Her face crumpled, and furious with himself for what he’d done, he reached for her, pulling her into his arms. She buried her face in the front of his coat and cried, her body shaking with the force of her grief. “Tell me what you know,” he urged, against her hair, his voice little more than a whisper.
“He wrote to me before he died—Nicholas—” she began brokenly.
Then the door slammed open, and Cormac FitzHugh came into the room, his shadow springing before him across the ceiling, like a great black monster, breaking the spell.
“What the bloody hell!” he exclaimed, staring at them in sheer astonishment. “What are you doing—what’s going on here!”
16
Startled and red-faced, her tears catching in her throat, Rachel broke free from Rutledge’s hold and whirled to the night-darkened windows, as far from Cormac as she could move in the little room, drawing silence around her as if it made her invisible.
Rutledge, furiously angry, turned on him instead. The two men glared at each other, shoulders tight, on the balls of their feet, ready to act or to block. They were breathing hard, for an instant the only sound in the room.
“I might ask you the same question!”
“What is this, harassment? Or a rendezvous?”
Their voices clashed, loud and thick with the force of dislike.
Hamish was clamoring. Warning. Rutledge ignored him, his whole attention concentrated on Cormac. For an instant it was touch and go, the policeman struggling to rein in his desire to wipe up the floor with the man in the doorway for interrupting when he did, and the levelheaded entrepreneur fighting the primitive urge to feel fist against flesh. The soldier and the Irishman. But Scotland Yard and the City won.
With difficulty, Cormac managed to say in a near-normal tone, “I saw the light in the kitchen. I came to find out who was in the house. What’ve you done to Rachel? Why is she crying?”
“The Hall upsets her,” Rutledge retorted. “But she came to help me look for something. It was kind of her. Leave her alone.”
“Rachel? Has he hurt you?”
She answered softly, without turning around. “I’m all right, Cormac. Just—it’s as he said. I—I still haven’t—Olivia and Nicholas. And Stephen. I—if they ‘d only hurry up and sell this house, I’d he all right!” she finished despairingly. “I can’t go, I can’t stay! I beg you just put an end to it!”
“I’m—the lawyers are dragging their feet. There’re three wills involved,” he said slowly, as if she’d blamed him, not Rutledge, for her tears. “But I’ll do what I can to speed up the sale.” He hadn’t looked away from Rutledge, except for a brief glance at Rachel. Now he looked back at her again. “Let me take you home. If the Inspector has any more business here, he can finish it in the morning, damn it!”
“No. I’m all right, Cormac. Truly.”
“You aren’t. I can see you shaking from here.” He crossed the room, ignoring Rutledge, almost daring him to step in the way. Then, gently touching Rachel’s shoulder, he turned her towards him and gave her his handkerchief. Rutledge felt himself bristling as she took it gratefully and nodded her thanks, for a moment burying her face in its white folds. With his arm around her shoulders, Cormac led her past Rutledge to the door, but there Rachel stopped and looked at the Londoner with something in her eyes that he couldn’t read. Was she asking him to go with them? Or begging him to stay where he was?
When he didn’t respond, she turned and let Cormac take her out into the passage. Rutledge picked up the lamp, left the tea things where they were, and went down to the kitchen. Blowing out the lamps, he set them on the kitchen table and walked out to the hall in the cold darkness of the house. To his surprise, Cormac and Rachel were still there, waiting for him, silhouettes without presence.
Cormac held the door key in his gloved hand, impatience marking the line of his body as he watched Rutledge take his time crossing the hall.
Then they were out in the starlit night, the door slamming behind them, the lock turning with a click of finality. Cormac came down the steps to take Rachel’s arm, and lead her along the drive. Rutledge, feeling like a left thumb—and knowing that was how Cormac meant for him to feel—followed.
“Will you let me take you back to London tomorrow?” Cormac was saying to Rachel. “Your friends keep asking when you’ll come to town again, I promise soon, but it doesn’t satisfy anyone. Let’s surprise them!”
She had stopped crying, but there were tears still blocking her throat, in spite of all she could do. Ail the same, Rachel wasn’t easily cowed, as Rutledge was learning.
“I—I’m just not ready, Cormac. But thanks for the offer.” She glanced across at Rutledge, a shadowy figure to Cormac’s left. He could see her pale face turn towards him. There was steel in her voice as she added, “When Scotland Yard goes, I’ll go.”
“If you’re sure that’s what you want?” She nodded. “All right. I suppose it never hurts to keep an eye on what’s happening. Daniel won’t give me any peace; he’s insisting that I use my influence in London to get rid of the police. I told him that might cause more problems. But Susannah is in bed right now, doctor’s orders, so he may contact the Yard himself.”
“Not the baby—is anything wrong?” Rachel asked quickly.
“No, just precautions. But try to tell Daniel that. You’d think he was the one carrying twins, damn it! I’ve seen foaling horses with more composure.”
She laughed huskily, as he’d meant for her to.
“That’s better,” he told her, squeezing her arm. They reached the shadows of the wood, and Rutledge let them walk ahead, his mind busy.
“I’ll go to see her tomorrow,” Rachel said. “I’ll even take Inspector Rutledge with me. He’s made the muddle, let him set it to rights again!”
But somehow Rutledge didn’t think that was what Cormac wanted.
He could sense the stiffness in the man as they said good night to Rachel at the cottage gate, and watched her walk up the path.
Continuing towards the inn, Cormac said harshly, “I don’t understand why you don’t pack it in. I don’t see what you can hope to achieve here—combing the moors for Richard isn’t going to solve any riddles. Or is rumor for once telling the truth? You’re here for other reasons?”
“What other reasons might there be?” Rutledge parried.
Cormac sighed. “I don’t have any idea.” They walked in silence for a dozen yards, listening to the sound of their shoes crunching along the road. Then Cormac went on, his voice weary. “What really happened in that house tonight?”
“It’s a police matter,” Rutledge said, refusing to be drawn.
“Don’t give me that bloody rot!” Cormac fumed. “If you’re trying to protect Rachel, I’ve known for years how she felt about Nicholas. What I couldn’t understand for a very long time was why he didn’t love her.”
“Are you quite sure Olivia is the killer? Anne’s killer, and possibly Richard’s?” Rutledge asked, hoping to take him off guard.
Cormac stopped in his tracks, peering at Rutledge’s face, trying to see his eyes. They were of a height, and a world apart. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I was just wondering if I ought to put my money on Nicholas, instead.”
Cormac swore, inventively and viciously, as they walked on. Even in the darkness Rutledge could see the handsome brows drawn together in an angry frown. “No, of course it wasn’t Nicholas! I may be many things, but I’m not a fool. I know what I saw in that apple tree. Nicholas was a pawn.”