'And a very good policeman at that,' she retorted. 'But you've given me an idea. I think I'll invite Meredith Channing to have lunch with me.'
He was immediately on alert. 'Frances. I think that's a very poor idea. Mrs. Channing isn't going to look into a crystal ball and tell you what's in Simon's mind. Or heart.'
'I don't expect her to look into a crystal ball. She's a very astute woman, Ian, she can give me her opinion. And it could be what I need, to understand how to go on. I mean, people are asking. We've been seen together more than a little these last two months. I don't know how to answer them. 'Where's Simon, my dear? I saw him last night at the Collinses' and you weren't with him.' Or, 'What's happening between you and Simon? Has there been a falling-out, a quarrel? Have you lost interest in him?' ' Her eyes filled with tears but she refused to let them fall.
'And how do you answer these questions?'
'I say that I've been terribly busy and so has Simon. Or that I couldn't make the Collinses' party, I had other plans. But it's growing old.'
She stood up. 'You'll be late, Bowles will be clamoring for you. I'll go and speak to Meredith Channing. If nothing else, she'll cheer me up. I'm in need of cheering right now.'
And she was gone, despite his protests, smiling at him over her shoulder as she went out his door.
He spent the better part of the morning scouring London for news of Simon Barrington. There was no one he could ask outright, and so he had to make time to listen to various friends they held in common.
Hamish was not pleased with his decision.
'It willna' help, even if ye find him. Ye ken that as well as I do. Ye canna' speak to him.'
'I don't intend to speak to him. Or try to fix whatever happened between Barrington and my sister. But if there's something wrong, something I ought to know, then the sooner the better.'
'Aye, but are ye the brother now? Or the policeman?'
He couldn't answer that. And at the end of the day, there was still nothing he could point to as a reason why Barrington should avoid his sister without explanation. The closest he came to an answer was an offhand remark by Tommy Aspell. That Simon had something on his mind and had been damned poor company for a fortnight or more.
With that he had to be satisfied.
It was close to nine in the evening when he arrived in Berkshire. But The Smith's Arms was well lit, the bar noisy with shouts of laughter and the stamping of feet. Not a drunken crowd, from the sound of it, but one where men were relaxed and enjoying themselves.
Rutledge went to the tiny desk in Reception and signed the register. Then he walked into the bar.
There was a sudden silence as patrons looked up at the newcomer and judged him from his clothes.
Half a dozen lorry drivers were busy with a game of darts. One man, in the process of taking his turn, scowled at the interruption. Two farmers were watching the proceedings from the bar, keeping to themselves.
Rutledge nodded to them as the game resumed and found himself a table in a corner by the front windows. He smiled as Mrs. Smith came over to him and asked what he'd have.
'A room, if you please. I've signed the register. And dinner, if there's any left.'
'This lot isn't staying over. There's the room you had before, and a bit of roasted ham and some bread left. Mustard sauce as well.'
'That will do very well.' He'd missed his lunch, and could hear the growling of an empty stomach.
'What will you have to drink, luv?'
'A Guinness, if you please.'
'Smith u'll bring it shortly.' She skirted the players and disappeared into the kitchen as another burst of laughter met a wild throw.
Rutledge watched this leg end in a victory for the bald man with a birthmark on his face. The man went to the bar to claim his wager, another glass of his choice. A shorter man, broad in the shoulders, called out to Rutledge, as he pulled the darts out of the board. 'This is a worthless lot. Will you have a turn?'
It was a dare, not an invitation.
Rutledge got to his feet, shrugging off the long drive, and answered, 'I'll give it a try.'
They eyed him with interest as he took the three darts and lightly hefted them in his hand. Judging his skill. Or lack thereof.
Hamish was saying, 'I won best of three in the canteen.'
Suddenly, without warning, Rutledge could feel himself slipping back, reliving a night in France.
He had been invited to the canteen by his men. It had been his birthday, and he never knew how they'd found that out. Darts was a working-class pastime, but he'd held his own with a good elbow and a better eye. He'd been grateful not to disgrace his men in front of the other onlookers.
Hamish had stood them all down, the quiet young Scot already respected by his men, his corporal's stripes still new on his uniform.
It had been a brief respite from the Front, tired men pulled back for a few days of rest after a hard week of fighting, and nowhere to go in the rain and the mud and the dark save the popular canteen set up in a small stone barn-all that was left of a French farmhouse-that had been too rat infested to serve as a field hospital. Rumor was, officers turned a blind eye to the use it was put to by a trio of enterprising Welshmen, miners at home outside Cardiff but sappers now.
Someone had found a great gray and black tomcat, and it soon made short work of the earlier residents. A broom and some odds and ends of scavenged paint, and a rough bar built from whatever wood could be found or stolen, and the canteen was in business. A large oil painting of a French officer of the Napoleonic wars had materialized from somewhere, hung at one end of the barn by a length of scorched rope. It had become a habit to salute the officer on entering.
Evenings were usually rowdy, some of the strain and fatigue draining away as young soldiers old before their time had tried to forget the war.
He and his men had walked through the door and lifted the blanket behind it. Lamps had been hung from the rafters, the room was smoky from cigarettes, and the scent of moldy hay still lingered. Rusted kettles were whistling on a wood stove that gave off sufficient heat to keep the building just barely comfortable.
When Rutledge took the mug of steaming tea handed to him by one of his men, he nearly choked on the first swallow. In lieu of sugar, someone had added a liberal spoonful of brandy to it. But he said nothing, aware of anxious eyes on his face.
They had played darts after that, though the numbers on the board were badly worn and the colors had faded to a uniform brown. But the sisal still held each throw firmly where it landed.
At the end of the evening, Rutledge had returned to his quarters feeling not relaxed but burdened by guilt. How many of the men who had shared this wartime birthday tonight would be alive by month's end?
Ten had died the first day back in the line. And he'd heard a year later that the Welshmen had died outside Ypres when a tunnel they'd been digging had collapsed prematurely, burying them alive. By the time help reached them, it was too late.
Rutledge brought himself back to the present as a lorry driver, a man his mates called Jimmy, said, 'Loser buys drinks all round.'
There was general agreement to the terms, since the general opinion was that the man from London would pay the accounting.
Rutledge found the rough line drawn on the floor, put the outside of his right foot against it and considered the target. This one was worn too, but from long use, not from rain and mud and countless journeys across northern France in haversacks.
He forced his mind to concentrate on what he must do.
Hamish warned, 'They'll want to see your mettle.'
His fingers closed around the first dart. Worn, like the board, and comfortable in his grip. He pumped his hand twice, gauging his shot, then threw firmly toward the board.
It landed precisely where he'd intended-in the wood above the board. From the bar, Smith called, 'Here! That's my wall.'
'Sorry,' Rutledge apologized as the lorry drivers and even the farmers slapped their knees and bent over laughing at his expense.
