Charles Todd - A test of wills

"Each of these people heard him ranting. That's clear enough," Forrest went on. "He was plaguing everyone who came within earshot, and each one will swear to that. Although the shopkeepers were too busy to pay much heed to him, they remember that he was making the usual nuisance of himself, and their customers were commenting on it. Putting it all together, you can see that he arrived in the market square early on and was still there at midmorning." He rubbed his pounding temples and gestured to the two barrel-backed oak chairs across from the desk. "Sit down, sit down."

Rutledge shook his head. "I must find Daniel Hickam."

Inspector Forrest said, "Surely you don't intend to take his statement seriously? There's bound to be other evidence more worthy of your time than anything Hickam can say! If we keep looking hard enough?" He could see that the man from London was far from well, and suddenly found himself worrying about that. You don't have the patience and the energy to give to a thorough investigation, is that it? he thought to himself. You want an easy answer, then back to the comforts of London. That's why the Yard sent you, then, to sweep it all under the rug for them. And it's my fault…

"I won't know that until I've spoken to him, will I?"

"He can't tell you what day of the week it is half the time, much less where he came from before you ran into him or where he might be going next. Mind's a wasteland. Pity he didn't die when that shell exploded-no good to himself or anyone else in his condition!"

"You took down his statement," Rutledge pointed out. Hamish, relishing Forrest's remark, was repeating it softly, an echo whispering across a void of fear. "… no good to himself or anyone else in his condition…" He turned away abruptly to shield his face from Forrest's sharp gaze, and unintentionally left the impression that he was putting the blame squarely where it belonged.

"I don't see what else I could have done. Sergeant Davies reported the conversation, and after that I had to pursue the matter," Forrest answered defensively, "whether Hickam is mad or not. But that doesn't mean we have to believe him. I can't see how Wilton could be guilty of this murder. You've met him. It's just not like the man, is it?"

"From what I can see, it wasn't like the Colonel to find himself the victim of a murder either."

"Well, no, not when you get right down to it. But he is dead, isn't he? Either his death was accidental or it was intentional, and we have to start with murder because no one has come forward to tell us any differently. No one has said, 'I was standing there talking to him and the horse jostled my arm, and the gun went off, and the next thing I knew the poor devil was dead."

"Would you believe them if they did?"

Forrest sighed. "No. Only an idiot carries an unbroken shotgun."

"Which brings us back to Mavers and his weapon. If Wilton was on either of those tracks on the morning of the murder, he could have taken the gun from Mavers's house, fired it, then put it back before Mavers came home from the village. Hickam's evidence is still important."

"And if Captain Wilton could do that, so could anyone else in Upper Streetham for all we know," Forrest retorted doggedly. "There's still no proof."

"There may be," Rutledge said thoughtfully. "Captain Wilton came to stay with his cousin when her husband died. He undoubtedly knew about the Will, and the provision regarding the old shotgun. It caused some problems at the time, I understand."

"I knew about it as well, and had forgotten it-so might he have. It's all circumstantial! Guessing-"

"What if the Colonel was the wrong victim?"

That sent Forrest's eyebrows up in patent disbelief. "What do you mean, 'wrong victim'? You don't shoot a man at point- blank range and get the wrong one! That's foolery!"

"Yes, so it is," Rutledge answered. "It's also foolery that the Colonel was flawless, a man with no sins on his conscience. When people begin to tell me the truth, Captain Wilton will be far safer. Assuming, of course, that you're right and he's innocent." Leaving Sergeant Davies to check on Royston's dental appointment in Warwick, Rutledge went searching for Hickam on his own, but the man seemed to have disappeared.

"Drunk somewhere, like enough," Hamish said. "Yours is a dry business, man. I'd as soon have a bottle myself."

Which was the only time Rutledge had found himself in agreement with the voice in his mind.

He turned the car toward the Inn and his thoughts toward dinner. Which turned out to be interesting in its own way. He had hardly cut into his roast mutton when the dining room's glass doors opened and a man with a clerical collar came in, stood for a moment surveying the room, then made his way across to where Rutledge sat.

He was nearing thirty, of medium height, with fair hair, a polished manner, and a strong sense of his own worth. Stopping by the table, he said in a rich baritone, "Inspector Rut- ledge? I'm Carfield. The vicar. I've just called again at Mallows, and Miss Wood is still unwell. Then I thought perhaps it might be wiser to ask you anyway. Can you tell me when the Colonel's body will be released for burial?"

"We haven't held an Inquest yet, Mr. Carfield. Sit down, won't you? I'd like to talk to you, now that you're here."

Carfield accepted the offer of coffee and said, "Such a tragic business, the Colonel's death."

"So everyone says. Who might want to kill him?"

"Why, no one that I can think of!"

"Yet someone did."

Studying Carfield as the man stirred cream but no sugar into his cup, Rutledge could see that he had the kind of face that would show up well on the stage, handsome and very masculine beyond the twentieth row, but too heavily boned to be called more than "strong" at close quarters. The voice too was made to carry, and grated a little in ordinary conversation. The actor was lurking there, behind the clerical collar, Sergeant Davies had been right about that.

"Tell me about Miss Wood."

"Lettice? Very bright, with a mind of her own. She came to Mallows several years back-1917, after she'd finished school. And she's been an ornament to the community ever since. We're all very fond of her."

Over the rim of his cup, Carfield was quickly assessing the Inspector, noting his thinness, the lines of tiredness about the mouth, the tense muscles around the eyes that betrayed the strain behind his mask of polite interest. But Carfield misunderstood these signs, putting them down to a man out of his depth, one who might prove useful.

"She's taken her guardian's death very hard."

"After all, he was her only family. Girls are often very attached to their fathers, you know."

"Harris could hardly be termed that," Rutledge commented dryly.

With a graceful wave of his hand, Carfield dismissed the quibble over ages. "In loco parentis, of course."

"From all I hear, he may well have walked on water."

Carfield laughed, but it had an edge to it. "Harris? No, if anyone fits that description it's Simon Haldane, not the Colonel. He was too good at killing, you know. Some men become soldiers because they've no imagination, they don't know how to be afraid. But Charles Harris had an uncanny aptitude for war. I asked him about that once, and he said that his skills, such as they were, came from reading history and learning its lessons, but I found that hard to believe."

"Why?"

"The Colonel was the finest chess player I've ever met, and I have no mean skills at the game myself. He was born with a talent for strategy that few of us are given, and he made the choice about how to use it. He fully understood that choice, that war meant playing with men's lives, not with prettily carved pieces on a game board, but battle was an addiction he couldn't rid himself of."

Rutledge said nothing. Carfield sipped his coffee, then added as if he couldn't stop himself, "Men from Warwickshire who served under him worshiped him; they tell me that on the battlefield he was charismatic, but I call it more a gift for manipulation. I don't suppose you were in the war, Inspector, but I can tell you that sending other men into battle must rest heavily on one's soul in the end."