Charles Todd - Watchers of Time

He said, “Miss Connaught?”

She looked up, her face streaked with tears and blood from the scrape. The misery in her eyes shocked him.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “I didn’t know who else to ask. These people have been very kind-but I’d like very much to go home, now.”

He crossed the room to pull out a chair from the table, to set it next to hers. “Are you hurt?”

“Hurt?” She stared at him, as if the word was foreign to her. “I don’t think I am.”

He’d seen the car in the ditch. She’d have taken some punishment.

Rutledge reached out and gently lifted the hair from her face. His intent had been to make her more comfortable, but she flinched as he touched it, and he saw that there was a bloody cut at the very edge of her forehead.

Turning to Mrs. Danning, Rutledge said, “Could you bring me a wet cloth, please?”

She went to the sink and pumped up water into a small bowl. “It’ll be cold. Shall I set it on the stove for a spell?”

“No, that will do.” She brought him the bowl and a clean towel from a drawer. Rutledge got to his feet, dipped the towel into the bowl, and moving the hair aside, began to clean blood from the wound.

Priscilla Connaught’s breath caught at the coldness of the water, her eyes fluttering, but she held her head still like a good child, and let him work. Mrs. Danning, standing just behind him, was saying, “My dear lord, I never saw that! And she didn’t say anything-”

It was deep, and the blood welled up, in spite of his efforts to stem the flow. Rutledge said, “I don’t mean to hurt you-” And then he added, to distract her, “How did you come by this?”

“I don’t know,” she said faintly. “I don’t remember anything, except wanting to die… lying there in the ditch, wanting to die.”

She began to cry, silently at first, moving her face away from his fingers, and then the sobs shook her body, and she hunched away from his ministrations, into herself.

Mrs. Danning took the bowl from his hands. Her voice was troubled as she said, “She was this way when Michael brought her in. He’s the dairyman. He’d gone out with the milk cans, and the dogs found her first-dark as it still was, the motorcar was that hard to see in the ditch. He discovered she was alive, and ran back for my husband, to help get her out of the vehicle-her door was jammed, they said, and she couldn’t walk. They thought she’d broke her ankle or worse.”

Rutledge looked down. One ankle appeared to be swollen, the stocking sagging around it torn and filthy. A strap on the shoe was torn as well.

“Could you make us some tea?” Rutledge asked, to keep Mrs. Danning occupied. “I think it might help. I could use a cup myself.”

“It won’t take a minute. The kettle’s still hot.”

As she busied herself with the tea preparations, Rutledge sat down again and reached out to put his hand on Priscilla Connaught’s shoulder. “You’re safe,” he told her. “It’s all right now. Come, look at me.” He took out his handkerchief and pressed it into her hands, but she just clenched her fingers around it, like a lifeline, and couldn’t seem to stop the wrenching sobs that enveloped her.

If she’d been a man, if she hadn’t had the head wound, he would have slapped her lightly, to snap her out of the hysteria. Instead he said harshly, “That’s enough!”

She took two or three gulping breaths, startled into obeying, her eyes lifting in surprise to his face. Rutledge took the handkerchief from her fingers, and began to press it against her wet cheeks.

As if the words bottled inside had finally been unstopped, she said shakily, “I tried to kill him. I saw him there in the dark, bent over in his saddle, and I wanted to kill him. I drove into the hedge instead-because I couldn’t bear to hit the horse-”

He waited, letting her talk. “I shrieked at him, blowing the horn, screaming, heading straight at him, and the horse threw him then, and I drove directly over him. I wanted him dead, and then I wanted to kill myself. I tried to point the bonnet at a tree, but the wheels slipped in the grass, and I missed it and went into the ditch instead, and was terrified that I wouldn’t die-and it went black, and I-” She started to cry again. “I’m still alive!” Her eyes were on his, begging. “I wanted it to be swift, painless, over within an instant. ..”

Beyond the table, he saw Mrs. Danning standing with the teapot in one hand, the lid in another, staring at her unexpected guest, horror on her face.

She clearly hadn’t heard this part of the story, she knew only that there had been an accident. “Is there someone dead? Michael didn’t say anything about that!”

Rutledge, his mind working swiftly through what Priscilla Connaught had said, heard Hamish ask, “It couldna’ be Walsh she ran down-”

“How do you know he’s dead, Miss Connaught? Did you see him after you hit him?”

Hamish said, “There’ll have to be a search.”

Priscilla Connaught frowned. “I drove straight over him. He must be dead!” She brushed her hair back again, and looked at the blood on her fingers. “Is that his blood?” she asked, confused. She took the handkerchief from him and scrubbed the spot. “I don’t know. I can’t-I can’t remember any more. Except that it’s finished. That’s all. Finished.” She made a faint gesture and after a moment added, as if bewildered, “It’s easier said than done, trying to kill yourself-” She stared at him, as if this was a new discovery, something she hadn’t foreseen.

She began to weep again. Mrs. Danning set down the pot, lifted the teakettle from the black stove, and poured in steaming water. “It’ll only take a bit to steep,” she said.

“How do you kill yourself?” Priscilla Connaught asked weakly through her tears. “I thought of slashing my wrists, but I didn’t have anything sharp-only the tools in the boot, and they wouldn’t do the job. I wish I was dead! ”

Hamish said, “She needs a doctor’s care. She canna’ be trusted.”

It was true. Rutledge took a deep breath and said, “This isn’t the place to talk of dying. Or the time. You mustn’t upset Mrs. Danning!”

Priscilla Connaught looked up at the sturdy farmer’s wife. “I’m sorry,” she said, and then repeated it. But he thought the apology was more a response to his tone of voice than to his words.

Rutledge coaxed a cup of sugared tea into Priscilla Connaught, which warmed her, but failed to make any headway in bringing her out of her depression and exhaustion. Instead she lapsed into a silence that seemed almost a blankness. Setting aside his own tea, he said, “Let me drive you back to Osterley. My car’s just outside. We’ll fetch yours when you’ve rested. The Dannings will see to it, meanwhile. It will be safe enough here.”

With visible effort, Priscilla Connaught roused herself from her silent misery. “Yes. I can’t stay here. I’ve caused these kind people enough distress already. But I don’t know that I can walk. My foot still hurts.”

“I’ll help you, then-”

Her eyes were red-rimmed and dark with pain. “I just want to go home. Will you take me home? Please?”

“Yes. If that’s what you want.” It would probably be best to summon the doctor to her, rather than bring her into a reception room full of staring people.

With the help of Mrs. Danning at the doors, Rutledge managed to half-carry Miss Connaught out of the house and set her in his motorcar. Mrs. Danning provided a pillow for her injured foot, and stepped back, as if glad to wash her hands of her troublesome guest. He went back to the house with Mrs. Danning, promising to see that both the shawl and the pillow were returned and making arrangements for the car to be retrieved later.