Charles Todd - A test of wills

"How do you know what might drive a man to murder?" he asked.

She studied him for a moment with those dark, clear eyes, and said, "How do you? Have you ever killed a man? Deliberately and intentionally? Not counting the war, I mean."

Rutledge smiled grimly. "Point taken." After a moment he added, "If we scratch Wilton from our list of suspects, have you got a name to put in his place?"

"Mavers," she said instantly. "I wouldn't trust him as far as I could see him!"

"But he was in the village on Monday morning. In plain view of half a hundred people."

She shrugged. "That's your problem, not mine. You asked me who might have shot Charles, not how he did it."

"It appears that Wilton was seen by several witnesses in the vicinity of the meadow where Harris died."

"I don't care where he was seen. I tell you he wouldn't have touched Charles Harris. He's madly in love with Let- tice. Can't I make you understand that? Why would he risk losing her?"

"Are you still in love with him?"

Color rose in her face, a mottled red under the soft, fair skin. The earnestness changed to a clipped tension. "I was infatuated with Mark Wilton five years ago. He came to Upper Streetham one summer, and I fell in love with him the first time I saw him-any girl with eyes in her head must have done the same! Mrs. Davenant's husband had just died, and Mark stayed with her for a while, until the estate was settled and so on. I envied her, you know, having Mark's company every day, from breakfast to dinner. She's only a few years older than he is, and I was sure he'd fall in love with her, and never notice me. Then we met one Sunday after the morning service, he called on me later, and for a time, I thought he was as in love with me as I was with him."

She stopped suddenly, as if afraid she'd said too much, then went on in spite of herself. "We made quite a handsome pair, everyone said so. He's so fair, and I'm so dark. And I think that was part of my infatuation too. The trouble was, Mark wanted to fly, not to find himself tied down with a wife and family, and at that point in my life I wanted a rose- covered cottage, a fairy-tale ending."

For a moment there was a flare of pain in her dark eyes, a passing thought that seemed to have no connection with Wilton but was directed at herself-or at her dreams. "At any rate, I had several letters from Mark after he went away, and I answered a few of them, and then we simply didn't have anything more to say to each other. It was over. And it wouldn't have done. For either of us. Does that answer your question?"

"Not altogether." Her color was still high, but he thought that it was from anger as much as anything else. And that intrigued him. He found himself wondering if Mark Wilton had been having an affair with his widowed cousin-and using Catherine Tarrant as a blind to mislead a village full of gossips. If she'd guessed that, her pride might have suffered more than her heart. And she might defend him now to protect herself, not him. "Are you still in love with him?" he asked again.

"No," she said after a moment. "But I'm still fond enough of him to care what happens to him. I've got my painting, I've made quite a success of that, and any man in my life now would take second place." He could hear a bleak undercurrent of bitterness behind the proud declaration.

"Even the fairy-tale prince?"

She managed a smile. "Even a prince." She had stripped off her soft leather gloves when she came into the Inn, and now she began to draw them on again. "I have the feeling I've only made matters worse. Have I?"

"For Captain Wilton? Not really. So far you haven't told me anything that would point in his direction-or away from it. Nothing has changed, as far as I can see."

Frowning, she said, "You must believe this, if nothing else. Mark wouldn't have harmed Charles Harris. Of all people."

"Not even if Lettice now inherits Mallows?"

Startled, she laughed. "Mark inherited his own money years ago, quite a lot of it. That's what made it possible for him to learn to fly, to buy his own aeroplane. He doesn't need hers!"

As she rose and said good-bye, he considered for a moment whether she had come for Captain Wilton's sake-or for some private motive. And what that motive might be. Not her own guilt, as far as he could see. If she still loved Wilton, killing Charles Harris was not the way to bring the Captain back to her. And jealousy would have been better served by shooting Wilton himself. Or Lettice.

Then why was it that the bitterness and pain he'd read in Catherine Tarrant's voice seemed far more personal than the altruistic act of coming to a friend's defense?

"Women," Hamish said unexpectedly. "They always ken the cruelest way to torment a man for what's he's done, witting or no'."

Rutledge thought of Jean and that day in the hospital when she had abandoned him to his nightmares. She'd intended to be kind-that's what had hurt him most. Outside, picking up her bicycle and leading it away from the railing, Catherine Tarrant paused, biting her lower lip, busy with her own thoughts. Mrs. Crichton's estate agent came out of the Inn and spoke to her as he passed, but she didn't hear him.

"Oh, damn," she accused herself silently, "you've muddled everything. You should have had the sense to leave well enough alone, to stay out of it. Now he'll start to pry and probe-" If Inspector Forrest had been handling the enquiry, he would have listened to her. He'd known her family for ages, he would have believed her without bringing up what happened in the war. Why on earth had they sent for someone from London instead of leaving this business to the local people!

But she knew the reason. The finger of suspicion must be strongly pointing toward Mark already, and everyone in Warwickshire was running for cover. There had been a dozen photographs of the King and Mark together, he'd dined with the Prince of Wales, was invited to Scotland to shoot, had even accompanied the Queen to a home for soldiers disabled by mustard gas-and questions were going to be asked when he was arrested for a bloody murder involving another war hero. Buckingham Palace would be icily furious.

Then where was their case? Not just that stupid quarrel. Surely you wouldn't arrest a man simply because he had a roaring argument with the victim the night before. There had to be more damning evidence against him than that. And who were these people who claimed to have seen Mark near the place where Charles Harris had died? What else had they seen, if someone had the wit to ask them the right questions?…

For a moment she debated going straight to the Davenant house and asking Mark himself who the witnesses were. But Sally Davenant would be there, smiling and pretending not to notice how badly Catherine wanted to speak to Mark alone. Making the unexpected visit seem more like a ploy, an emotional excuse to come back into his life. And that would be hard to explain away.

She hadn't told Rutledge the whole truth about Mrs. Dav- enant either. But she didn't care about anyone else if Mark could be protected. She still wasn't certain why she was so determined to help him. In the wild tangle of her emotions, he was the man who had opened her eyes to passion and prepared her for what had come later. And for that alone perhaps she owed him something.

There must be a better way of getting to the bottom of this. She'd find Inspector Forrest and make him tell her everything she wanted to know. He wouldn't be like the Londoner, stark and unfeeling. A man to watch, that one!

Steadying the bicycle, she began to pedal, absorbed in the question of how best to handle Forrest. Catherine met him just coming home from Lower Streetham and looking tired. He was middle-aged, thin and stooped, more the university don than a village policeman. He smiled when she hailed him, and waited by the steps of his house.