3
Somerset, near Exmoor May 1920
There was a stone terrace on the northern side of the house, with a dramatic view down to the sea. The town of Minehead was invisible around the next headland to the east, and to the west, Exmoor rolled to the horizon, empty as far as the eye could see.
Not even a gull's cry broke the stillness, though they sailed on the wind above the water, wings bright in the morning sun. Rutledge sat in a comfortable chair by the terrace wall, more relaxed than he'd been in some time.
Half an hour later a faint line of gray was making itself known in the far distance, storm clouds building somewhere over Cornwall. A pity, he thought, watching them. The weather had held fair so far. All that was needed was barely another twenty-four hours, for tomorrow's wedding. After that the rain could fall.
He had taken a few days of leave. Edgar Maitland, a friend from before the war, had asked Rutledge to come to Somerset to meet his bride and to stand up with him at the wedding.
This had been Maitland's grandfather's house, and Rutledge could understand why his friend preferred to live here most of the year now, keeping his flat for the occasional visit to London. Edgar had also inherited his grandfather's law firm in nearby Dunster and appeared to be well on his way to becoming a country solicitor.
Rutledge and Maitland had lost touch after 1917, but when Mait- land had come to town in April to buy a ring for his bride, he'd tracked Rutledge down at Scotland Yard. France had changed both men, but they understood that these differences were safest left unspoken. What had drawn them together at university had been an enthusiasm for tennis and cricket; what had made them friends was a feeling for the law, and this each of them, in their own way, had held on to through the nightmare of war, seeing their salvation in returning to it.
Maitland had often good-naturedly berated Rutledge for choosing to join the police. 'A waste, old man, you must see that.'
And Rutledge always answered, 'I have no ambition to be a K.C. I've left that to you.'
When Rutledge had met Elise on his arrival in Dunster, he'd had reservations about the match. She was young, pretty, and in love. The question was whether she was up to the task of caring for a man who'd lost his leg in France, and with it, for many months, his self- worth. Unlike the steady, happy man Rutledge had seen in London, now Edgar was by turns moody and excited as the wedding day approached. And that boded ill for the future.
Indeed, last night when they were alone on the terrace, darkness obscuring their faces and only their voices betraying their feelings, Edgar had said morosely, 'I can't dance. She says she doesn't care for dancing. Or play tennis. She doesn't care for tennis. She says. But that's now. What about next year, or the year after, if she's bored and some other bloke asks her to dance, or to be his partner in a match? What then? Will she smile at me, and ask permission, and be relieved when I give it? '
Rutledge had grinned. 'Cold feet, Lieutenant? Where's the bane of the sappers, the man who never backed out of anything, even a burning tunnel?'
'Yes, well, I was brave once too often. And it's cold foot, now. Do you know, I can still feel pain in my missing leg? Phantom pain, they call it, the nerve endings looking for something that isn't there and worrying themselves into knots.'
'That's common, I think?'
'Apparently. But it's damned odd when it's your foot itching, and there's nothing there to scratch.'
They had laughed. But Edgar had drunk a little too much last night and was sleeping it off this morning.
Rutledge watched that thin line of gray cloud for a time, decided that it was not growing any larger, and turned his attention to the sea below, tranquil before the turn of the tide. Behind him, the terrace door opened, and he looked up, expecting to see Edgar.
Elise came out to join him. He hadn't heard her motorcar arriving in the forecourt, but she must have driven over from Dunster, looking for Edgar.
He wished her a good morning as he rose to bring a chair forward for her. She sat down, sighed, and watched the gulls in her turn.
'A penny for your thoughts?' he asked after a time.
'I wish I knew what was worrying Edgar. It's frustrating, he won't talk to me. That makes me feel young, useless. And the wedding's tomorrow.'
He realized that she had come to find him, not Maitland. 'You're several years younger in age,' Rutledge pointed out gently. 'And a hundred years younger in experience.'
She shrugged irritably. 'I know. The war. I've been told that until I'm sick of it. It doesn't explain everything!'
'In a way it does,' Rutledge replied carefully. 'It marked most of us. I expect that it will stay with us until we're dead.'
'Yes, but that's looking back, isn't it? You survived-and so there's life ahead, marriage, a family, a future. You and Edgar were the lucky ones. You lived. Now get on with it.'
He laughed. 'Would that we could.'
'Oh, don't be silly, Ian, you know what I mean. If you stay bogged down in the trenches, then they've won. You went on with your profession. Edgar can go on with his. He's not the only man in England with one leg. He's not a freak. He's not unique. A solicitor can manage with one leg, for heaven's sake.'
He couldn't tell her why he'd returned to the Yard last year. At what cost and for what reasons. He answered only, 'Have you ever had a terrifying nightmare, Elise?'
'Of course. Everyone has.' She was impatient.
'Think about the worst one you can recall, then try to imagine waking up to find that it was real and would go on for years, not minutes, without respite.'
'That's not possible-' She stopped. 'Oh. I see what you mean. Trying to shake off a nightmare is harder than having it.' She turned her head, watching the gulls. After a moment she went on. 'When I was five, I was frightened by a friend's little dog. I was creeping up on her to surprise her, and the dog heard me first and attacked me. After that, I was always afraid of dogs. Any dog.'
Rutledge nodded. 'Are you still afraid of dogs?'
'Not afraid. Wary, perhaps?'
'Yes. That's what war does to you. It leaves you wary because you can't erase what you saw or felt or did. It can't be safely tucked away in the attic until you're fifty and decide to bring it out and look it squarely in the face. And Edgar is reminded of his missing leg every time he puts on a shoe or tries to walk across the room or step into a motorcar. It's a fact he can't escape, however hard he tries. And in turn, this is a constant reminder of a day he doesn't want to remember.'
She turned to look at him. 'Where are your scars?'
'They are there. Just a little less visible than missing a leg.' He found it hard to keep the irony out of his voice. Thank God no one could see Hamish. Or hear him. He couldn't even be explained away logically. A haunting that was no ghost, a memory that was filled with guilt, a presence where there was none. Except to him.
Elise said, 'You're telling me that patience is my cue.'
'I'm telling you that getting on with it will always be easier for you. And so you must teach Edgar to forget, not only with patience but with the understanding that some memories may never fade. If you can't accept him as he is, then you must walk away. Now.'
She smiled, a pretty girl barely twenty. He felt like a grandfather in her presence, though he was the same age as her older brother. How on earth would Edgar cope? Or had he deliberately chosen someone so young, someone who had no experience of war, in the hope that it would help him forget?
It was not his business to ask. He was here to support the groom, and that was that.
Elise was saying, 'I appreciate your candor. I'll try to understand. And when I can't, I won't judge.'
'Then you'll make Edgar an admirable wife.'
Her laughter rang out, fresh and untroubled.
Inside the house, silver rattled against silver.
'Aha. I hear sounds from the dining room. By the way, my matron of honor has arrived. I'll bring her along to
