Charles Todd - Wings of Fire

Rutledge could see the clenched jaw. The desperate rejection. In his own head Hamish was clamoring for him to leave the man in peace “It was an accidental overdose!”

The words, when they finally came, seemed to be torn from the depths of Chambers’ soul.

“No.” Rutledge waited, relentless. “Rosamund didn’t make such mistakes. She was a strong woman. She was sunshine and light, not despair and darkness. It wasn’t suicide, and it wasn’t an accidental overdose.”

“I refuse to accept murder!”

“Because you believe that murder, if it was done, was your fault. For loving Rosamund. For wanting to marry her. For winning her love. Just as suicide could mean a rejection of your love, murder means someone wanted to prevent another stepfather in the house, another family. Another long wait for whatever it was he-or she-wanted badly enough to kill for.”

Hamish was saying in agitation, “Where did this notion come from? You never spoke of it before!”

In the tumult of his own emotions, Rutledge tersely answered the voice aloud. “I didn’t know before. But it makes sense now. I see the pattern!”

He did. Olivia had systematically eliminated her family- the twin sister who could pass for her and steal her grandfather’s love. The stepfathers she hadn’t wanted. The half brother who had stirred up the household and kept it on its ear. The mother who was planning to marry again. But not Nicholas, never Nicholas, who had looked after her. Not until the very end, when he no longer served any purpose Hamish was still raising fierce objections. Rutledge ignored them. He was angry and unsettled and-yes-bewildered by the leap his intuition had taken without warning.

Without a motive, he could keep to himself his suspicions about Olivia. He could deny, on the surface, that he believed in them because there was no real evidence except the carefully hidden trophies of the dead. It was possible-it was likely-it was practicable-But still theory. Still his own torment.

Now, it was real. Suddenly, it was real -

He had nearly forgotten about Chambers in the dark, low-ceilinged room, standing by the door like a man who’d lost his way and waited for a sign.

The hoarse voice startled him.

“Damn you! You should have died in France!” Chambers said with such bitterness that Rutledge knew he’d won.

It was a hollow victory. It had cost both men very dearly.

Suddenly, exhausted and drained, he felt he was on the edge of a precipice inside himself, the blackness he’d fought so long in the hospital, and once, too short a time ago, in Warwickshire. It seemed to draw him, to beckon like the Sirens, a place of peace and darkness and silence where nothing could ever touch him again.

The doctors had warned him he was still at risk, that it might be too soon to go back to the pressures of the Yard, while his own stability was an uncertain factor-and he’d fought them, inch by inch, to try returning.

And then a line of poetry came running through his head like a bright and deadly thread.

If I choose to die,

There is peace in darkness, and no pain.

The grave is safe -

It was as if Olivia herself urged him to fail, to choose the darkness and leave the past intact. Chambers would never speak of it again. Rutledge was certain of that But the very last lines of the same poem came back to him too.

If I choose to live,

Oh, God, it will never be the same…

Yet I prevail -

The dilemma of Olivia Marlowe, who could give and who could destroy with equal adroitness.

His voice still shaken, Chambers said, “I need a drink. From the look of you, I’ve no doubt you could use one too.” He turned and opened the parlor door, crossing the hall to the inn’s dining room. There he took a table by the window, pulled out the other chair for Rutledge, and sat down heavily. In the watery light, he looked old and tired, but Rutledge knew it was an illusion.

Trask came hurrying across the room to ask them what they’d have, and Chambers ordered whiskey, glancing at Rutledge to see if that met with his approval. “Make it a strong one, and then we’ll have our lunch. I can’t travel back to Plymouth half sober.”

When Trask had gone again, Chambers sighed. “You’re a damned hard man, do you know that?”

“I’m stubborn, that’s all.”

Chambers smiled grimly. “Well, so am I. I loved Rosamund, damn it. I don’t want to think I missed the causes of her distress at the end, and I don’t want to think that one of her family could be-evil. That’s what it would have to be. Not wickedness, you understand. That’s entirely different. Do you believe in evil, Inspector, or did you lose that, along with God?”

“I’ve seen enough evil in my work. I respect its existence.”

“Yes, that’s probably very true. I don’t, as a country solicitor, deal with crime as often as I deal with property and wills and contracts, the ongoing bits and bobs of everyday life. Still, God knows money often brings out the worst in people! But it strikes me-having seen some of the dregs of life myself-that evil is something we don’t understand because it’s outside the pale of ordinary experience.”

“You should tell that to the rector, Smedley. He has strong views in that direction himself.”

“Yes, I know him, a good man. But the point I’m making here is that I knew everyone in Mrs. FitzHugh’s household, and I sensed no evil there. I couldn’t point my finger at any one of them, and say, ‘There I have some doubts’ or ‘I can’t feel easy about that one.’ Mind you, I’m still not agreeing with you on any of this,” he added wryly, “but for the sake of argument-”

Yet Rutledge could see that Chambers was already following the path of his own reasoning. “We can eliminate both Stephen and Susannah. They were born after it all began,” he said.

“Began? Where?”

“With Anne, Olivia’s twin sister. To be more precise, with her death.”

“Damn it, she fell out of a tree!”

“Or was pushed. And our choices are broader now. Nicholas, Rachel, Olivia. Rosamund. James Cheney and Brian FitzHugh. Cormac. They were all alive at that time. The servants. We can’t leave them out of the equation.”

“You can omit the adults,” Chambers said testily. “They weren’t there when it happened. Not even one of the nursery maids.”

Ignoring him, Rutledge said, “And next was young Richard.”

Chambers’ black brows snapped together. Trask came just then with their glasses, and as he walked away again, Chambers said, “All right. He was out on the moors, during a family picnic. Olivia was with-”

He stopped.

Rutledge waited, watching the trained mind work behind the disbelieving eyes. Watching the solicitor vie with the prejudices of the lover.

“No!” he said in a fierce whisper. “No, I will not accept that! Not Olivia! She was the apple of her grandfather’s eye. She was Rosamund’s shadow. She was, for God’s sake, a remarkably courageous and astute woman, never mind the poetry! She wouldn’t have touched that child!”

“But don’t you see? That’s the key to a successful murderer. When no one is willing to believe he or she could possibly be behind such cruelty.”

Chambers shook his head adamantly. “No. If we must put the blame on someone, let it be Cormac. He was no child of Rosamund’s, and I know very little about his childhood, which makes it easier to point my finger in that direction. Yes, hypothetically Cormac I will accept! But not Olivia!”

“All right, Cormac, if you will. What did he have to gain, killing Anne? Or young Richard? I can see that killing James Cheney might have made way for Cormac’s father to marry the grieving widow, but Cormac was never in line to inherit the house or vast sums of money, and still isn’t. I don’t know how Susannah Hargrove’s will stands, but I should think she leaves her share of the estate to her husband, if it hasn’t been sold by the time she dies.”