Charles Todd - A test of wills

To Lettice's relief, Rutledge said nothing.

"Shall I get one of Dr. Warren's powders for you, Miss? It'll help, I'm sure it will!"

Lettice shook her head vehemently. "No, no more of those! I can't abide them. The Inspector is leaving, Mary. Will you see him to the door?"

She stood up in dismissal, then faltered, catching her breath, her face even whiter if that was possible, her eyes wide with alarm. Rutledge, still carefully watching her, reached out to steady her. But Mary was there before him, quickly taking Lettice's arm and chiding, "You must eat something, Miss, to keep up your strength. I keep telling you, it won't do, sending your tray back untouched. Sit yourself down in the small drawing room and let me talk to Cook, she'll find something you can fancy, see if she doesn't!"

Lettice said, "Yes, all at once I feel as if I'm floating, I hadn't realized-" She made an effort to smile. "Anything will do, it doesn't matter. Goodbye, Inspector." She was gradually overcoming the shock, her training and her own fierce will coming to her aid, and as she turned to Rutledge, her chin lifted a little. Pride, he realized. "About that other matter, I'm sure you're wrong. You took me by surprise, but it's a horridly convoluted theory, isn't it, and not very realistic if you actually think about it-"

The bell at the front door sounded. Rutledge could hear it pealing distantly in the servants' hall downstairs. Lettice closed her eyes, as if shutting out the sound. "I don't want to see anyone!" she said quickly.

Distracted, Mary turned to the policeman. "It's my duty to answer that, sir. Mr. Johnston isn't here just now, he's gone into Upper Streetham-"

"Take care of your mistress, I'll see to it," Rutledge said curtly, and moved to the door before she could stop him. Lettice stepped just across the threshold into the drawing room, a sanctuary of sorts.

He opened the heavy door only far enough to see who was on the step, prepared to be equally curt with the caller.

It was Mark Wilton, and the man's face mirrored his own surprise.

"Where's Johnston? What's happened?" the Captain said sharply, and shoved the door wide with a suddenness that caught Rutledge off guard. "Is Lettice-?"

Lettice stood in the drawing-room doorway, her pale, troubled face turned in alarm toward the sound of the Captain's voice. Her emotions were still raw, and Rutledge had seen her reaction, swiftly covered though it was. More to the point, so had Wilton.

Stepping into the hall, he seemed suddenly at a loss for words, his eyes sweeping her with a mixture of love and something else. Concern? Or fear?

Rutledge, intensely interested, watched the pair of them. For an instant neither of them moved, neither spoke. But a question was asked, an answer given, in a wordless exchange that lasted for no more than a matter of seconds.

He would have sworn, before God and in a crowded courtroom, that it was the look of silent conspirators that he saw pass between them. And then Mark was striding across the marble floor toward her, while Lettice came forward to meet him under the glorious painted Venus overhead.

She moved with exquisite grace, a tall, slim woman in rustling black, her hands held out before her, palms down, a blind look in her eyes, a mixture of emotions in her face.

Mark grasped her hands in his as if they were lifelines, before leaning forward to kiss her gently on her left cheek. "This is the last thing that should have happened," he said quietly, to her alone. "You know I mean that."

Yet Rutledge could sense the suppressed feeling in the man, an intensity that was both physical and emotional. And was confused by his own reaction to it. As if his hackles rose… Then he remembered, with a jolt, the way he'd felt the last few times he'd seen Jean-wanting to hold her, desperately in need of her warmth to keep the darkness away, and yet afraid to touch her. Afraid of her rejection.

Hamish, deep in his mind, said ominously, "She's a witch, man, this one'll have your soul if you let her! Are ye no' listening!"

Mary hesitated, then quickly made herself scarce, disappearing down the passage toward the servants' door. Rut- ledge, drawn into the scene before him, held his ground.

Lettice gave a quick little shake of her head, as if she couldn't think of anything to say in response to Wilton's words. Or in denial?

Still holding Lettice's hands, Wilton turned to Rutledge and asked, "When will you-er-permit us to make arrangements for the funeral?" Rutledge saw Lettice flinch, in spite of Wilton's careful words.

"Tomorrow," he replied briefly, "after the Inquest."

Wilton stared at him, wariness behind his eyes. But he said only, "Then I'll speak to you later. At the Inn?"

Rutledge nodded. Wilton was right; this was neither the time nor the place to discuss what form the Inquest was going to take.

There was an awkward silence, as if no one quite knew what to say next. Then Wilton went on, speaking to Lettice now, the words stilted, meaningless, even to his own ears. "Sally sends her dearest love. She wanted to come before this, but Dr. Warren insisted you were to have quiet and rest. If there's anything she can do, please tell me. You know how fond she was of Charles."

Lettice said huskily, "Thank her for me, will you? I don't know what's to be done next-the service, for one thing. I don't think I can face the Vicar." She made a wry face. "Not just now! Or the lawyers. But I ought to send word to someone in the Regiment-"

"Leave Carfield to me. You needn't see him or anyone else, if you'd rather not. And I'll deal with the Army, if you like. They'll want a memorial service, of course, when you're up to it. But that can wait."

Rutledge walked away from them, to the still-open door.

And Lettice said unexpectedly, raising her voice a little as if suddenly afraid he was leaving, "I expect you and I must also give some thought to the wedding, Mark. I can't-the white gown-I'm in mourning. All the arrangements must be canceled, the guests notified."

Rutledge missed the look on Wilton's face, but the Captain said only, "My love, I'll see to it as well, you needn't worry about any of that now."

But her eyes were on Rutledge, and as he stopped by the door, he could see that they were nearly the same color.

"Something must be done," she said insistently. "I can't go through with it. So many people-the formality-"

"No, of course not! I understand, I promise you," Wilton said quietly. "You can trust me to take care of it." Taking her elbow, he tried to lead her down the passage by the stairs, toward the room where Rutledge had spoken with Mary earlier that morning.

There was a frown between Lettice's eyes now, as if they weren't focusing properly. "Mary was going to bring me something-some soup. I haven't eaten-I feel wretchedly lightheaded, Mark…"

"Yes, I'm not surprised. Come and sit down, then I'll see what's keeping her."

Rutledge quietly let himself out, finally satisfied.

But Hamish wasn't.

"She's up to something!" he said uneasily. "Yon Captain, now, he's nobody's fool, is he? But that one will lead him a merry dance before he's finished, wait and see. Aye, you'll find a woman at the bottom of this business, and a terrible hate."

"Which woman?" Rutledge asked, getting into the car. "Or haven't you made up your mind? The witch? The painter? Or the widow?"

Hamish growled softly. "Oh, aye, I've made up my mind. It's you that won't see where the wind's blowing. You're the wrong man for this murder, and if you had any wit left, you'd drive straight to London and ask to be relieved!"

"I can't-if I quit now, you'll have won. I've got to see it through or put a pistol to my head."

"But you know what will happen if you drag that poor sod, Hickam, into court. They'll crucify him, and you along with him. Because the women will protect yon fine Captain, mark my words! And there's no one left to protect you."