leaned back, out of the light again, as if realizing that she was running on and had lost his attention.
I didn't go riding that morning Rutledge considered those words, ignoring the rest of what she had said. It was as if that one fact separated her entirely from what had happened. But in what way? He had heard soldiers offer the same excuse to avoid discussing what they had witnessed on the battlefield but had not been a part of: 'I wasn't in that assault.' I don't know and I don't want to know…
A denial, then. But was it a washing of hands, or a means of telling the absolute but not the whole truth?
Her face was still, but she was watching him, waiting in the security of the darkness for him to ask his next question. Her grief appeared to be genuine, and yet she was doing nothing whatsoever to help him. He could feel her resistance like a physical barrier, as if they were adversaries, not joined in a mutual hunt for a murderer.
She in her turn was silently counting her heartbeats, willing them to a steady rhythm so that her breathing didn't betray her. In feeling lay disaster. Not for this London stranger with his chill, impersonal eyes was she going to lay out her most private emotions, and watch them probed and prodded for meaning! Let him do the job he had been sent to do. And why was it taking so bloody long? Charles had been gone for three days!
The silence lengthened. Sergeant Davies cleared his throat, as if made uneasy by undercurrents he couldn't understand.
For they were there, strong undercurrents, emotions so intense they were like ominous shadows in the room. Even Hamish was silent.
Changing his tactics abruptly, Rutledge asked, 'What did your fiance, Captain Wilton, and your guardian discuss after dinner on Sunday, the night before the Colonel's death?'
Her attention returned to him with a swift wariness. The heavy-lidded eyes opened wide for an instant, but she answered, 'Surely you've spoken to Mark about that?'
'I'd prefer to hear what you have to say first. I understand that whatever it was led to a quarrel?'
'A quarrel?' Her voice was sharp now. 'I went upstairs after dinner, I-didn't feel well. Charles and Mark were in the drawing room when I left them, talking about one of the guests invited to the wedding. Neither of them liked the man, but both felt they had to include him. An officer they'd served with, my guardian in the Boer War and Mark in France. I can't imagine them quarreling over that.'
'Yet the servants told Inspector Forrest that there had been angry words between the two men, that, in fact, Captain Wilton had stormed out of the house in a rage, and that Colonel Harris flung his wineglass at the door the Captain had slammed behind him.'
She was rigid, her attention fixed on him with fierce intensity. Even the handkerchief no longer unconsciously threaded itself through her fingers. He suddenly had the impression that this was news to her, that she had been unaware of what had happened in the hall. But she said only, 'If they heard that much, they must have been able to tell you what it was all about.'
'Unfortunately, they witnessed only the end of it.'
'I see.' As if distracted by some thought of her own, she said nothing for a time, and Rutledge waited, wishing he could know what was going on behind those long-lashed eyes. Then she roused herself and repeated, 'Yes, that is unfortunate, isn't it? Still, you must know that neither Charles nor Mark is a hotheaded man.'
'I'd hardly describe slamming a door in anger or breaking a crystal glass against it as coolheaded. But we'll have the answer to that in good time,' Rutledge responded, noting with interest that she hadn't rushed to Captain Wilton's defense when she had been given the perfect opening to do just that. Yet she must have realized where such questions were leading?
Oddly enough, he thought she had. And discounted it. Or ignored it? Accustomed to reaching beyond words into emotional responses, he found her elusiveness puzzling. But he couldn't be sure whether that was his fault-or hers.
He took another tack, giving her a second opening but in a different direction. 'Do you believe this man Mavers might have killed the Colonel? Apparently he's caused trouble for your guardian for a number of years.'
She blinked, then said, 'Mavers? He's been a troublemaker all his life. He seems to thrive on it. He sows dissent for the sheer, simple pleasure of it.' Glancing at Sergeant Davies, she said, 'But turning to murder? Risking the gallows? I can't see him going that far. Can you?' She frowned. 'Unless, of course, it might be just what he wanted,' she added thoughtfully.
'In what way?'
'He's been everything from a conscientious objector to a roaring Bolshevik-whatever might stir up people, make them angry. But everyone has more or less grown used to his ranting. Sometimes I even forget he's there. Laurence-Mr. Royston-always said it was the best way to take the wind out of his sails. But Charles felt that it might tip Mavers over the line, that being ignored was the one thing he dreaded. That it was anybody's guess what he might do then. Charles was a good judge of character, he knew Mavers better than the rest of us did. Still, if I were you I'd be wary of any confession Mavers made, unless it was backed up by indisputable proof.'
Which was a decidedly puzzling remark. She had just been offered a ready-made scapegoat, and she had refused it. In his mind, Rutledge went back over what she'd just said, listening for nuances. Well, if she was trying to shift the direction of the enquiry, she had done it with an odd subtlety that was only just short of brilliant. Davies, out of her range of vision, was nodding as if he agreed with her about Mavers being the killer, and she'd said nothing of the sort.
If it hadn't occurred to her that the Captain needed defending, why had questions about the quarrel made her so wary? Had Harris been at fault there, and she was trying to preserve his good name, his reputation? Rutledge moved to the mantel, hoping that the change in angles might help him see her more clearly in the shadows. But her face was closed, her thoughts so withdrawn from him that he might as well try to read the engraving on the silver bowl at her elbow. The pallid light reached neither of them.
'Is there anyone else in the village to your knowledge with a reason to wish your guardian dead?'
'Charles had no enemies.' She sighed. 'There are those who might wish Mark dead, if you believe the gossips. But Charles? He was never here long enough to make enemies. He was a soldier, and leave was a rare thing, a time of respite, not for stirring up trouble.'
'No land disputes, no boundary quarrels, no toes stepped on in the county?'
'I've not heard of them. But ask Laurence Royston, his agent. He can tell you about running the estate and whether there were disputes that might have festered. I can't help you there. I only came here to live near the end of the war, when I'd finished school. Before that, I was allowed to visit on school holidays when Charles had leave. Otherwise, I went home with one of my classmates.'
Questioning her was like fencing with a will-o'-the-wisp. I don't know, I can't help you there, I didn't go riding that morning- And yet he had believed her when she said that hanging the murderer would bring her comfort. In his experience, the shock of sudden, violent death often aroused anger and a thirst for vengeance. But it seemed to be the only natural, anticipated reaction he'd gotten from her. Why did she keep drifting away from him?
He was reminded by a shifting of feet that Sergeant Da- vies was in the room, a witness to everything she said. A man who lived in Upper Streetham, who presumably had a wife and friends… was that the problem? He, Rutledge, was a private person himself; he understood the fierce need for privacy in others. And if that was the case, he was wasting his time now.
'How did you spend the morning? Before the news was brought to you?'
She was frowning, trying to remember as if that had been years ago, not a matter of days. 'I bathed and dressed, came down to breakfast, the usual. Then I had a number of letters to write, and was just coming out of the library to see if Mr. Royston might take them into Warwick for me, when-' She stopped abruptly, then continued in a harsh voice. 'I really don't recall what happened after that.'
'You didn't leave the house, go to the stables?'
'Of course not, why on earth should I tell you I did one thing when I'd done another?' Rutledge took his leave soon afterward. Davies seemed relieved to be on his way downstairs at the butler's heels, showing an almost indecent haste to be gone.
But Rutledge felt unsatisfied, as if somehow he had been neatly outmaneuvered in that darkened room. Thinking back over what the girl had said, he couldn't pinpoint any particular reason for disbelieving anything she'd told him, but doubt nagged at him. She couldn't be more than twenty- one or twenty-two, and yet she had shown a self-possession that was uncommon at that age-or any other. And he hadn't been able to break through to the person underneath. To the emotions that must be there. To the unspoken words he'd wanted to hear but that she
