“I can’t answer that until I’ve spoken to Hickam and the Captain.” Hamish’s laughter had faded, he was able to think clearly again. But his heart was still pounding hard with the shock.
“Shall we start with them, then? Instead of Miss Wood?”
“No, I want to see the Colonel’s house and his ward first.” The truth was, he wasn’t prepared to face Hickam now. Not until he was certain he could do it without betraying himself.
Had anyone guessed in London? No, surely not! It was sheer coincidence, there were any number of shell-shocked veterans scattered across England…. Rutledge got to his feet. “My car is in the back. I’ll meet you there in five minutes.” He nodded to Barton Redfern as he walked out of the dining room, and the young man watched the two policemen until they were out of sight, then listened to Rutledge’s feet beating a quick tattoo up the carpeted stairs while the Sergeant’s heavy leather heels clicked steadily down the stone passage leading to the Inn yard.
Upstairs in his room, Rutledge stood with his hands flat on the low windowsill, leaning on them and looking down into the busy street below. He was still shaken. Only a half dozen people knew about his condition, and the doctors had promised to say nothing to the Yard, to give him a year to put his life back together first. The question was, had Bowles kept silent about Hickam because he hadn’t thought it was something that mattered? Or because he had known it was and might embarrass Rutledge?
No, that was impossible. It had been an oversight—or at most, Bowles had tried to make this murder investigation sound more attractive than it was. A kindness…? He remembered Bowles from before the war, good at his job, with a reputation for ruthless ambition and a cold detachment. Sergeant Fletcher, who’d died in the first gas attack on Ypres, used to claim that Bowles frightened the guilty into confessing.
“I’ve seen ’em! Shaking in their boots and more afraid of old Bowles than they were of the hangman! Nasty piece of work, I’ve never liked dealing with him. Mind you, he did his job fair and square, I’m not saying he didn’t. But he wasn’t above using any tool that came to hand….”
Not kindness, then, not from a man like Bowles.
Still, what London had done didn’t matter now.
Because here in his own room, away from Davies’ watchful eyes and Redfern’s hovering, Rutledge was able to think more clearly and recognize a very tricky problem. What if Hickam turned out to be right?
If it should come to an arrest—so far there was not enough evidence to look that far ahead, but assuming there was—how could the Crown go into a court of law with a Daniel Hickam as its prime witness against a man wearing the ribbon of the Victoria Cross? It would be ludicrous, the defense would tear the case to shreds. Warwickshire would be screaming for the Yard’s blood, and the Yard for his.
He had wanted an investigation complex enough to distract him from his own dilemmas. Well, now he seemed to have got his wish in spades. The question remained, was he ready for it? Were his skills too rusty to handle something as difficult as the Harris murder successfully? Worse still, was he too personally involved? If so, he should back out now. This instant. Call the Yard and ask for a replacement to be sent at once.
But that would require explanations, excuses—lies. Or the truth.
He straightened, turned from the window, and reached for his coat. If he quit now, he was finished. Professionally and emotionally. It wasn’t a question of choice but of survival. He would do his best, it was all anyone could do, and if in the days to come that wasn’t enough, he must find the courage to admit it. Until then he was going to have to learn exactly where he stood, what he was made of.
The words coward and weakling had stung. But what rankled in his soul was that he had said nothing, not one single word, in Hickam’s defense. In betraying Hickam, he felt he had betrayed himself.
Rutledge and Sergeant Davies arrived at Mallows, the Colonel’s well-run estate on the Warwick road, half an hour later. The sky had cleared to a cerulean blue, the air clean and sweet with spring as the car turned in through the iron gates and went up the drive.
Completely hidden from the main road by banks of old trees, the house didn’t emerge until they rounded the second bend and came out of the shadows into the sun. Then mellowed brick and tall windows, warmed to gold, reflected the early morning light. Setting them off was a wide sweep of lawn mown to crisp perfection, the flower beds sharply edged and the drive smoothly raked. One glance and you could tell that not only had pride gone into the upkeep of this house, but unabashed love as well.
To Rutledge’s appreciative eye, a master’s hand had created this marvelously graceful facade. For the stone cornices, quoins, and moldings around the windows enhanced rather than overwhelmed the effect of elegant simplicity that the designer had been striving for. He found himself wondering who the architect had been, for this was a small jewel. Where had such a gift taken the man after this?
But Davies couldn’t say. “The Colonel, now, he would have told you, and if he wasn’t too busy, he’d have taken out the old plans for you to see. That was the kind of man he was, never a stickler for rank. He knew his place, and trusted you to know yours.”
As Rutledge got out of the car, he found himself looking up at the windows above. One of the heavy drapes had twitched, he thought, the slight movement catching the corner of his eye. In France, where life itself depended on quick reflexes, you learned to see your enemy first or you died. It was as simple as that.
The staff had already placed a heavy black wreath on the broad wooden door, its streamers lifting gently in the light breeze. A butler answered the bell. He was a thin man of middle height, fifty-five or thereabouts, his face heavy with grief as if he mourned the Colonel personally. He informed Rutledge and Sergeant Davies in tones of polished regret that Miss Wood was not receiving anyone today.
Rutledge said only, “What is your name?”
“Johnston, sir.” The words were polite, distant.
“You may tell your mistress, Johnston, that Inspector Rutledge is here on police business. You know Sergeant Davies, I think.”
“Miss Wood is still unwell, Inspector.” He cast an accusing glance at Davies, as if blaming him for Rutledge’s ill-mannered persistence. “Her doctor has already informed Inspector Forrest—”
“Yes, I understand. We won’t disturb her any longer than absolutely necessary.” The voice was firm, that of an army officer giving instructions, brooking no further opposition. Certainly not the voice of a lowly policeman begging entrance.
“I’ll enquire,” the man replied, with a resignation that clearly indicated both personal and professional disapproval but just as clearly made no promises.
He left them standing in the hall before a handsome staircase that divided at the first-floor landing and continued upward in two graceful arcs. These met again on the second story, above the doorway, to form an oval frame for a ceiling painting of nymphs and clouds, with a Venus of great beauty in the center. From the hall she seemed to float in cloud-cushioned luxury, far beyond the reach of mere mortals, staring down at them with a smile that was as tantalizing as it was smug.
Johnston was gone for nearly fifteen minutes.
Hamish, growing restive as the tension of waiting mounted, said, “I’ve never been inside a house like this. Look at the floor, man, it’s squares of marble, enough to pave the streets in my village. And that stair—what holds it up, then? It’s a marvel! And worth a murder or two.”
Rutledge ignored him and the uncomfortable stiffness of Sergeant Davies, who seemed to grow more wooden with every passing minute. The butler returned eventually and said with ill-concealed censure, “Miss Wood will receive you in her sitting room, but she asks that you will make your call brief.”