Charles Todd - A test of wills

"Wilton was there, not a mile from the meadow, shortly before the murder. We have reason to think he wasn't on the best of terms with Colonel Harris that morning."

"And so the Captain marched up the hill hoping to run into Charles Harris, carrying a shotgun through the town with him, in the unlikely event he'd have an opportunity to use it? That's absurd!"

Rutledge was very tired. Hamish was growling restlessly at the back of his mind again.

"Why is it absurd?" he snapped. "Someone killed the Colonel, I assure you; we've got a body that's quite dead and quite clearly murdered."

"Yes, I understand that," she said gently, seeming to understand too his frustration. "But why-necessarily-is the murderer someone in Upper Streetham? Colonel Harris served in a regiment on active duty. He was in France for five years, and we've no idea what went on in his life during the war- the people he met, the things that might have happened, the soldiers who died or were crippled because of his orders. If I wanted revenge-and expected to get away with it, of course!-I'd shoot the man on his home ground but not on mine. You can take a train to Warwick from anywhere in Britain, then walk to Upper Streetham."

"Carrying a shotgun?"

She was momentarily at a loss, then rallied. "No, certainly not. Not out in the open. But people do have things they carry without arousing suspicion. A workman with his kit of tools. Salesmen with sample cases. Whatever. And you don't wonder what's inside, do you, when you see someone carrying something that belongs with him. You assume, don't you, that it's all aboveboard?"

Rutledge nodded grudgingly. She was right.

"I'm not suggesting that it happened this way. I'm merely pointing out that Mark Wilton needed a very powerful reason to kill his fiancee's guardian, practically on the eve of their wedding.

And he had heard Lettice, only hours ago, putting off the marriage. Because she was in mourning.

It made sense, what Helena Sommers had said. And it gave him a very sound excuse for ignoring Hickam's statement. But her argument also left him with the whole of England to choose from, and nothing to go on in the way of motive or evidence. Bowles would not be happy over that!

Helena seemed to appreciate his dilemma. She said ruefully, "I'm sorry. I have no business interjecting my views. I'm an outsider here, I don't know any of these people very well. But I have met them, and I'd hate to think one of them is a murderer. 'Not someone I know, surely!' You must have heard that often enough!"

He had. But he answered, "I suppose it's human nature."

As the clock in the other parlor began to chime the hour, she got up quickly. "I've been away longer than I intended. Maggie will be wondering what's become of me. I must go." Hesitating she added, "I've never been to war, of course, and I know nothing about it except what one reads in the news accounts. But Colonel Harris must have had to do many things as an officer that he as a man wouldn't care to talk about-was ashamed of, even. When you find his murderer, you may discover that his death has its roots in the war. Not in the affairs of anyone we know."

The war.

But if she was right, the war also brought him full circle to Mark Wilton, who had known Harris in France.

Or to Catherine Tarrant…

When he'd seen Helena to the dogcart and watched the Haldane pony trot off down the main street, Rutledge went back to the station to rout out Sergeant Davies. He sent him off to Warwick to find out, if he could, about anyone who had arrived there by train shortly before the murder and come on to Upper Streetham.

A wild-goose chase, Sergeant Davies thought sourly as he set out. He knew his own ground, and there hadn't been any unexplained strangers in Upper Streetham or even in Lower Streetham for that matter-before, during, or after the killing. Except for that dead lorry driver who'd been accounted for. There were always eyes to see, ears to hear, if anyone passed through. And news of it reached him, directly or indirectly, within a matter of hours. Strangers stood out, nobody liked them, and word was passed on. But going to Warwick, waste of time though it was, kept him out of the Inspector's clutches, and that counted for something. As he was finishing his dinner, Rutledge looked up to see Mark Wilton standing out in the hall of the Inn. The Captain saw him at the same time and crossed the dining room to Rutledge's table.

"I've come to speak to you about the Inquest. And the release of the body."

"I was just on my way out to see Dr. Warren. But that can wait. Can I offer you a drink in the bar?"

"Thanks."

They went through to the public bar, which was half empty, and found a table in one corner.

Rutledge ordered two whiskeys and sat down. "The Inquest will be at ten o'clock. I don't expect it will last more than half an hour. After that, you can speak to the undertakers."

"Have you seen the body?" Wilton asked curiously.

"Three days after death, I didn't expect it to tell me very much. I wasn't there to see it in place, which is what counts."

"I was there. Before they moved it. Half the town came to look. I couldn't believe he was dead. Not after going through the war unscathed."

"Oddly enough, that's what Royston said."

Wilton nodded. "You sometimes meet people who appear to have charmed lives. There was a pilot in my outfit who was at best a mediocre flier, shouldn't have lasted a month, but he was the damnedest, luckiest devil I've ever known. Invisible in the air, the Germans never could see him for some reason, and he'd find the field in any weather, instinct almost. Crashed five times, and walked away with no more than a few bruises. I'd thought of Charles as having a charmed life too. I knew my own chances for surviving were slim, but we'd plan to meet, Charles and I, in Paris on our next leave, and I always knew he'd be there, waiting. Whatever happened to me." Wilton shrugged. "That was comforting, in a strange way-certainty in the midst of chaos, I suppose."

Rutledge knew what he meant. There had been a Sergeant in one company who always came back, and brought his men back with him, and men wanted to serve with him because of that. The Sergeant's reputation spread across the Front, and someone would say, "It was a bad night. But Morgan made it. Pass the word along." A talisman-bad as the assault was, it hadn't been bad enough to stop Morgan.

He'd asked the sergeant once how he'd managed it, when he ran into him on a mud-swallowed road out in the middle of nowhere, moving up for the next offensive. And Morgan had smiled. "Now, then, sir, if you believe anything hard enough," he said, "you can make it happen."

But by that time, Rutledge had lost his own will to believe in anything, and Morgan's secret wasn't any help to him. He often wondered what had become of the man after the war…

Wilton looked at the light through his glass, almost as if it held answers as well as liquid amber, then said quietly, "I was as surprised as anybody when I made it through to the end of the war."

Rutledge nodded in understanding. He himself had gone from being terrified he'd die to not caring either way, and then to the final stage, wishing it would happen, bringing him to a peace that was more desirable than life itself.

Returning to Charles Harris, as if he found murder an easier subject than war memories, Wilton cleared his throat and went on. "As I said, I had to see for myself. My first thought was, My God, Lettice, and my second was, I still don't believe it's true-"

He stopped. "Sorry, you can ignore that," he went on, when Rutledge made no comment. "I wasn't trying to sway your judgment."

"No."

Wilton took a deep breath. "I hear that Hickam is dead drunk at Dr. Warren's. Or ill. The story varies, depending on which gossip you listen to."