back the slowly moving hands of the ornate porcelain clock on the table by her pillow. Turn them back to that moment when she had said, with the blitheness of loving, 'I've never known such happiness-I want it to go on and on forever-I want to feel it in old age, and look back on years full of it, and you, in the center of it.'
And his warm indulgent voice, laughing at her, promising. 'My dear girl, when have I ever been able to deny you anything you wanted? We'll be together always, as long as the seas run and the stars shine and the earth lasts. Is that pledge enough for you?'
The seas still ran, the stars still shone, and the earth was there still. But her happiness had poured out with a man's blood in a field of wildflowers, and there was no way she could put it back again. And there was nothing- nothing- that would turn back time to that single, glorious gift of love. Catherine Tarrant sat in her studio, in a darkness lit by heat lightning, the patter of rain on the surrounding glass a counterpoint to her tears. On the easel in front of her was the wrapped portrait of Rolf Linden. She didn't need to take the cloth off, she knew it by heart. But it was Mark Wilton she was thinking about, and Charles Harris-and how the body ached with longing for a man who would never come back to her. She could forget, sometimes, when she was painting, or in London. Somehow Charles's death and Mark's dilemma had stirred her feelings into life again, and left her vulnerable. While memories, like long-buried ghosts, crept around her in the silence, she made herself remember too what she owed Mark. He was awake as well, metaphorically setting his house in order, arranging his affairs and steeling himself to meet what was coming. There was no way out for him, he had to accept that. Still, he'd found the courage he needed in France, and it hadn't deserted him yet. It would be there when he needed it now. From hero to gallows' bait, a great comedown for a proud man, he thought with heavy irony. If only he could guess what Lettice would do-But there was one final duty to perform, and after a while, he decided that the best way to achieve it was with honesty rather than guile… But in a cottage on a hillside above Upper Streetham, a small child slept with the deepness of death, without dreams for the first time in days.
18
The rain had drifted away by morning, and a watery sun soon broke through the clouds, strengthening rapidly until there was a misty, apricot light that warmed the church tower and touched the trees with gold.
Rutledge walked out of the Inn door and stood for a moment watching the early market goers hurrying to set up booths or find a bargain. A low murmur of voices and laughter, the noises of traffic, people coming and going- he'd seen markets like this in a hundred English towns, peaceful and bustling. A week ago a man had died on market day, Mavers had made his way through the crowds shouting, agitating, locked in hatred, and a child had been frightened nearly to death. But a traveler, strolling through Upper Streetham this pleasant summer morning, wouldn't hear about it, wouldn't be touched by it. None of the drama, none of the misery, none of the lasting pain showed.
He turned and moved briskly down the sidewalk, stopping at Dr. Warren's for a report on Hickam. The man had had rather a restless night, Warren's housekeeper reported, but he'd eaten a decent enough breakfast and seemed a little stronger.
'That's when the craving for gin will return, as he improves,' she added. 'The poor soul isn't out of the woods yet, I can tell you! And what he'll do with himself when he's well enough to go home is another worry.'
'I'm told he was a cabinetmaker before the war,' Rut- ledge said.
Surprise spread across her face. 'Aye, that's true. I'd forgotten. And very good he was! But not anymore, not with hands that shake like leaves.' She picked up the broom she'd leaned against the wall while talking to him. 'They've already started. The tremors. But he's stronger than he looks, which is a good thing!'
Rutledge thanked her and turned back to the Inn, walking around past the small gardens to the car. Ten minutes later he was pulling up in front of the Davenant house.
Grace let him in, and Sally Davenant came to meet him as soon as she heard his voice. She quickly glanced behind him to see if Rutledge had brought Sergeant Davies with him, looking decidedly relieved to discover that he was alone. 'Good morning, Inspector! We've been sitting on the terrace, having a last cup of coffee. Won't you join us?'
He let her lead him to the French doors that opened onto a slate-floored stone terrace overlooking the gardens. There was a wide sweep of lawn, edged by trees and set with beautifully manicured borders, a graceful and pleasing design that someone-he wondered if it had been Mrs. Davenant herself-had chosen to match the architectural grace of the house. An air of peace pervaded it, with birds singing in the trees and a low hum of bees working their way through the blossoms.
Beyond the balustrade, the flower beds looked rather bedraggled from the storm, but the scent of stock and peonies and lavender drifted softly on the morning air. Someone had swept the rain from the terrace and a set of white chairs cushioned in a pattern of gray, rose, and white encircled a wrought-iron table. The breakfast things had already been taken away, but a coffee tray gleamed brightly in the center.
Wilton got to his feet as they came out into the sunlight and stood by the table, not speaking, his eyes on Rutledge.
'Another cup for the Inspector, please, Grace,' Sally was saying over her shoulder. Then, 'Do sit down, Inspector. Mark.' They sat, and when the cup came, Sally poured Rut- ledge's coffee, passing it to him with a practiced smile.
'Well, I don't suppose that half of Upper Streetham will dare to show their faces at market this morning!' she began, hiding her own feelings quite well under a pose of wry humor. 'I told you before, that man Bert Mavers is a danger to himself and everyone else! How Charles-' She stopped, then said, 'How anyone put up with him for this many years is a mystery to me!'
'I don't think the Inspector came to discuss Mavers,' Wilton said. 'You wanted to see me last night, Rutledge?'
He tasted his coffee and then answered, 'Yes, as a matter of fact. But it will keep. For the moment. Have you and Royston and Carfield completed the arrangements for tomorrow's services?'
Wilton stared out over the lawns. 'Yes, everything's in hand. I-was planning to see Lettice this morning, to show her what we'd done, what was expected of her, who would be here. There has been a great deal of mail, telephone calls, wires. Royston and Johnston have kept up with it between them, but I know most of these people personally. Who they are, what they represent. Sally can help Lettice with the proper acknowledgments afterward. As for the reception, we've kept Carfield out of it as much as possible.' Disgust tightened his mouth as he turned to Rutledge. 'The man's a threat to sanity! He told Johnston he'd be there most of today to oversee the preparations, the flowers, and so on. Royston had to tell him to his face that he wasn't needed, that the church was his responsibility and nothing else. And he'll do that well enough! Writing the funeral oration probably kept him awake most of the night.'
Sally said generously, 'He means well, Mark. He's been a great comfort to Agnes, worried about poor little Lizzie. And when Mary Thornton's mother died he took care of everything. But I understand how you feel; he's had his eye on Lettice since she came here in 1917.'
Wilton glanced at Rutledge but said nothing. Rutledge finished his coffee and pushed back his chair. 'I'd like to speak to you, privately, Wilton. If you don't mind.'
Sally rose. 'No, no, stay here, I've things to see to.'
But there were too many windows overlooking the gardens and the terrace, voices carried. Wilton put his hand on her arm. 'Enjoy the sun, my dear; I won't be long.'
He couldn't see the look she gave him as he got to his feet and courteously waited for Rutledge to follow. It was a mixture of emotions. Dread. Love. And indecision.
Wilton took Rutledge to the small parlor where they'd talked on his first visit and closed the door, standing there, his back to it, as he said, 'I expected you to come with the Sergeant. And a warrant for my arrest.'
'I had planned to. But it occurred to me that marching you to jail in front of all those people coming in to market would cause Miss Wood and your cousin unnecessary embarrassment. If you go with me now, of your own accord, we'll see to this business as quietly as possible.'
'So it's finished, is it?' He moved away from the door and crossed to a chair, gesturing impatiently for Rutledge to be seated.
