Charles Todd - A test of wills

"Did you look for signs of a horseman here? Or the prints of Wilton's boots in the dust?"

"Inspector Forrest came to look the next morning, and then said we'd best leave this business to Scotland Yard."

"But were there signs of the two men?"

"Not that he could see."

Which probably meant that he hadn't wanted to find anything. Rutledge nodded and they moved on, soon afterward passing the point where the rather overgrown track from the east met this one.

"And that's the bar of the H, sir, like I said."

Skirting a field of marrows, they came at length to the hedgerows. Sergeant Davies quickly found his way through them, into the fields of young wheat beyond.

"We're on Mallows land now," he said. The edges of the fields where they walked were still heavy with wet earth, clinging to their boots in great clots. The hayfield higher up was a wall of tall wet stalks rimmed with weeds. Burrs stuck to their trousers and wild roses caught at their coats. Davies swore once with fervent imagination as he was stung by nettles, and then they were in the copse, where walking was easier, almost silent on a cushion of damp leaves. They came out of the stand of trees into a small, sunny meadow, where the sound of bees filled the air.

The rain had washed away any signs of blood, but the grass was still bruised and trampled from the many feet that had milled around the body.

"He lay just about there, chest down, toward the wood, one arm under him and the other out-flung. His legs were straight, slightly bent at the knees but that's all. I'd say he fell from the horse and never moved, not even a twitch. So his attacker must have come out of the trees, just as we did. Say, just here," Davies explained, moving a few feet away from where the body had been found. "Not more than ten feet, anyway, from where the body fell, depending on whether the shot knocked him out of the saddle or he fell out of it."

"If he was knocked out of it, why was he on his face- chest? If he was shot from the front, the force of the blast would have driven him out of the saddle backward. Even if the horse had bolted in terror, his feet would slip out of the stirrups and he'd have come off backward. On his back, Sergeant! Or his side. But not facedown."

Davies chewed his lip. "I thought about that myself. That Harris must have been shot from the back, to fall forward on his chest. But that doesn't fit with the horse-I saw it, there was blood all over the saddle and its haunches, but not on its ears or mane. You'd have thought, if Harris's head had exploded from behind, not the front, that the horse's mane would have been matted with blood and brains."

"Then someone turned him over. The search party?"

"They swear they never touched the corpse. And there was no question but that he was dead-they didn't need to move him."

"The killer, then?"

Davies shook his head. "Why would he do that? He'd be wanting to get as far away as he could, in case someone heard the shot and came to see what it was."

Rutledge looked around. "We've come two miles, or thereabouts. How far is the other track from this wood?"

"Two miles, a little more than that. Shorter if you don't mind rougher going than we just had."

"So Wilton could have reached the meadow either way- from the lane where we came up, if Hickam is right, or from the churchyard path, if Wilton walked that way, as he claims he did."

"Aye, but it isn't likely, is it? Somehow I just don't see the Captain waiting in the trees to shoot the Colonel from ambush! Besides, when Hickam saw him, he wasn't carrying a shotgun, was he? So where did he get the gun, and where is it now?"

"A good question, that. You've scoured the area looking for it?"

"Aye, as soon as possible we had men in the trees there and in the tall grass. But by that time, who knows what might have become of the weapon. The killer's hidden it somewhere, most likely."

Looking about him, Rutledge thought, It isn't where he's hidden it that's half as important as where he got it.

Davies pointed and said, "Look, if you go down this hill, over the fields yonder, and across the stile when you come to another line of hedgerows, you soon find yourself in the orchard behind Mallows, and that takes you to the gardens and the house itself. Of course, you can't see it from here, but the going's fairly straight if you know your way. The land's a pie wedge, like. Mallows is out on the Warwick road, and we've come up from the High Street. The crust, so to speak, runs from Upper Streetham to Warwick. Up here now, we're at the point of the wedge, having come up one side. If we followed the other side, that would be the Hal- dane property over there."

He turned to point generally in that direction, then faced the way they had just come. "Behind the church are the smallholdings you saw from the churchyard. Beyond them is Crichton land. This meadow then is farther from Mallows- the house, I mean-and the village, than any other part of the Harris property."

"Which means the killer chose this place because he felt sure the shot might not be heard. There aren't any other houses in this area?"

"No."

Rutledge walked around the meadow for a while longer, not knowing what he expected to find and finding nothing. Finally, satisfied, he called to Davies and they started back toward the car.

But he changed his mind when he reached the field of marrows and said, "We'll walk along the track-the crossbar of the H-as far as that other path coming up from the churchyard. I want to see for myself how these two connect."

The track meandered, but bore mainly eastward through plowed fields, crops already standing greenly after the rain. It joined the churchyard path in the middle of a stretch of fallow land, more or less out in the open. They were standing there while Davies described how they could continue over the ridge to the mill ruins when they saw a woman in the distance, her skirts blowing in the wind as she crested the ridge, her stride long and competent and graceful.

Sergeant Davies shaded his eyes. "That's Miss Som- mers-Miss Helena Sommers. She and her cousin live in a little cottage that belongs to the Haldanes. They let it for the summer, now and again, when there's no other tenant."

"She's the woman who encountered Wilton on his walk?"

"Aye, she's the one."

Rutledge moved in her direction. "Then we'll see if we can talk to her now."

Davies hailed her in a baritone that carried clearly, and she turned, acknowledging the shout with a wave.

Miss Sommers was in her late twenties or early thirties, her face strong and her eyes a clear and untroubled gray. She stood waiting for them, calling, "Good morning!"

"This is Inspector Rutledge from London," Davies said, more than a little short-winded after the fast pace Rutledge had set. "He's wanting to ask you some questions if you don't mind."

"Of course. How can I help you?" She turned toward Rutledge, shielding her eyes from the sun as she looked up at him.

"Did you see or hear anything unusual on Monday morning when Colonel Harris was shot? I understand you were out walking."

"Yes, I was. But this part of the country is rather hilly, and the echoes do funny things with sound. I didn't hear a gunshot, but once over the crest of the hill there, I wouldn't be likely to if it came from this side." She smiled, indicating the fine pair of field glasses around her neck. "I enjoy watching birds, and when I first came here, I was forever getting confused. I'd hear a song and swear my quarry was in that tree, only to discover he was nothing of the sort, he was in a bush over there. And the next time it would be just the opposite." The smile faded. "They say Colonel Harris was shot in a meadow-the small one beyond a copse of trees. Is that true?"

"Yes."

She nodded. "I know where it is then. I followed a pair of nesting robins there one afternoon. I wouldn't have been very likely to hear any sounds from there, I'm afraid."