She took a deep breath as if steadying herself. “But Tuesday—two weeks ago now—I was in the drawing room, just finishing with flowers for the vases there, and Charles came in, and I—I don’t know, one of the bowls slipped somehow as I was lifting it back onto the bookshelf, and he reached for me before it could fall on me and hurt me, and the next thing I knew—I was in his arms, I was being held against his heart and I could hear it beating as wildly as mine, and he kissed me.”
Her eyes closed for a moment, reliving that kiss; then they opened, and he saw emptiness in them, pain. “He stopped, swearing at himself, telling me it was nothing—nothing! And he was gone, just like that. I searched everywhere. I finally found him, he was having lunch at the Inn, and he took me outside into the garden where no one could overhear and he said it wasn’t love. It was just that he’d been away from London too long, he’d needed a woman too long, and touching me had made him forget who I was, it was only his need speaking. But it wasn’t true, it wasn’t Charles, it was what we both felt, and I was sure of it. He wouldn’t speak to me about it for days, wouldn’t listen to me, stayed away from me as if I had the plague or something, and then on Saturday—I waited until he’d gone up to his room, and I came to the door and said I wasn’t marrying Mark, that it wasn’t fair to Mark, and that the wedding would have to be called off anyway. And he just said, ‘All right,’ as if I’d told him the cat had just had kittens or the rain had brought grasshoppers with it—something that didn’t matter…. But on Sunday—on Sunday I went to his room again when he was dressing for dinner, and he didn’t hear me come in, I caught him by surprise, standing there buttoning his cuff links, and when he looked up—and I saw his face—I ran. There was such—such depth of love in his eyes as he looked up at me, I couldn’t bear it. He came after me, told me he was sorry he’d frightened me, and then he was kissing me again, and the room was whirling about, and I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think—Mark had never, ever made me feel like that, he—he was aloof, somehow, as if his head was still in the clouds, with his planes. As if his heart was shut off somewhere and I couldn’t touch it. But Charles wasn’t that way, and I didn’t care then whether Charles married me or not, there wouldn’t be anyone else in my life. He let me go, he told me to think clearly and carefully, not to make a quick judgment, that there was such a difference in our ages that I couldn’t be sure, and neither could he, what we were feeling. He talked about honor and duty—about going away for a while—and I smiled and said I’d not be hasty. But I knew I didn’t need to consider, and I was the happiest—the happiest woman on earth at that moment. I didn’t even think about Mark! And I paid for it the next morning, because we had one night together, Charles and I, and that was all. All that I’ll have to take with me as far as my grave, because it was beyond anything I’ve ever known and could ever hope to feel, whatever happens to me….”
“I didn’t go riding that morning….” Rutledge heard those words again in the far corners of his mind, Lettice answering his question about how Charles had behaved on the morning after the quarrel. She hadn’t lied, she’d told him the truth, only in a fashion that she alone knew was an evasion. For she had seen him that morning.
“I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want people pointing at me, saying I’d had a love affair with Charles and was the cause of his death. I thought there would be enough evidence—something—witnesses—that would lead you to his killer without me. When you came that first time, I thought the only happiness I’d ever have again was seeing Mark hang. And then I realized, with Sergeant Davies standing there by the door, that anything I said would be common knowledge in the village before dinner.”
“And now? How do you feel about Wilton now?” Rutledge asked, breaking the silence.
Lettice shook her head. “I know he must have killed Charles. It makes sense, the way it happened. But—I still can’t see Mark shooting him down in hot blood, obliterating him, wreaking such a terrible vengeance. He’s not—devious by nature, not passionate or impulsive. There’s an uprightness in him, a strength.”
“He wouldn’t have fought to keep you?”
“He’d have fought,” she said quietly. “But in his own way.”
20
It was after eight when Rutledge woke up the next morning, head heavy with sleeplessness that had pursued him most of the night. He’d heard the church clock chime the hours until it was six o’clock and light enough to see the birds in the trees outside his window before he’d drifted into a drowsing sleep that left him as tired as he’d been when he went to bed.
He’d stayed with Lettice an hour or more, sitting with her until she felt able to sleep. He thought it had been a relief to talk, that she’d feel better afterward. But her last words to him, as he began to close the heavy front door behind him, were, “If I had it to do over, I’d have loved him just the same. I only wish I hadn’t lost my courage now, and said more than I meant to say.”
“I know.”
She’d cocked her head to one side, looking at him, her eyes sad. “Yes. I think you do. Don’t humiliate Mark. If he’s guilty, hang him if you must, but don’t break him.”
“I give you my word,” he’d said, and Hamish had quarreled with him all the way back to Upper Streetham.
Rutledge had a hasty breakfast and went directly to the Davenant house. But Grace, the maid, informed him that the Captain had already left for Mallows, and Mrs. Davenant had gone with him as far as the church, to see to the flowers. He came back to town and found that there was already a gathering of people in the lane near the church, though it was only a little after nine. Cars and carriages were lined up, having brought guests from Warwick and elsewhere, and small groups were standing about talking quietly.
The church bell began to toll soon after nine-thirty, deep, sonorous, welling out over the countryside. The hearse had already drawn up, and the casket, oak and bronze, had been carried inside by men from Charles’s Regiment acting as pallbearers, their uniforms red as blood in the sunlight.
Rutledge walked about, looking to see if Sally was indeed in the church, and found her giving instructions about the placement of wreaths in front of the coffin. Carfield, magnificent in flowing robes, was already greeting the mourners, moving among them like a white dove in flocks of crows. He went back outside.
Catherine Tarrant arrived, saw him, nodded, and walked quickly to the church, not looking to the right or left. The women from Upper Streetham made a point of cutting her dead as she passed, but several people from London spoke to her as if they knew her.
Rutledge stopped Sergeant Davies when he arrived and asked, “Have you seen Royston? I need to speak to him.” He wanted an invitation to the reception, to keep an eye on Wilton. And he wanted to ask Royston about the place where Charles might have been killed.
Davies shook his head. “He was supposed to be here and greet these people. Mr. Haldane is over there, speaking to some of them. Beyond Carfield. The one with the fair hair.”
Rutledge could see the tall, slim figure moving quietly from group to group. Sally Davenant came out to join Haldane just as the car arrived with Lettice Wood and Mark Wilton. She got out, swathed in veils of black silk, moving gracefully toward a half dozen officers who had turned to meet her. She spoke to them, nodding, her head high, back straight, Wilton just behind her with a quiet, thoughtful expression. Someone from the War Department came over—Rutledge recognized him from London—and then she moved on, impressively calm and leaving behind her looks of admiration and warmth.