It was Hamish who put the thought into his head. That Aurore Wyatt had escaped a war-ravaged country by marrying Simon.
“Did you or anyone else see Betty Cooper after she disappeared six months ago? Did anyone see her come back to Charlbury? Hearsay won’t do, we need hard evidence. The body wasn’t found in this village, after all. It could be unrelated to Margaret Tarlton’s death. It may not have anything to do with Aurore Wyatt.”
She touched her lips with the serviette in her lap and folded it neatly before laying it beside her empty cup. “Nobody said she was a fool. And she’d have to be, to leave bodies lying about on her own doorstep! What I ask myself is, who else had any call to harm Betty Cooper? Or this Miss Tarlton. Can you tell me that? No, I didn’t think so! And where’s it ail to stop? I ask you.”
Rutledge walked with her to the door of the Wyatt Arms. Denton nodded to him as he passed, but Daniel Shaw was nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Forsby was still talking about how difficult it had been to come forward, as if she wanted his reassurance that she’d done the right thing. But the air of triumph was still there.
He thanked her and watched her walk back the way she’d come, with a neck stiff with righteousness beneath her summery hat.
But Hamish was pointing out, with some force, that Aurore had tried her charms on him, and it had worked.
“You canna’ fault a woman like yon, for wanting her own back on the foreigner who takes her husband’s eye, when she has a husband of her own.”
He was angry all the same. Defensive, for Aurore’s sake. Surely Wyatt had some inkling of the feelings that were rampant in Charlbury! Or was the man so blinded by his own pain that he couldn’t see what was happening?
“You’re no’ her champion,” Hamish reminded him. “You’re a lonely man who’s lost the one woman he thought cared for him. You see the loneliness in her, and it turns your head. But it’s no’ the same—your Jean walked away and is marrying anither man in your place. Yon woman already has a husband!”
“I’m not in love with her!”
“No,” Hamish said thoughtfully, “I’d no’ say you were. But she can pull the strings, and you dance like a puppet at the end of them! Because she’s hurting as much as you are. And like calls to like. It’s no’ love, but it Can light fires all the same in a man!”
Rutledge swore, and told Hamish he was a fool.
But he knew that Aurore cast spells. Except over her husband. Whatever he’d felt for his wife in France when he’d married her, it was quite different now. And for all he, Rutledge, knew of it, Aurore herself had changed as much as Simon had. That was the centerpiece of their marriage—change—and it might not have been all on one side.
If Aurore’s marriage was empty, she might well be frightened of other women catching Simon’s eye. If Simon neglected her, she might well be driven to having an affair, to point out to him that others wanted very badly what he chose to cast off.
Which might explain why the husbands of Charlbury were besotted and the wives were prepared to see Aurore Wyatt hang, if it took her away from there.
24
Rutledge was halfway to his car when he saw Hildebrand coming out of the Wyatt house. The Singleton Magna inspector saw him as well and signaled Rutledge to wait. When he reached the car, there was a nasty gleam in Hildebrand’s eyes. For a moment he studied Rutledge, and then said, “Well, you can pack your bags tonight and leave for London in the morning. I’ve got the Tarlton murder solved. Without the help of the Yard, I might add. You’ve been precious little help from the start, come to that.”
“Solved? That means an arrest, then.”
“Of course it does. Keep my ear to the ground, that’s what I do. Truit tells me what he doesn’t tell you—well, no reason why he should, is there? You were here to find the children. And they’ve been found, haven’t they?”
He was gloating, his face gleaming with it, his manner offensive but just short of insulting. He paused to let Rutledge respond.
“That’s good news,” he answered.
Hildebrand still waited and, when Rutledge had nothing more to add, went on with malicious pleasure. “I’m having a search warrant brought. We’ll find the murder weapon and that suitcase you were so fond of throwing in my face. And when we do, I’ll have my murderer. Ever seen a woman hang? Delicate necks, over swiftly.”
Rutledge felt cold, not sure whether Hildebrand was telling him the truth or trying to rouse him to anger. “Stop beating about the bush, Hildebrand!”
He held up a square hand, the back of it toward Rutledge, and began to tick off the points, bending down each finger as he went. “Witnesses saw Mrs. Wyatt driving the victim to Singleton Magna, even though she denies it. Mrs. Wyatt wasn’t happy about the Tarlton woman coming here. Jealousy, I’m told. Mrs. Wyatt could wash up after the murder at that farm of the Wyatts’, and nobody was the wiser. Handyman didn’t see her leave and didn’t hear her return. That’s where she tucked the murder weapon and probably the suitcase as well, out of sight into the hay or under one of the sheds. Who’d notice a worn spanner or an old hammer in that yard full of rusting junk?”
“Why did you change your mind?” Rutledge forced himself to ask. “I thought you were convinced that Mowbray had killed Margaret Tarlton, mistaking her for his wife.”
“I was fairly sure of that, given the evidence. But we found something else interesting today. I sent one of my men to Gloucestershire, where the Tarlton woman’s relatives live. They were that upset, to hear she was dead, not just missing. They asked my sergeant if she’d left a will, and he was smart enough to go to London to find out. Lawyer wouldn’t let him see it, but Miss Tarlton had left everything to her young godson, the cousin’s child, we got that much out of the old fool. And her house to Simon Wyatt. There’s the motive right there! Miss Napier may’ve thought she was engaged to Wyatt, but she wasn’t the only string to his bow. Must have put both their noses out of joint, when he came home with that French wife! And must have put his wife’s nose out of joint when she discovered his mistress was coming to live with them!”
“I don’t think—” Rutledge began through the clamor Hamish was raising in his head.
“You aren’t paid to think,” Hildebrand said, unconsciously quoting Old Bowels. “You’re paid to find murderers. Stay out of my way until this is finished, I’m warning you!” He strode off, marching purposefully toward the car waiting for him at Truit’s house. Watching him go, Rutledge swore.
Hildebrand had hardly passed from view, on his way back to Singleton Magna, when the Napier car came down the same road, making for the inn. Rutledge assumed it was Benson, going to fetch Elizabeth Napier, then realized that there was a man seated beside him.
The car pulled up in front of the inn and Rutledge saw Benson pointing in his direction. Benson’s passenger nodded and got down, walking toward Rutledge. The distinguished face, the trim beard, the broad shoulders told him at once that this was Thomas Napier.
Napier said, as soon as he was within hearing, “Inspector Rutledge?’
“That’s right.” Rutledge had been in his car on the point of leaving, but killed the engine and got down to take the hand Napier held out to him.
“Thomas Napier, from London. Is there any place where we can speak privately?” he asked, looking around. “That bench over there by the pond, I think?” he went on, unconsciously choosing the place where Rutledge had questioned his daughter. The ducks had gone, leaving the surface of the pond like a mirror, reflecting the sky.