that warrant, bring Wilton in. The sooner the better.
'And where's he going?' Hamish demanded. 'He's no' the kind of man who'll run, or he wouldn't have been so good at killing Germans.'
'Shut up and keep out of it! I thought you wanted to see the dashing Captain hanged!'
'Aye,' Hamish said, 'I do. But I'm not ready to see you crawl back to yon clinic, and doctors that will stuff your mind full of drugs. Easing you into oblivion where there's no pain and no memory and no guilt to savage you. I've not finished with you yet, Ian Rutledge, and until I have, I won't let you crawl away and hide!' An hour later, Rutledge found himself at Sally Davenant's door. The maid Grace opened it to his knock and said, 'Yes, sir?'
'I've come to see Captain Wilton. Will you tell him Inspector Rutledge is here. On official business.'
She caught the nuances in his voice and her face lost its trained mask of politeness. Concern filled her eyes, and she said, 'Is there anything wrong, sir?'
'Just tell the Captain I'm here, if you please.'
'But he's in Warwick, sir. He and Mrs. Davenant have gone to dine there. She wasn't herself all afternoon, and the Captain suggested an outing to take her mind off the unpleasantness at the church this morning. I doubt they'll be back much before eleven o'clock, sir.'
He swore under his breath. 'Very well. Tell him I'll expect to see him here at eight o'clock tomorrow morning.' He nodded and walked off down the scented path, among the peonies and the roses.
There was, actually, a certain irony about that appointment, he thought, driving back to the Inn. It was exactly one week from the time Charles Harris died. The rain came back in the night, and Rutledge lay there listening to it, unable to sleep, his mind turning over everything he'd learned in the past four days. Thinking about the people, the evidence, the way it was coming out now. One or two loose ends to finish tomorrow, and then he'd be on his way back to London.
But the funeral was on Tuesday, and he found himself wanting to be there, to watch Lettice walk down the aisle of the church on-on whose arm? To see her one more time, and in the light. To exorcise the witchery Hamish had been so worried about? He could contrive it; there was enough to do, he needn't hurry back to that tiny cubicle in London, where his mind was dulled by routine and Hamish had freer rein. It wasn't a night for sleeping, in spite of the rain drumming lightly on house roofs and muffling the normal sounds of the village. Rutledge could hear the gutters running, a soft, ominous rush that echoed in his head, and once, a carriage rattling down the High Street. The church clock tolled the quarter hours, and still his mind moved restlessly in a kaleidoscope of images.
Of Catherine Tarrant's paintings, vivid reflections of her inner force. Of Lettice Wood's unusual eyes, darkening with emotion. Of Royston's shame as he watched the faces of parishioners outside the church. Of Carfield's swift retreat from confrontation. Of Wilton's lonely grief, and a child's terror. Of a woman hanging out clothes in the sunlight, a goose penned in the yard behind her. Of Sally Davenant's cool shell, hiding emotions she couldn't afford to feel. Of Charles Harris, man and monster, alive and bloodily dead… Of Mavers with his amber goat's eyes… At Mallows, Lettice Wood lay on her bed and wished with the fervor of despair that she could turn
