Charles Todd - A test of wills

Hamish stirred but made no remark. He had no need to. Rutledge found himself saying, "Then the Kings of Israel must not be sleeping peacefully in Abraham's bosom. As I remember, they were at war most of the time."

Carfield nodded graciously to parishioners who had just come in, a man and his wife, then turned back to Rutledge. "Make light of it if you wish. But something deep down in Charles Harris was frightened by the man he was. He was a Gemini, you see, two forces in one body. In my opinion he needed to come home to Mallows from time to time because it brought him peace, a sense of balance, proof that he wasn't a man who actually enjoyed killing, however good he might be at it. His much-vaunted devotion to the land was perhaps merely a charade for his troubled conscience."

"And Captain Wilton? What do you think of him?"

"An intelligent man. And a brave one-one would have to be to fly, don't you think? When Ezekiel saw the wheel, high in the middle of the air, he claimed it was God at work. We've come a long way since then, haven't we? Man has finally set himself on a par with the archangels. The question is, are we morally ready for such heights?"

Hamish made a derisive snort and Rutledge busied himself with the caramel flan. When he had choked down his amusement, Rutledge asked, "But would he kill a friend?"

"Wilton? None of us can see into the souls of others, Inspector, least of all me. I've always tried to understand my parishioners, but they still have the power to surprise me. Just the other day-"

"Is that a yes or a no?" Rutledge asked, looking up and catching an expression in Carfield's eyes that interested him. The man was ably playing the role of wise village priest, enamored by the part, but his eyes were cold and hard as he answered Rutledge's question.

"I would be lying if I said I liked the man. I don't. He's a private person, keeps himself to himself. I think that may be why he enjoys flying-he's there alone in his aeroplane, out of reach and accountable to no one. And a man who likes his own company more than he ought is sometimes dangerous. Hermits have been known to come out of their isolated cells and lead crusades, haven't they? But murder?" He shook his head. "I don't know. Possibly. If he were angry enough and determined enough, or if it was the only possible way to get exactly what he wanted. I think he's been used to that, getting his own way. People tend to idolize handsome daredevils."

For "people," substitute Lettice Wood, Rutledge thought to himself. But discounting the jealousy, Carfield had offered a better evaluation of Harris and Wilton than anyone else.

Sometimes hatred saw more clearly than love.

And it might be a very good idea to add Carfield's name to the very short list of possible suspects, though what purpose Harris's death might have served in the Vicar's eyes was yet to be seen. He went over his notes after dinner, sitting in his room until the walls seemed to close in on him. No illumination came, no connections. Faces. Voices. Yes. But so far leading nowhere. Except, possibly, to Wilton? He remembered his father saying once, after a tiring day in court, "It isn't actually a question of guilt or innocence, is it? It's a matter of what the jury believes, once we've told them what evidence there is on either side. Given the proper evidence, we could probably convict God. Without it, Lucifer himself would walk free!"

It was late when he got up to walk off a restlessness that prodded him into activity, useful or not.

Before the war it had been the case that drove him night and day-partly from a gritty determination that murderers must be found and punished. He had believed deeply in that, with the single-minded idealism of youth and a strong sense of moral duty toward the victims, who could no longer speak for themselves. But the war had altered his viewpoint, had shown him that the best of men could kill, given the right circumstances, as he himself had done over and over again. Not only the enemy, but his own men, sending them out to be slaughtered even when he had known beyond any doubt that they would die and that the order to advance was madness.

And partly from his fascination with a bizarre game of wits. Like the Colonel, who was far too good at strategy, he'd had a knack for understanding the minds of some of the killers he had hunted, and he had found the excitement of the hunt itself addictive. Man, he'd read somewhere, was the ultimate prey. And the police officer had the reinforcement of Society to indulge in that chase.

Rutledge had tried to explain his reasons to Jean once, when she had begged him to leave the Yard and take up law instead, like his father before him. But she'd stared at him as if he had spoken to her in Russian or Chinese, then laughed and said, "Oh, Ian, do stop teasing me and be serious!"

Now it was his own uncertainties that left him with no peace, his illusions as shattered as his mind. Why could he feel nothing about this murderer? Why?

He heard something in the shadowy alley to his left, between the baker's shop and a small bootery, a muffled cough. And then Hickam stumbled out, singing to himself. Drunk again. If anything, worse than before, Rutledge thought with exasperation. But at least he wasn't back in an imaginary France, and there might still be a chance of getting a little sense out of him.

Overtaking him in five strides, Rutledge put a hand on the man's shoulder to stop him, speaking his name. Hickam shrugged it off irritably. "I want to talk to you. About Colonel Harris," Rutledge said firmly, prepared to block his retreat down the alley or a dash across the street. "I've come from London-"

"London, is it?" Hickam asked, slurring the words, but Rutledge suddenly had the feeling that he wasn't as drunk- yet-as he wished he was. "And what does London want now? A pox on sodding London! A pox on sodding everybody!"

"The morning that the Colonel died, you were in the lane, drunk. That's where Sergeant Davies found you. Do you remember?" He forced the man to face him, could smell the alcohol on his breath, the unwashed body. The fear.

Hickam nodded. His face was ghastly in the moonlight, tired and strained and hopeless. Rutledge looked into eyes like black plums in a pudding, and flinched at what he read there, a torment much like his own. "Did you see the Colonel? Charles Harris. Or anyone else?"

"I didn't shoot him. I had nothing to do with it!"

"No one claims you did. I'm asking if you saw him. Or saw anyone else that Monday morning."

"I saw them-the two of them." He frowned. "I saw them," he added, with less certainty. "I told Forrest-"

"I know what you told Forrest. Now tell me."

"He was angry. The Captain. Pleading. They were sending us across to take the guns, and he didn't like it. You could hear the shells-the bombardment had started." He was beginning to shake. " 'I won't give up that easily,' he said. 'I'll fight. Whatever you've done, I'll fight you every step of the way!' The guns were ours at first, but then the Hun answered, and they were close, I could hear the screaming and I couldn't find my helmet. And the Colonel said, 'Don't be a fool. Whether you like it or not, you'll have to learn to live with it.' And I saw the Captain's face, and knew we were going to die-"

He was crying, tears running down his face like the shiny trails left by garden slugs, his mouth turned down in an agony of terror. "They sent me down the sunken road, to see that the flankers found their way, and the Colonel rode off, leaving the Captain behind, and I knew he'd kill me if he caught me hiding there from the guns-I didn't want to die- God help me-"

Arms wrapped protectively around his body, he bowed his head and wept with a bottomless grief that silently racked him, his shoulders shaking, all dignity and identity gone.