Rutledge knew why he and Cormac bristled. They were at opposite ends of the pole. Cormac wanted the family skeletons packed away where they couldn’t rattle, and he, Rutledge, was in the process of digging them out and displaying them on the village green. Antagonists. Two men used to having their own way—and each finding the other blocking it.
He found himself wondering suddenly if it was Cormac’s City reputation that he was protecting so ardently—or a woman he’d wanted to love but couldn’t.
Hamish said, out of the blue, “The heart doesna’ care what she is, if he wants her badly enough. But the head doesna’ rest easy on the pillow when she’s a killer.”
Which was true.
He, Rutledge, still wanted Jean, though he knew—he had seen for himself—that she couldn’t bear to have him come near her ...
They were nearly back to the village when Rutledge pulled into a farmer’s muddy lane and switched off the engine.
Turning to Rachel, he said, “You told me about a letter last night. Whether you want to remember telling me or not, it’s up to you. But it will save all of us a great deal of time and fuss if you simply finish what you started.”
“What will you do, if I don’t? Make me walk back to Borcombe from here?” she retorted.
“You know I wouldn’t do that. Rachel for God’s sake, you may well be concealing evidence.”
“No, I’m not!” she said fiercely, turning in her seat to face him. “The letter was to me! Not to the police or an inquest full of prying eyes. I don’t know how you managed to make me speak of it. If I’d been myself, if you hadn’t tricked me, I never would have!”
“You told me, the day you sent for Scotland Yard,” he said tiredly, ignoring Hamish’s accusations and objections. “You made your decision then. And there’s nothing you can do now to take it back again.”
“I won’t let you have my letter!”
“Then tell me what it says.”
There was an angry silence between them. And then, in a voice that was so different he didn’t realize at first what she was doing, she began to repeat the words from memory.“My Dear,“The time has come for you to move away from the
past. Myself Peter. We’ve both cared for you, in our different
ways. But I’m not the man you think I am—I never was.
You must believe that! And Peter is gone. You’ve
grieved for him, and you may grieve for me, but neither
of us could have given you the happiness you want. More
than anything else, you must remember that we were only
pale shadows of what life ought to bring to you, the man
who will give you love and children and long years of joy.“I have loved you too dearly to walk away in silence
and leave you alone with an empty heart. I have been
guilty of many things, but I have never taken your affection
for granted. Whatever may be said about me, I have never
lied to you. Don’t ever let them tell you otherwise!
“Yours,
Nicholas.”
There was a stillness in the car after she’d finished. He made himself look down at his hands, resting on the wheel, and not at her.
“I didn’t know, when I got it, that he was going to die. I thought—I thought he was worried for me, Peter’s death, my—my own feelings towards him, my hopelessness about that. I did know—for some time—that Olivia was having trouble again, with the paralysis. I suppose I’d told myself that in a few years—five, perhaps—she might—something might happen. The doctors had never held out much hope of—of a long life for her! And if he was free—if I were free—if he wanted to come to me, he could. That for Olivia’s sake, all these years he’d lied to himself—lied to me—lied to her. About how he really cared for me. I told myself he’d let me marry Peter because he thought it was for the best. I told myself that he couldn’t leave Olivia alone in that house, with no one but the servants to look after her. That he’d stay with her—and I respected him for that!—until the end. That—Oh, damn, damn, damn! I told myself what I wanted to hear. But he didn’t want to go on living, did he? Or he would have!”
There were no tears on her cheeks when he finally looked at her, only a great sadness in her face that touched him deeply.
“And for weeks afterward I asked myself, What hold did she have over him? What was it that was stronger than anything he could have felt for me? Why couldn’t she let him live? What was it that Olivia knew and I didn’t?”
This time there was a fierce anger in her voice, a need that was so ferocious, so passionately real, that she had been driven to act. To send for the Yard.
17
Rutledge didn’t know what to say, how to answer her.
Instead he got out and started the car again, and drove silently back to the village. In front of the cottage, as he pulled up the brake, he said, “You weren’t prepared for murder, were you?”
“No—I thought—I don’t know what I thought.” Her voice was still husky. “But I had to know why—And there wasn’t anyone else I could speak to. Most certainly not Peter’s brother in Whitehall! I told myself that Scotland Yard would be objective and quick, and I’d at least know why Nicholas died. That’s all I wanted to hear. And now, now you’ve dragged in Richard—and Anne—and Rosamund— and I’m so frightened I can’t sleep. I don’t want to know any more. I’d rather believe that Nicholas didn’t love me than discover something awful about him that I couldn’t bear to live with!”
“Will you come back to the Hall with me? I want to show you something.”
“No, I won’t be tricked again.”
“This isn’t a trick. Let me show you some things I found. Some things I’m not sure I understand. But very .. . worrying. And the reasons why I’m still here. You may be able to explain them away. It would be better for all of us, if you could.”
She shook her head, then raised it and looked hard at him. “If I do, will you go away? Back to London and let it be?” “That depends,” he said, “on the truth.”
They drove to the Hall, taking the long way around and leaving the car in front of the steps while he led her out to the headland to see the burned stretch of land. The rain had made the grass grow again, and the patch was nearly covered now. But she could still make it out. Barely.
Frowning, she said, “Are you telling me that Stephen burned Olivia’s papers here? But why?”
He took an envelope from his pocket and shook the small objects it contained into the palm of his hand. A bit of ribbon, the silver edge of something, the length of leather.
She touched them gently. “My first thought would be love letters, seeing that ribbon. Was it blue, do you think? A woman would choose blue. Olivia liked green, but not that pale shade. It isn’t the sort of ribbon you see on a woman’s clothing, is it? Or the hair. But a nightgown? Or a very young child’s gown? Love letters would be more likely. Olivia’s, I’d say.” She smiled wryly at him to hide the hurt. “I can’t imagine Nicholas being sentimental enough to keep all my letters bound in ribbon!”