Charles Todd - A test of wills

He saw enormous control in each work, the sure knowledge of exactly how much and how little made enough. A natural gift of talent honed to a cutting edge by long experience. The same control she had exerted just now.

But there was not a single still life among them…

As if the whirlwind in the painter's mind couldn't be leashed that far?

He was finding it hard to relate the woman before him and the art he could see with his own eyes.

"It's unwomanly," Hamish said uneasily. "I'd not take my ease with one of those hanging above my hearth!"

As if she'd heard him, Catherine seemed to collect herself with an effort. She saw Rutledge examining her work. Brushing the dark hair aside, she said with a sigh, "Yes, I know, no one expects me when the artist is introduced. Everyone thinks C. Tarrant must be a man. Or one of those masculine women who wear trousers everywhere and smoke strong Russian cigarettes. I've considered wearing a patch over one eye and walking about with a trained ocelot on a leash. Were you listening at all?"

"I was listening. And you're wrong, I would have had no objection to your marriage. Not, at least, on the basis of Linden's nationality. I didn't know the man himself."

"But I did. And if you believe I might have shot Charles out of some twisted need to revenge Rolf, I suppose I could have. But what good would it have done, I ask you?"

"A life for a life?"

Her mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. "Charles Harris for Rolf Linden. Do you think that's why I came to see you about Mark? To make certain that he didn't hang for my crime?" She laughed, but there was no amusement in it. "It would be a terrible irony, wouldn't it, if Mark was punished for what I'd done? The two men I've cared for dead because of me."

"Who were the women in Charles Harris's life?"

The change of direction sobered her. "How should I know? He spent so little time here, and when he was at home, Mallows absorbed him completely."

"Was he ever in love with anyone in Upper Streetham? Mrs. Davenant, for instance?"

"Why on earth do you ask that?"

"Most soldiers carry a woman's image in their minds."

"Like the photos of Gladys Cooper each man wore next to his heart, in the trenches?" She considered that, head on one side. "I've never really understood why Sally married Hugh- yes, he was attractive, if you liked the ne'er-do-well dashing romantic. Enormous fun, always exciting, and he could make your heart absolutely flutter when he wanted to be charming. But as a husband, he was hopeless. For a time Laurence Royston was in love with her, I'm sure of it. I couldn't believe at first that Mark wasn't! But Charles?" She shook her head slowly. "I'll have to think about that…"

With a smile to take the sting from his words, he asked, "And you? Were you ever in love with Charles Harris?"

She laughed, this time a contralto laugh that rippled with humor. "Of course. When I was sixteen and went to my first ball. It was at the Haldanes'. And Charles rescued me from the possessive clutches of my father, who thought every man in the room must have designs on my virtue. It would have been far more exciting if they had, but Charles was there, splendid in his dress uniform, and took pity on me. So I promptly fell in love with him and slept with my dance card under my pillow for at least a month afterward. He was a terribly attractive man, not strikingly handsome like Mark, of course, but with something about the eyes, and the mouth, that you remembered."

"How much would you say your art was influenced by your relationship with Linden. Before-and after?"

"Now there's an interesting question!" she said, biting her lip as she gave it her attention. "I'd say he softened it, if anything. Love teaches you humility-patience-understanding. And acceptance. Charles told me once that I'd have made a good soldier on the battlefield because I didn't know the meaning of fear. You aren't afraid until you've got something to lose. But when you love someone or something, you're ter- rified-there's so much at stake, then, so much at risk, you see…" Driving back toward Upper Streetham, Rutledge saw Laurence Royston coming toward him on a magnificent bay hunter. Royston waved, then drew rein, indicating that he wanted Rutledge to stop as well. Leaning down to speak to him, Royston said, "While you're out in this direction, come to Mallows with me and I'll give you that Will."

So Rutledge followed him back to Mallows. This time he was taken to a small doorway on the western side of the house nearly hidden by a giant wisteria whose faded blossoms still bore a whisper of lingering scent. Royston unlocked it and then down a short, stone-flagged passage unlocked another heavy door.

They entered a large room, dark with paneling and bookshelves and tall cabinets, but with a pair of windows behind the desk looking out on a pleasant shrubbery. Royston went to one of the cabinets beside the desk, unlocked that with another key, and brought out several bundles of papers. Sorting them with the swiftness of familiarity, he quickly found what he was looking for and handed over a bundle tied in dark ribbon.

"Sit down, man. That's the more comfortable chair over there. I use this one when I've got to read the riot act. It's hard enough to numb the bones! You'll notice the seal of this document hasn't been broken. The Will is just as it was when Charles brought it up from London to put in the cabinet."

Rutledge examined the seal carefully, and agreed. "No, it hasn't been touched as far as I can see." He opened it and began to read. Ten minutes later, he looked across at Royston and said, "It seems rather straightforward. The estate is left as you would expect, and there are the usual bequests in addition to that."

Royston smiled wryly. "I hope they include a sum for the church. We'll have Carfield ranting on the doorstep if there isn't. He's very determined to have a new organ, and something has to be done about the roof as well. The old parsonage could come down around his ears for all he cares, but the church is a different matter."

A proper setting for a proper man of God.

"Why isn't he interested in the parsonage? He lives there, doesn't he?"

"To tell you the truth, I always believed that he had his eye on Mallows. By way of Lettice, of course. Charles said he would as soon see her married to a giant slug."

Rutledge laughed. It was cruel but apt.

He retied the ribbons and said, "I'll keep this if I may. When are the solicitors coming down from London?"

"Not until after the funeral. I've spoken with them, and there are contingency measures to see to the running of the estate, that's no problem. Frankly, I don't think Lettice is up to hearing the Will read, and I told them as much."

"I expect to have the Inquest tomorrow."

"Adjourned, of course?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.

"For the time being. Yes." Rutledge considered him. "Did you ever have a falling-out with Harris?"

Royston shrugged. "We didn't always see eye to eye on management of the estate. But you don't kill a man over marrows and hay. Or a new barn."

"Did you envy him? After twenty years, Mallows must carry your imprint more than his. But Harris survived his wars. He came home, eager to take charge. If Miss Wood inherited, you'd be master here again. In all but name."

"No," he said tightly. "That's ridiculous." But then he glanced away.

"Are you in financial trouble of any sort?" There was a sizable bequest to Royston in the Will, following the recommendation that he be kept on as agent.

Royston flushed but said, "No. I don't gamble, I haven't time for wasting my money in other pursuits, and I'm well paid."

"Have you ever borrowed money from Harris?"

Unprepared for that, Royston's eyes flickered. "Once," he said tightly. "Many years ago, when I got into the devil of a scrape and couldn't get out of it on my own. I was twenty-one."