The doctors had warned him he was still at risk, that it might be too soon to go back to the pressures of the Yard, while his own stability was an uncertain factor—and he’d fought them, inch by inch, to try returning.
And then a line of poetry came running through his head like a bright and deadly thread.If I choose to die,There is peace in darkness, and no pain.The grave is safe—
It was as if Olivia herself urged him to fail, to choose the darkness and leave the past intact. Chambers would never speak of it again. Rutledge was certain of that—
But the very last lines of the same poem came back to him too.If I choose to live,Oh, God, it will never be the same ...Yet I prevail—
The dilemma of Olivia Marlowe, who could give and who could destroy with equal adroitness.
13
His voice still shaken, Chambers said, “I need a drink. From the look of you, I’ve no doubt you could use one too.” He turned and opened the parlor door, crossing the hall to the inn’s dining room. There he took a table by the window, pulled out the other chair for Rutledge, and sat down heavily. In the watery light, he looked old and tired, but Rutledge knew it was an illusion.
Trask came hurrying across the room to ask them what they’d have, and Chambers ordered whiskey, glancing at Rutledge to see if that met with his approval. “Make it a strong one, and then we’ll have our lunch. I can’t travel back to Plymouth half sober.”
When Trask had gone again, Chambers sighed. “You’re a damned hard man, do you know that?”
“I’m stubborn, that’s all.”
Chambers smiled grimly. “Well, so am I. I loved Rosamund, damn it. I don’t want to think I missed the causes of her distress at the end, and I don’t want to think that one of her family could be—evil. That’s what it would have to be. Not wickedness, you understand. That’s entirely different. Do you believe in evil, Inspector, or did you lose that, along with God?”
“I’ve seen enough evil in my work. I respect its existence.”
“Yes, that’s probably very true. I don’t, as a country solicitor, deal with crime as often as I deal with property and wills and contracts, the ongoing bits and bobs of everyday life. Still, God knows money often brings out the worst in people! But it strikes me—having seen some of the dregs of life myself—that evil is something we don’t understand because it’s outside the pale of ordinary experience.”
“You should tell that to the rector, Smedley. He has strong views in that direction himself.”
“Yes, I know him, a good man. But the point I’m making here is that I knew everyone in Mrs. FitzHugh’s household, and I sensed no evil there. I couldn’t point my finger at any one of them, and say, ‘There I have some doubts’ or ‘I can’t feel easy about that one.’ Mind you, I’m still not agreeing with you on any of this,” he added wryly, “but for the sake of argument—”
Yet Rutledge could see that Chambers was already following the path of his own reasoning. “We can eliminate both Stephen and Susannah. They were born after it all began,” he said.
“Began? Where?”
“With Anne, Olivia’s twin sister. To be more precise, with her death.”
“Damn it, she fell out of a tree!”
“Or was pushed. And our choices are broader now. Nicholas, Rachel, Olivia. Rosamund. James Cheney and Brian FitzHugh. Cormac. They were all alive at that time. The servants. We can’t leave them out of the equation.”
“You can omit the adults,” Chambers said testily. “They weren’t there when it happened. Not even one of the nursery maids.”
Ignoring him, Rutledge said, “And next was young Richard.”
Chambers’ black brows snapped together. Trask came just then with their glasses, and as he walked away again, Chambers said, “All right. He was out on the moors, during a family picnic. Olivia was with—”
He stopped.
Rutledge waited, watching the trained mind work behind the disbelieving eyes. Watching the solicitor vie with the prejudices of the lover.
“No!” he said in a fierce whisper. “No, I will not accept that! Not Olivia! She was the apple of her grandfather’s eye. She was Rosamund’s shadow. She was, for God’s sake, a remarkably courageous and astute woman, never mind the poetry! She wouldn’t have touched that child!”
“But don’t you see? That’s the key to a successful murderer. When no one is willing to believe he or she could possibly be behind such cruelty.”
Chambers shook his head adamantly. “No. If we must put the blame on someone, let it be Cormac. He was no child of Rosamund’s, and I know very little about his childhood, which makes it easier to point my finger in that direction. Yes, hypothetically Cormac I will accept! But not Olivia!”
“All right, Cormac, if you will. What did he have to gain, killing Anne? Or young Richard? I can see that killing James Cheney might have made way for Cormac’s father to marry the grieving widow, but Cormac was never in line to inherit the house or vast sums of money, and still isn’t. I don’t know how Susannah Hargrove’s will stands, but I should think she leaves her share of the estate to her husband, if it hasn’t been sold by the time she dies.”
“I can’t break my trust and tell you how her affairs stand, but yes, I can be frank about one matter. Susannah doesn’t leave her share of the house to Cormac. After all, she’s got a family of her own to think of. Or soon will.”
“Then why should Cormac kill people and risk being caught? If he’s nothing to gain? And without fail the outsider is the first to draw suspicion. There’s always the ugly possibility of childhood jealousy, I grant you, but somehow that doesn’t fit him, does it? Cormac strikes me as a clearheaded businessman who will take calculated risks in the market, but not in his personal life.”
“Well, yes, I must agree there,” Chambers replied reluctantly. “There was no call to be jealous. I know for a fact that Rosamund saw to his education, then gave him introductions to prominent men in the City when he came down from Cambridge. Just what she’d have done for her own sons! The rest he’s earned on his own considerable merit. Which brings us back to where we started. There’s no possible motive I can see for your choice to light on Olivia, either. Even if Richard did go wandering while in her care.” He finished his whiskey and turned to signal Trask, saying to Rutledge over his shoulder, “But let me put this question to you. Suppose you’re right about her. Where will prosecuting a dead woman, however evil she might have been, take you? Certainly not into a court of law.”
“O.A. Manning is still very much alive,” Rutledge responded.
Chambers turned back, staring at him speculatively. “I begin to see,” he said quietly.
Chambers left after the meal, with a final comment. “I’ll give you a hearing when you’ve got incontrovertible evidence to show me. Until then, I shall do my best not to give credence to a word you’ve told me. And my best is very good indeed, let me assure you!”
Luncheon appeared to have restored his balance.
Rutledge went up to his room, overwhelming fatigue dogging his steps as he climbed the narrow stairs.
The reactions he’d gotten from Chambers proved how far the case he could presently lay out would go in a courtroom. He’d sown seeds of doubt in the solicitor’s mind, but he hadn’t done more than make him think. And a jury is no better than the evidence presented to it. That was a maxim at the Yard.
All right then, where to go next?
The men searching the moors in this wretched weather would have to find more than suspicions . ..
Richard’s body and the manner in which it was found could go a long way towards proving murder. But by whom? What if there were no pansies at his feet to link the small body with the poem Olivia had written?