'What does Mark say?' she countered.
Rutledge leaned forward in his chair, trying to reach her with his words, with the sense of haste driving him. 'He says the reason isn't important. That it died with Charles. But I think it may be very important. In fact, it's crucial. I'm concerned, you see, that if the cause was serious enough, Wilton might prefer not to stand trial and have it brought out into the open, afraid that in the end we'd discover what it was and use it in court, and the whole world would hear what it was. I'm afraid that he might-choose the gentleman's solution instead.'
'Shoot himself?' Tears came to her eyes, darkening them, but hovered behind the lids, not spilling over. 'Are you quite sure, Inspector?'
'I wouldn't have come tonight if I hadn't been sure it could happen. Not that it would-but that it could,' he said, forcing himself to honesty.
'But if I tell you-you're the police, you'll know what it is, and then it'll happen just as he's afraid it might. And I'll be the cause of it!' Before he could deny it, she said, 'No, I can't tell you something, and then afterward say that I didn't mean it, that you must forget I'd said it. You can't forget it. It's your job, you see-there's no separating the man from the job!'
'Lettice-' He wasn't even aware that he'd used her name.
'No! I've lost Charles, nothing will ever bring him back. I'm going to lose Mark, one way or another. I feel enough guilt already, I won't add to it, I tell you I won't!' The tears spilled over, and she ignored them, her eyes on his face. 'Have you ever been in love, Inspector, so in love that your very life's blood belonged to someone else, and then just when it seemed that everything was wrapped in joy, and you were the luckiest, most fortunate, most cherished person in the world, had it snatched away without warning, stripped from you without hope or sense or explanation, just taken?'
'Yes,' he said, getting to his feet and walking to the window where she couldn't see his face. 'It would be easy to say that the war came between us, Jean and me. All those years of separation. But I know it's something deeper than that. She's frightened by the-the man who came back. The Ian Rutledge she wanted to marry went away in 1914, and the Army sent a stranger home in his place five years later. She doesn't even recognize him anymore. As far as that goes, I'm not sure that she's the girl I remember. Somehow she's grown into a woman who lives in a world I've lost touch with. And I can't find my way back to it. I came home expecting to turn back the clock. You can't. It doesn't work that way.' He stopped, realizing that he'd never even told Frances that much.
'No,' she said simply, watching him, seeing-although he wasn't aware of it-his reflection in the dark glass. 'You can't turn back the clock. To where it's safe and comfortable again.' His back was still toward her, his thoughts far away. She said, 'Don't put this burden on me, Inspector Rutledge. Don't ask me to make a decision for Mark Wilton.' 'I already have. Just by coming here.' 'Damn you!' He turned, saw the flush of anger and hurt on her face. And then, out of nowhere he had his answer, as if it had come through the night to touch him, but he knew how it had come-from his own recognition of the pain and the loss he'd sensed from the start in her. Lettice Wood wasn't grieving for Mark Wilton. She was grieving for Charles Harris. And it was Charles Harris that she loved, who had come between her and the wedding in September, who had called off the wedding because he wanted his ward and-she wanted him. She saw something in his expression that warned her just in the last split second. She was off the sofa in a flash, on her way out of the room, running away from him to the safety and comfort of her own apartments. Rutledge caught her arm, swung her around, held her with a grip that was bruising, but she didn't notice, she was struggling to free herself, her dark hair flying in swirls around his face and hands. 'It's true, isn't it? Tell me!' 'No-no, let me go. I won't be a part of this. I've killed Charles, I've got his blood on my soul, and I won't kill Mark as well! Let me go!' 'You loved him-didn't you!' he demanded, shaking her. 'God help me-oh, yes, I loved him!' 'Were you ever in love with Mark?' She stopped struggling, standing almost frozen in his hands. Then she began speaking, wearily, disjointedly, as if it took more strength than she could muster. And yet she didn't try to hide her face or those strange, remarkable eyes.
'Did I ever love him? Oh, yes-I thought I did. Charles brought him home, he believed I'd like him, love him. And I did. I told myself that what I'd felt for Charles was only a girl's crush, a silly thing you grow out of, and I'd better hurry before I'd harmed what we'd had between us since the beginning, when I was a small, frightened child-an affection that was deep and caring and wonderfully comforting.'
She took a deep breath as if steadying herself. 'But Tuesday-two weeks ago now-I was in the drawing room, just finishing with flowers for the vases there, and Charles came in, and I-I don't know, one of the bowls slipped somehow as I was lifting it back onto the bookshelf, and he reached for me before it could fall on me and hurt me, and the next thing I knew-I was in his arms, I was being held against his heart and I could hear it beating as wildly as mine, and he kissed me.'
Her eyes closed for a moment, reliving that kiss; then they opened, and he saw emptiness in them, pain. 'He stopped, swearing at himself, telling me it was nothing-nothing! And he was gone, just like that. I searched everywhere. I finally found him, he was having lunch at the Inn, and he took me outside into the garden where no one could overhear and he said it wasn't love. It was just that he'd been away from London too long, he'd needed a woman too long, and touching me had made him forget who I was, it was only his need speaking. But it wasn't true, it wasn't Charles, it was what we both felt, and I was sure of it. He wouldn't speak to me about it for days, wouldn't listen to me, stayed away from me as if I had the plague or something, and then on Saturday-I waited until he'd gone up to his room, and I came to the door and said I wasn't marrying Mark, that it wasn't fair to Mark, and that the wedding would have to be called off anyway. And he just said, 'All right,' as if I'd told him the cat had just had kittens or the rain had brought grasshoppers with it-something that didn't matter… But on Sunday-on Sunday I went to his room again when he was dressing for dinner, and he didn't hear me come in, I caught him by surprise, standing there buttoning his cuff links, and when he looked up-and I saw his face-I ran. There was such-such depth of love in his eyes as he looked up at me, I couldn't bear it. He came after me, told me he was sorry he'd frightened me, and then he was kissing me again, and the room was whirling about, and I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think- Mark had never, ever made me feel like that, he-he was aloof, somehow, as if his head was still in the clouds, with his planes. As if his heart was shut off somewhere and I couldn't touch it. But Charles wasn't that way, and I didn't care then whether Charles married me or not, there wouldn't be anyone else in my life. He let me go, he told me to think clearly and carefully, not to make a quick judgment, that there was such a difference in our ages that I couldn't be sure, and neither could he, what we were feeling. He talked about honor and duty-about going away for a while-and I smiled and said I'd not be hasty. But I knew I didn't need to consider, and I was the happiest-the happiest woman on earth at that moment. I didn't even think about Mark! And I paid for it the next morning, because we had one night together, Charles and I, and that was all. All that I'll have to take with me as far as my grave, because it was beyond anything I've ever known and could ever hope to feel, whatever happens to me…'
'I didn't go riding that morning…' Rutledge heard those words again in the far corners of his mind, Lettice answering his question about how Charles had behaved on the morning after the quarrel. She hadn't lied, she'd told him the truth, only in a fashion that she alone knew was an evasion. For she had seen him that morning.
'I didn't want pity. I didn't want people pointing at me, saying I'd had a love affair with Charles and was the cause of his death. I thought there would be enough evidence-some- thing-witnesses-that would lead you to his killer without me. When you came that first time, I thought the only happiness I'd ever have again was seeing Mark hang. And then I realized, with Sergeant Davies standing there by the door, that anything I said would be common knowledge in the village before dinner.'
'And now? How do you feel about Wilton now?' Rut- ledge asked, breaking the silence.
Lettice shook her head. 'I know he must have killed Charles. It makes sense, the way it happened. But-I still can't see Mark shooting him down in hot blood, obliterating him, wreaking such a terrible vengeance. He's not- devious by nature, not passionate or impulsive. There's an uprightness in him, a strength.'
'He wouldn't have fought to keep you?'
'He'd have fought,' she said quietly. 'But in his own way.'
20
It was after eight when Rutledge woke up the next morning, head heavy with sleeplessness that had pursued him most of the night. He'd heard the church clock chime the hours until it was six o'clock and light enough to see
