Royston was very weak, but alive. Rutledge, with some experience in war wounds, did what he could to stop the bleeding, and then called his name, trying to rouse him.
Royston opened his eyes, stared at Rutledge with a frown, then groaned with the mounting pain. “In there,” he managed hoarsely.
“It’s over,” Rutledge said curtly.
“I got here a little early. I was talking to Maggie, and she began to ask me about the—accident. All those years ago. Mavers had said something, Helena had told her about it, she said. Then she went into the bedroom to fetch Helena. And Helena came out with the ax. I didn’t—there was nothing I could do. If you hadn’t come—”
“Stop talking.”
“You can’t leave Maggie here! Not with that madwoman!”
“Maggie’s dead.”
“Gentle God!”
“And Helena died with her.”
“What? She killed her cousin?”
“You killed Helena. In Colonel Harris’s car. When you were twenty. You told me so yourself.”
“I don’t understand—”
“There never was a Helena. Only—Maggie, and years of being told that Helena was better and brighter and stronger than she was—until she believed it. And tried to be Helena herself. And couldn’t. But somehow she created Helena inside herself.” He shivered, thinking of Hamish, wondering if one day in the future, he’d create the man’s image in his own flesh and be a divided soul, like Maggie Sommers. “And it was—Helena—who shot Charles Harris.”
He got Royston to his feet and somehow to the car. Then he was driving as fast as he could toward Upper Streetham, watching the man’s face, watching the rough breathing.
Someone fetched the doctor from the church, and then Warren threw them all out of his surgery as he worked over Laurence Royston. All except Rutledge, who stood in the doorway watching the gentle, swift hands moving across the savage wounds of the ax. “I don’t know how this happened,” Warren said over his shoulder. “It will be touch and go, if he lives. But he’s got a strong constitution. I think we can save him. I won’t give up without a fight—”
The front door opened and Rutledge could hear Wilton’s voice, and then Forrest’s.
He went out to speak to them, leaving Warren to his work.
Later, he called London. Bowles growled at him, wanting to know what he’d done about Wilton.
“Nothing. He’s in the clear. I’ve found the murderer. She’s dead—”
“What do you mean? She? What she?”
So Rutledge told him. Bowles listened, grunting from time to time. At the end of it, he said, “I don’t understand any of this business—”
“I know. But the poor woman lived in such wretchedness that I can’t blame her for trying to bring Helena back to life. You’ll have to check with the police in Dorset, see what’s known about Maggie. It’s going to be routine, I think. I don’t expect any surprises.”
“How can two women live in one body?”
Rutledge was silent. How could he explain? Without betraying himself? And oddly enough, he’d liked Helena…. Someday, would other people like Hamish better than Ian Rutledge? It was a frightening thought. The doctor had told him he wasn’t mad to hear Hamish—because he, Rutledge, knew that Hamish didn’t exist. But Maggie was different. She’d wanted Helena to exist. Not out of madness but out of a bleak and lonely need to satisfy two vicious, selfish adults, trying to become the daughter they’d lost and mourned, a desperate bid for love by a shy, bewildered child…until she’d made Helena live again. And one day, coming across Charles Harris in a town far from home, suddenly Helena wanted vengeance. Maggie lost control—was in danger of losing herself—and when Helena attacked Laurence Royston, Maggie had somehow found the strength to stop it. Once and for all.
Bowles was saying, “—and I don’t really care. What matters is that I’ve got the Palace off my back now. We can close the case, sweep it all under the rug, clear the Captain’s good name—and we’re all back where we started from.”
Except for Colonel Harris, Rutledge thought.
And Maggie Sommers…
…and Lettice.
He felt waves of black depression settling over him, swamping him.
No! he told himself fiercely.
No, I won’t give into it. I’ll fight. And by God, somehow I’ll survive! I solved this murder. The skills are there, I’ve touched them—and I will use them again! Whatever else I’ve lost, this one triumph is mine.
“Ye’ll no’ triumph over me!” Hamish said. “I’m a scar on your bluidy soul.”
“That may be,” Rutledge told him harshly. “But I’ll find out before it’s finished what we’re both made of!”
Afterward, staring at the telephone, Bowles swore savagely. Somehow, against all expectation, Rutledge had pulled it off.
Scotland Yard would be overjoyed with the results, they’d bring the man home as a hero, and he, Bowles, would be left to bask in reflected glory once more. That nonsense about the dead woman—she’d probably committed suicide and Rutledge had been smart enough to see his chance. To put the blame on her, not Wilton. And no one in the Yard would dare to question it. Not when so many reputations had been saved…
Well. There’s always a next time. Beginner’s luck, that’s what it was. And next time, no convenient scapegoat would spoil the game….
About the Author
CHARLES TODD is the author of nine Ian Rutledge mysteries—A False Mirror, A Long Shadow, A Cold Treachery, A Fearsome Doubt, Watchers of Time, Legacy of the Dead, Search the Dark, Wings of Fire, and A Test of Wills—and one stand-alone novel, The Murder Stone. This mother-and-son writing team lives in Delaware and North Carolina, respectively. Visit their website at www.charlestodd.com.
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Resounding praise for
CHARLES TODD’s
A TEST OF WILLS
and other INSPECTOR IAN RUTLEDGE
novels
“One of the best historical series being written today.”
Washington Post Book World
“Remarkable…. Todd, an American, seems to have perfect pitch in his ability to capture the tenor and nuances of English country life with its clearly defined social strata. A Test of Wills may on the surface be another whodunit, but Todd raises disturbing issues of war and peace that still confront us today. The author promises that Rutledge will return, which is good news for lovers of literary thrillers.”
Orlando Sentinel
“A first novel that speaks out, urgently and compassionately, for a long-dead generation…. A Test of Wills is both a meticulously wrought puzzle and a harrowing psychological drama about a man’s struggle to raise himself from the dead…. Mr. Todd gives us a superb characterization of a man whose wounds have made him a stranger in his own land, and a disturbing portrait of a country intolerant of all strangers.”
New York Times Book Review
“One of the most respected writers in the genre.”
Denver Post
“The essential pleasures of the well-crafted puzzle are found in this debut, [an] absorbing story.”
Bergen Record
“No mystery series I can think of captures the sadness and loss that swept over England after World War I with the heart-breaking force of Charles Todd’s books about Scotland Yard Inspector Ian Rutledge.”
Chicago Tribune