'What did you say to Emma when you came home?'
'I showed her his letter. I thought she had a right to know.'
'All of it?'
'All that mattered. But our friendship was never the same. I hadn't trusted her, I deserted her when she needed me most, and I couldn't make amends.'
'If you had your chance to live through that summer of 1914 again, would you have done the same thing-walk away?'
She turned back to face him. 'Oh yes. I believed he loved me. But he couldn't have loved me as deeply as I thought he did, if he was attracted by Emma. And she was only fourteen then.' She paused. 'To try to kiss her was bad enough. To slap a child because she spurned him was a side of his nature I hadn't seen before. What hurt most of all was that I'd misjudged him so completely. I thought he was the best of that family, but he was just like his brothers, selfish to the core.'
'The fact that Emma was Mrs. Ellison's granddaughter didn't stop Rob Baylor?'
Grace Letteridge laughed, but it was harsh and full of pain. 'At the time, I don't believe he was thinking very clearly about anything, least of all the Harkness bloodline.'
'Did Mrs. Ellison know that Emma had attracted such unwanted attention?'
'They quarreled about it sometimes. Mrs. Ellison was of the opinion that Emma encouraged men. That if she were truly a lady-and a Harkness-even the most hardened seducer would step aside, abashed.' Her mouth twisted wryly. 'That made Emma cry. She told me she wanted to go to London and find her mother. And I told her that she didn't even know where to begin to look. After all, her letters had come back, she couldn't be sure where her mother might have gone next. Bath-Winchester-Oxford-Paris-'
'Do you think she heeded that? Or in desperation went anyway?'
'I thought she was dead. And that Constable Hensley had killed her. I always wondered, you see, what Robbie might have done if he'd gone too far. As it was, he'd slapped her and called her a tease. But she hadn't told her grandmother that part of it, she was too ashamed. Constable Hensley could have felt that he ought to be more successful than a farmer's son. And realized too late there was no turning back. Mrs. Ellison's name carries a good deal of weight in this part of the county. And she'd have gone after him tooth and nail, even if she thought Emma was to blame. He wasn't popular here, and everyone would have sided with Mary Ellison. Still, the skeleton you found in the wood wasn't Emma's, was it? So I was wrong, after all.'
Hamish said, 'You canna' be sae sure she's telling the truth.'
'No, it wasn't Emma's body,' he agreed, ignoring the voice. And after a moment, he added, 'I find myself wondering if it was her grandfather's.'
He held out the gold toothpick and watched her face.
Surprise gave way to a rapid shift in emotions. Recognition. Understanding. Fear.
'It was the last Christmas present Beatrice ever gave him. Where did you find it? Surely not in the wood with the skeleton? Dear God!'
Rutledge said, 'How did you know about the toothpick?'
'Beatrice told me about it. She chose it herself, a child of five, in Northampton. Her mother had taken her there to visit a cousin, and she saw it in a shop. I doubt if she knew at the time what it was, she just thought it was pretty, and the cousin let her buy it for her father. Mrs. Ellison wasn't pleased with the choice. But the cousin told her not to be silly, the child could do as she liked. And so it was engraved and wrapped in silver tissue and a green ribbon.'
'And you're certain she gave this to her father?'
'Oh, yes, there's no doubt about it. She recalled it vividly and talked about it when she missed him, because she wished she'd found something more-I don't know- more respectable? A watch fob or shirt studs, even a chain for his keys. I expect Mrs. Ellison took mean-spirited pleasure in telling her that a toothpick, even a gold one, was hardly worthy of a Harkness. For whatever reason, Beatrice couldn't forget it.' She reached out to touch the slender length of gold with the tip of a finger. 'There couldn't be two such, could there?'
'What became of Ellison?'
'He died in London, struck by a runaway horse. It was sudden and dramatic-I remember my father saying that Mrs. Ellison screamed when she got the news. It was so out of character, everyone talked about it.'
'Where is he buried?'
'You just told me he was the man in the wood.'
'Yes, he probably is. But if he 'died' in London, there must have been an inquest, a funeral? His wife would have had to be present.'
'Mrs. Ellison went to London to take care of the arrangements. She left Beatrice here with the rector's wife, because what could a child that young understand? He was buried there. She said she couldn't bear to bring him back to Dudlington, that she herself wished to be buried in London with him when the time came. My father remembered that too. He told me long afterward that he was shocked. But then it's what Mary Ellison wanted.'
'And Beatrice never doubted that her father was buried in London.'
'She even knew the name of the cemetery-Highgate. There was a great stone lion near the grave, and its name was Nero. Beatrice longed to go there and see it for herself. Surely, if she went to London-but that may explain why she was estranged from her mother. The grave wasn't there!'
'Would you be willing to swear under oath to what you've just told me?'
She clearly hadn't considered that. She glanced toward the window, as if she could see Mary Ellison from where she sat. 'Must I? I can't-do you really believe that Mary-'
'If she told everyone that her husband was buried in London, then why is there a skeleton in the wood, with the toothpick that Beatrice had given her father? Do you believe Mrs. Ellison gave away the toothpick out of a callous disregard for her daughter's feelings?'
'I don't know. But why would Mary make up such a complicated story-the runaway horse, the cemetery lion. And how was he actually killed?'
'There's no way to be certain.'
'Well, I'm glad that Beatrice isn't here. It would have broken her heart.'
'I think Beatrice is dead as well. And Emma.'
She stared at him, her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. 'No, please, I don't want to hear this.'
'I can't prove it just yet,' he said, 'but I've got to try.'
'But how-I can't see Mary Ellison, for God's sake, taking up a gun or a knife, or a flat iron to her own flesh and blood. She's not-it sickens me to even think such a thing.'
Rutledge hesitated, and then told her: 'It's often said that a woman's weapon is poison.'
29
Grace Letteridge was still upset when he left her. Part of her had wanted to believe him, and another part of her refused to accept that it was possible. Rutledge said as he walked out the door, 'You mustn't say anything. Not until I'm certain. And that may take me some time.'
'But the constable-who shot him with a bow and arrow?'
'Do you have Emma's archery set? And if you don't, who very likely does? Mrs. Ellison is strong enough to bend a bow, I think, although she's probably not a very good marksman. But she only had to drive the point of that arrow into Constable Hensley's back deep enough to frighten him and keep him away from the wood. It's even possible she intended to retrieve the arrow, only it had struck bone. And everyone in Dudlington would have believed the Saxon dead had attacked him with a ghostly weapon. A perfect threat to keep people out of Frith's Wood, don't you think?'
'Why are you telling me this?' she asked, at the door. 'I wish you'd never come here, not to Dudlington and not to my house.'
'I had to trace that toothpick. I couldn't think of anyone else who knew the family as well as you did. Mrs. Ellison never let anyone get close to her. Perhaps because of her secrets, perhaps because of her nature. I can't be
