Charles Todd - A test of wills

"If the Captain's blamed for it, she's going to lose him to the hangman, isn't she? And I can't see how she'd put the blame onto Miss Wood. Besides, if there was any real threat to Miss Wood, I can see Wilton stepping in and saying it was his doing, the Colonel's death-to protect the girl. And Mrs. Davenant ought to know that as well as I do. It would be a risk, wouldn't it? One she'd have to consider."

"And Catherine Tarrant?"

Forrest was suddenly wary. "What's she got to do with this, then?"

"I know about the German. Linden. She wanted to marry him, and she wanted Harris to clear the way for them. Instead, Linden was taken away and he died. Women have killed for less, and what she felt for Linden wasn't a girl's infatuation, it was passionate and real."

"You're on the wrong track! Miss Tarrant might have wanted somebody else to suffer too, once she found out what had happened to the German-she was that upset. Yes, I'll grant you that much. But you don't bide your time, you don't wait for a year or two, not when you feel the way she did then! You come in a rage for revenge, hot and furious."

"Then you think she's capable of seeking revenge?"

Forrest flushed. "Don't put words into my mouth where Catherine Tarrant is concerned! I said she was that hurt, she might have done something foolish straightaway, out of sheer mad grief and shock. But not murder."

Rutledge studied him. "You like her, don't you? You don't want to think of her as a killer."

Forrest answered stiffly, "I've always been fond of the girl, there's nothing wrong in that. And you don't know how people in Upper Streetham shunned her when they found out about her and the German. Treated her like dirt, the lot of them. My wife among them. As if she'd done something unforgivable."

"How did they find out? About Linden?"

"I never did learn how. But I had my suspicions. She tried to move heaven and earth to find out where they'd sent the German, and people started to talk. Gossip, speculation, but nothing anybody could pin the truth on. So I think Carfield was to blame-he was in Warwick when she came back from London on the train, and he offered to drive her home. She was half sick with grief-she may have blurted out the whole story without thinking. And he's one to pry, he could have gotten around her. At any rate he made some pious remarks on the next Sunday about loving our enemies and healing the wounds of war, just when the reality of the war was coming home to all of us, the cripples and the wounded- and the dead. And the next thing I knew, the story was racing all over Upper Streetham that Catherine had been expecting to marry the prisoner, only he'd died. That there had been something between them. That she'd even slept with him. And the damage was done."

"I've heard Carfield was courting Lettice Wood."

"Oh, yes, indeed. He'd have liked to marry the Colonel's ward-but how much he cared for Miss Wood is anybody's guess. There are those would say it was little enough, that he isn't capable of loving anybody but himself. And it's true, I've never seen a man so set on his own comfort." His mouth turned down in distaste. "All right, he's a man of God, but I don't like him, I never have."

"Royston? What do you know about him?"

"A good man. Hardworking, reliable. There was a time when he sowed his share of wild oats, his place at Mallows going to his head a bit, and he was one for the girls too. But he settled down and got on with his life soon enough." Forrest smiled. "Well, we're none of us free of that charge."

"Nothing between him and the Colonel that you know about, which might have led to murder?"

"I can't think of any reason for Mr. Royston to shoot anybody."

"He hasn't married?"

"He's married to Mallows, you might say. There was a girl years back. When he was about twenty-six or -seven. Alice Netherby, a Lower Streetham lass, pretty as they come and sweet with it, but frail. She died of consumption and that was that. He's always gotten on very well with Catherine Tarrant, but he's not her sort, if you know what I mean. A countryman. And she's a lady. A famous artist. I've a cousin, living in London. He says her work's all the rage."

"Which brings us back to Mavers, doesn't it?"

"Aye," Forrest answered with regret. "And it doesn't seem very likely that we'll prove anything against him, worst luck!"

The interview with Forrest left Rutledge feeling dissatisfied, a mood reinforced by an encounter with Mavers on his way back to the Inn.

"You don't look like a successful man," Mavers said, his goat's eyes gleaming with maliciousness. "You've got my shotgun, but you haven't got me. And you won't, mark my words. I've got witnesses, as many as you like."

"So you keep reminding me," Rutledge said, taking his own malicious pleasure in the sight of Mavers's swollen nose. "I wonder why?"

"Because I enjoy seeing the oppressors of the masses oppressed in their turn. And you might say that I have an interest in this business-a professional interest, you could even call it."

Rutledge studied him. "You enjoy trouble, that's all."

"The fact is, I like to think I can take some of the credit for the Colonel's death. That all those hours of standing in the market square speaking out against the landlords and capitalists-while those village fools reviled me-weren't wasted. Who knows, I might have put the idea into some mind, the first glimmer of the Rising to come, and the salvation of the masses from the tyranny of the few." He cocked his head, considering the possibility. "Aye, who knows? It might just have its roots in my words, the Colonel's killing!"

"Which makes you an accessory, I think?"

"But it won't stand up in a court of law, will it? I bid you a good day-but I hope you won't be having one!" He started to walk off, pleased with himself.

Rutledge stopped him. "Mavers. You said something the other day. About your pension. Is that how you live? A pension?"

Mavers turned around. "Aye. The wages of guilt, that's all it is."

"And who pays you?"

The grin widened. "That's for me to know and you to discover. If you can. You're the man from London, sent here to set us all straight." There was a little dogcart standing in the road outside the Inn when Rutledge strode up the steps, and Redfern came to meet him in the hall, hastily wiping his hands on a towel. "Miss Sommers, sir. I've put her in the back parlor. Second door beyond the stairs."

"Has she been here long?"

"Not above half an hour, sir. I brought her tea when she said she'd wait awhile."

Rutledge went down the passage to the small back parlor and opened the door.

It was a pleasant room, paneled walls and drapes faded to mellow rose at the long windows. There was a writing desk in one corner, several chairs covered in shades of rose and green, and a small tea cart on wheels.

Helena Sommers stood, back straight, at one of the windows, which overlooked a tiny herb garden busy with bees. She turned at the sound of someone at the door and said, "Hallo. Maggie told me you wanted to see me. Strangers at the house make her uncomfortable, so I thought it best to come into town."

Rutledge waited until she sat down in one of the chairs and then took another across from her.

"It's about Captain Wilton. The morning you saw him from the ridge. The morning of the murder."

"Yes, of course."

"What was he carrying?"

"Carrying?" She seemed perplexed.

"A rucksack. A stick. Anything."

Helena frowned, thinking back. "He had his walking stick. Well, he always does, and that morning was no different from the other times I've glimpsed him."

"Nothing else. You're quite sure?"

"Should he have had something else?"

"We're trying to be thorough, that's all."

She studied him. "You're asking me, aren't you, if the Captain carried a shotgun. Has your investigation narrowed down to him? Why on earth would he kill Colonel Harris? The Captain was marrying the Colonel's ward!"