Charles Todd - A test of wills

A hideously long night. It had left him drained beyond exhaustion, and at the end of it he'd said, "I'll give you a second chance-go out there and tell them you were wrong!"

And Hamish had shaken his head, eyes dark with fear but steadfast. "No. I haven't got any strength left. End it while I'm still a man. For God's sake, end it now!"

The shelling had started down the line when Rutledge summoned six men to form the firing party. It rocked the earth, shook men to their souls, pounding through the brain with a storm of sound until there was no thought left. He'd had to shout, had to drag them, reluctant, unwilling, through the falling snow, had to position them, and will them to do his bidding. And then he'd gone to fetch Hamish.

One last time, he'd said, "It isn't too late, man!"

And Hamish had smiled. "Is it my death you're fearing, then? I don't see why; they'll all die before this day's out! What's one more bloody corpse on your soul? Or do you worry I'll haunt you? Is it that?"

"Damn you! Do your duty-rejoin your men. The Sergeant's dead, they'll need you, the push will come in less than an hour!"

"But without me. I'd rather die now than go out there ever again!" He shivered, shrugging deeper into his greatcoat.

It was the darkness that blinded them, and the snow. But dawn would come soon enough, and Rutledge had no choice, the example had to be made. One way or another. He took Hamish's arm and led him up the slick, creaking steps and to the narrow, level place where men gathered before an assault.

"Do you want a blindfold?" He had had to bring his mouth to Hamish's ear to be heard. He was shaking with cold, they both were.

"No. And for the love of God, untie me!"

Rutledge hesitated, then did as he asked.

There was a rumble of voices, strangely audible below the deafness of the shelling. Watchers he couldn't see, somewhere behind the firing party. The six men didn't look around, standing close together for comfort. Rutledge fumbled in his pocket and found an envelope to mark the center of Hamish's breast, moving by rote, not thinking at all. He pinned it to the man's coat, looked into those steady eyes a last time, then stepped away.

He could hear Hamish praying, breathless words, and then a girl's name. Rutledge raised his hand, dropped it sharply. There was an instant in which he thought the men wouldn't obey him, relief leaping fiercely through him, and then the guns blazed, too bright in the darkness and the snow. He turned, looked for Hamish. For a moment he could see nothing. And then he found the dark, huddled body. He was on the ground.

Rutledge reached him in two swift strides, barely aware of the shifting of the noises around him. The firing party had melted away quickly, awkward and ashamed. Kneeling, he could see that in spite of the white square on the man's breast, the shots had not entirely found their mark. Hamish was bleeding heavily, and still alive. Blood leaked from his mouth as he tried to speak, eyes dark pools in his white, strained face, agony written in the depths, begging.

The shelling was coming closer-no, the Germans were responding, rapidly shifting their range, some falling short. But Rutledge knelt there in the dirty snow, trying to find the words to ask forgiveness. Hamish's hand clutched at his arm, a death grip, and the eyes begged, without mercy for either of them.

Rutledge drew his pistol, placed it at Hamish's temple, and he could have sworn that the grimacing lips tried to smile. The fallen man never spoke, and yet inside Rutledge's skull Hamish was screaming, "End it! For pity's sake!"

The pistol roared, the smell of the powder and blood enveloping Rutledge. The pleading eyes widened and then went dark, still, empty. Accusing.

And the next German shell exploded in a torrent of heat and light, searing his sight before the thick, viscous, unspeakable mud rose up like a tidal wave to engulf him. Rutledge's last coherent thought as he was swallowed into black, smothering eternity was, "Direct hit-Oh, God, if only-a little sooner-it would have been over for both of us-" And afterward-afterward, London had given him a bloody medal

It was an hour or more later that Rutledge walked down the stairs to the dining room for his lunch. He wasn't sure how he had reached the Inn, how he'd made it to his room, whom he might have encountered on the way. It had been the worst flash of memory he'd suffered since he left the hospital, and it had unnerved him, shaken his fragile grip on stability. But as the doctor had promised him, in the end it had passed, leaving him very tired, very empty.

Bracing himself as he opened the French doors, he was prepared for Redfern to comment, or worse still, for the other diners to stare at him in speculation and disgust. But the room was nearly empty, and Redfern had a tight, inward look about his eyes. The limp was more pronounced as he came to take Rutledge's order, and he leaned against the table.

"Been on it too much," he said, aware of Rutledge's perception. Then he shrugged. "It's the stairs that are the worst. The doctors say it will pass in time."

But he sounded dejected, as if he had stopped believing in them.

Rutledge spent what was left of the afternoon talking to Inspector Forrest in his office about the names in his notebook. It was better than being alone, better than letting Hamish reach him again too soon, and it was a way of thinking aloud that might lead to something that the local man knew and he didn't. An idle hope, he realized, when he'd finished and Forrest sat there in silence, reflectively scratching his chin and staring at the ceiling as if half expecting to find an answer written there.

"What do you think?" Rutledge repeated, trying to keep his impatience out of his voice.

"None of them is likely to be your murderer," Forrest said, unwittingly emphasizing your as if setting himself apart from the whole business. "Take Miss Wood, for a start. I've never seen a cross word pass between her and the Colonel, no, nor ever heard of one. And he'd have given her whatever she wanted; there'd be no need for trouble over it."

"What if she wanted what he couldn't give her?"

Forrest laughed. "And what would that be? I can't think of a thing she didn't already have! She's a lovely girl, nothing mean or selfish or strong-headed about her."

"Well, then, Wilton?"

"He was marrying the girl. The surest way to lose her would be doing a harm to the Colonel, much less killing him. Here, just before the wedding? It would be insanity! And what if they did argue the night before the murder? What if it is true? You can't make much out of that-not enough for murder, if you ask me! Not without more evidence than we've got."

"Then why won't Wilton come straight out with the truth and tell me what caused the quarrel?"

Forrest shrugged. "It could be something that happened in France, something only the two of them know about. Maybe something that Captain Wilton thinks the Colonel wouldn't want known, even after his death. A personal matter."

"Yes, that's what he said," Rutledge replied, and got up to pace, unable to sit still while he talked. "But we don't know, do we, and as long as we don't, I intend to keep the quarrel in mind. Mrs. Davenant?"

"A very well respected lady. She wouldn't be very likely to have a hand in murder. And what reason could she have for it anyway?"

"I don't know. Was she ever in love with the Colonel? Or with Wilton?"

"There's never been a hint of gossip. If she was in love with anyone but her husband, she kept it to herself. And somehow I can't picture her stalking the Colonel with a loaded shotgun in her hand. If she was jealous of Lettice Wood, killing the Colonel wouldn't help her any."

"Unless the Captain-or Lettice Wood-was blamed for it."