Charles Todd - A long shadow

Then why had Hensley even brought up what Constable Markham thought he'd seen?

Because, Rutledge realized, Robert Baylor was safely dead in France and couldn't deny it. And Hensley had quietly managed to shift suspicion to Grace Letteridge.

Hensley was clever. He'd escaped one black mark against his name in London. He couldn't have risked a second one here, particularly not laying hands on a young girl whose grandmother was connected to the Harkness family.

Was that a strong enough motive for the first murder? Emma's?

Bowles had given the constable a second chance, allowing him to redeem himself in the backwaters of Northamptonshire. But even Bowles would quickly wash his hands of Hensley if there was a raging scandal of that nature. Chief Superintendent Bowles valued his title and his position more than he valued a subordinate.

Rutledge had the feeling that the disconnected bits and pieces were beginning to make more sense.

But what about the second attempt at murder? Hens- ley's own?

Rutledge had made an enemy of Grace Letteridge, bringing up Robert Baylor's name. And if she'd shot Hensley in revenge for what she believed he'd done to Emma, Rutledge realized he'd better be watching his own back.

Then where exactly did the relationship between Robert Baylor and Grace Letteridge fit into this picture?

In late afternoon, Rutledge walked to The Oaks and received a chilly reception from Keating. "When am I to have my barmaid back again?" "It won't be long. Towson is showing improvement." "What brings you to my door? I've nothing more to say to you." "I've come to speak to one of your guests. Mrs. Channing. Is there a parlor where we can speak privately?" "You're not to upset her," Keating told him belligerently. "Not under my roof." Surprised by such unexpected protectiveness, Rutledge said, "I've come to ask a favor of her. Not badger her." Hamish said, "She has befuddled him." Keating went away to speak to her and after several minutes returned to conduct Rutledge to a small but pretty sitting room done up in cream and gold, as if Keating had followed the existing color scheme when he repainted the room for his use. Meredith Channing was there, standing.

"Is anything wrong?" she asked anxiously, trying to convey her concern without giving the listening Keating anything to whisper about over the bar.

"I need someone I can trust to help me test a theory."

"Ah." She nodded to Keating, thanking him and dismissing him at the same time.

The innkeeper left the room reluctantly, and Rutledge wouldn't have put it past him to listen outside the door.

"I didn't know I was someone you trusted," she told Rut- ledge with a wry smile. "You continue to surprise me."

He had the grace to flush and said, answering her smile, "It's your eyesight and your honesty I want to put to the test."

"Then tell me what you need."

"Will you come with me first, to pay a visit to the rector, Mr. Towson? He's taken a nasty fall, and I think you might cheer him a little."

He inclined his head toward the door, and she glanced at it, recognizing his suspicion.

"Of course. Let me fetch my coat, Inspector, and I'll come directly."

He waited in the entrance hall, and after a time she came dressed in a warm coat of deep burgundy and a very attractive hat. He thought of his sister Frances, who enjoyed hats and wore them with grace and style.

She walked with him down the hill to Whitby Lane and then to Church Street. When they were out of earshot of the inn, she said, "Do you really wish me to visit the rector? I can't quite believe you've got the time to take up good works."

"As a matter of fact, you'll spend a few minutes with him, and afterward I want to take you to a window in his attic. I'd like you to wait there until I've walked to Frith's Wood, and then mark my progress. After that, depending on what you've got to tell me, I'll take you to stand at another post."

"Why me?"

"Because as far as I can tell, God help me, you haven't got any connection to anyone here, and you have no reason to lie about what you see. I need that objectivity."

She laughed. "Ian-I may call you Ian, I think, if I'm pressed into service by the Yard-what is it I'm supposed to see?"

"Wait a bit, until I've shown you the setting. Then it should be very clear."

They walked on in silence. Her stride matched his; this was a woman who was independent and self-assured-and more than a little unsettling.

When they turned into Church Street, she said, "Oh, what an interesting church!"

"As a reward for good behavior, I'll show you the ceiling before I take you back to the inn. Which reminds me, do you think Keating is trustworthy? You're the only guest now. And his barmaid is currently nursing the rector."

"Oh, I think I'm quite safe. My virtue as well as my life. What is Keating's history? One seldom meets an innkeeper who is surly to his guests, as if he would prefer it if they never came at all."

"I don't know, frankly. He appears to like The Oaks because it isn't in the center of Dudlington, as most pubs and inns generally are. He isn't watched, I expect-not a part of the rampant gossip that keeps the village on its toes."

"Yes, that could be. The bar isn't rowdy at night, I can tell you that. Oh, people laugh and they play at darts and there's even a chessboard in one corner, if anyone is interested. I peeked in there this afternoon when he'd gone to Letherington to buy my dinner."

"You'd make a good policeman," he told her, opening the gate to the rectory walk. "Watch the flagstones."

But she'd turned to look beyond at the encroaching fields. "It's so barren, so empty." "There are fruit trees here and there. In fact I think that's a pear in the corner of the wall. It might be pretty here in the spring-or pastoral in summer, when the cattle and sheep are out there grazing." "Yes, I'm sure. But just now, I feel-I don't know-the word that comes to me is naked." "A target," Hamish said, and Rutledge shivered. She turned back, and he followed her up the walk. He went to the rector's room first and told him that there was an attractive visitor downstairs. "Who is it?" He raised himself on his pillows, drawing his dressing gown across his nightclothes. "You don't know her. But I think you'll enjoy her company." Towson, his spirits lifting, said, "Have I shaved properly? And my hairbrush, it's there on the top of the tall dresser." When Towson was satisfied, he said, "Is Hillary still in the kitchen? I might ask her to bring us tea." His expression was longing, and Rutledge laughed. "I'll see to it." When he returned with Mrs. Channing, Rutledge watched in amusement as the rector's eyes widened. "I'm so sorry to meet you under such unhappy circumstances," she said warmly, walking to the bed to take his hand. The Queen herself couldn't have done it more graciously, moving down long rows of wounded in a hospital ward. Rutledge, standing in the door, saw Towson rise to the occasion and, even in his dressing gown, put on his churchman's face, finding the right words to welcome his guest. Leaving them to get acquainted, he went down to the kitchen and asked Hillary Timmons to prepare tea. By the time Rutledge came back with the tray, Mrs. Channing and the rector were gossiping like old friends. He found himself pouring the cups and passing them, listening to a conversation about the works of Dickens.

He had already told Mrs. Channing what he wanted of her, and now he explained what he needed to Towson. He borrowed Mrs. Channing for a few minutes to show her the way to the attics and warn her to beware on the stairs.

And then he left, going out the door to the back garden, letting himself out of the back gate, and walking openly up the sloping pastures toward Frith's Wood.

It took him no more than fifteen minutes to reach the wood and step into the outriders of trees. They seemed to close in after him, and he was in the heart of the wood, walking without haste first one way and then the other.