A Long Shadow (32 page)

Grace Letteridge glared at him. "That
is
my pride!"

"I know. It's why you went to London, to be rid of him and of Emma and of Dudlington."

"She was beautiful. He told me he couldn't help himself, that he hadn't meant to do more than take her in his arms, and the next thing he knew, he was pinning her down on the grass, kissing her. She clawed his face. And then he slapped hers."

"And so you left."

"He'd already decided to join the army. But every time I looked at Emma, she reminded me that he'd found her beautiful, and his pledge to me hadn't stopped him from— from whatever it was he intended to do. Emma wouldn't tell me her side of what had happened. I expect she was ashamed, that it had shocked and frightened her and made her feel as if she'd betrayed me. But for a very long time, I believed she must have encouraged him in some way. I preferred to blame her than blame him, even though I knew that was wrong. Constable Markham had taken pleasure in dropping hints, you see. And of course I'd seen the scratches on Rob's face. After nearly a week of wondering, I cornered him and forced him to tell me the truth."

"What brought you back to Dudlington?"

"When Rob was killed, they found a letter among his things. It was addressed to me, to be sent in the event of his death. He told me again what had happened, that he'd regretted it ever since, and that he didn't want to die with that on his conscience. That he had truly loved me—that he wanted
forgiveness
."

She bit back tears and looked away from him.

"What did you say to Emma when you came home?"

"I showed her his letter. I thought she had a right to know."

"All of it?"

"All that mattered. But our friendship was never the same. I hadn't trusted her, I deserted her when she needed me most, and I couldn't make amends."

"If you had your chance to live through that summer of 1914 again, would you have done the same thing—walk away?"

She turned back to face him. "Oh yes. I believed he loved me. But he couldn't have loved me as deeply as I thought he did, if he was attracted by Emma. And she was only fourteen then." She paused. "To try to kiss her was bad enough. To slap a child because she spurned him was a side of his nature I hadn't seen before. What hurt most of all was that I'd misjudged him so completely. I thought he was the best of that family, but he was just like his brothers, selfish to the core."

"The fact that Emma was Mrs. Ellison's granddaughter didn't stop Rob Baylor?"

Grace Letteridge laughed, but it was harsh and full of pain. "At the time, I don't believe he was thinking very clearly about anything, least of all the Harkness bloodline."

"Did Mrs. Ellison know that Emma had attracted such unwanted attention?"

"They quarreled about it sometimes. Mrs. Ellison was of the opinion that Emma encouraged men. That if she were truly a lady—and a Harkness—even the most hardened seducer would step aside, abashed." Her mouth twisted wryly. "That made Emma cry. She told me she wanted to go to London and find her mother. And I told her that she didn't even know where to begin to look. After all, her letters had come back, she couldn't be sure where her mother might have gone next. Bath—Winchester—Oxford—Paris—"

"Do you think she heeded that? Or in desperation went anyway?"

"I thought she was dead. And that Constable Hensley had killed her. I always wondered, you see, what Robbie might have done if he'd gone too far. As it was, he'd slapped her and called her a tease. But she hadn't told her grandmother that part of it, she was too ashamed. Constable Hensley could have felt that he ought to be more successful than a farmer's son. And realized too late there was no turning back. Mrs. Ellison's name carries a good deal of weight in this part of the county. And she'd have gone after him tooth and nail, even if she thought Emma was to blame. He wasn't popular here, and everyone would have sided with Mary Ellison. Still, the skeleton you found in the wood wasn't Emma's, was it? So I was wrong, after all."

Hamish said, "You canna' be sae sure she's telling the truth."

"No, it wasn't Emma's body," he agreed, ignoring the voice. And after a moment, he added, "I find myself wondering if it was her grandfather's."

He held out the gold toothpick and watched her face. Surprise gave way to a rapid shift in emotions. Recognition. Understanding. Fear.

"It was the last Christmas present Beatrice ever gave him. Where did you find it? Surely not in the wood with the skeleton?
Dear God!"

Rutledge said, "How did you know about the toothpick?"

"Beatrice told me about it. She chose it herself, a child of five, in Northampton. Her mother had taken her there to visit a cousin, and she saw it in a shop. I doubt if she knew at the time what it was, she just thought it was pretty, and the cousin let her buy it for her father. Mrs. Ellison wasn't pleased with the choice. But the cousin told her not to be silly, the child could do as she liked. And so it was engraved and wrapped in silver tissue and a green ribbon."

"And you're certain she gave this to her father?"

"Oh, yes, there's no doubt about it. She recalled it vividly and talked about it when she missed him, because she wished she'd found something more—I don't know— more respectable? A watch fob or shirt studs, even a chain for his keys. I expect Mrs. Ellison took mean-spirited pleasure in telling her that a toothpick, even a gold one, was hardly worthy of a Harkness. For whatever reason, Beatrice couldn't forget it." She reached out to touch the slender length of gold with the tip of a finger. "There couldn't be two such, could there?"

"What became of Ellison?"

"He died in London, struck by a runaway horse. It was sudden and dramatic—I remember my father saying that Mrs. Ellison screamed when she got the news. It was so out of character, everyone talked about it."

"Where is he buried?"

"You just told me he was the man in the wood."

"Yes, he probably is. But if he 'died' in London, there must have been an inquest, a funeral? His wife would have had to be present."

"Mrs. Ellison went to London to take care of the arrangements. She left Beatrice here with the rector's wife, because what could a child that young understand? He was buried there. She said she couldn't bear to bring him back to Dudlington, that she herself wished to be buried in London with him when the time came. My father remembered that too. He told me long afterward that he was shocked. But then it's what Mary Ellison wanted."

"And Beatrice never doubted that her father was buried in London."

"She even knew the name of the cemetery—Highgate. There was a great stone lion near the grave, and its name was Nero. Beatrice longed to go there and see it for herself. Surely, if she went to London—but that may explain why she was estranged from her mother. The grave wasn't there!"

"Would you be willing to swear under oath to what you've just told me?"

She clearly hadn't considered that. She glanced toward the window, as if she could see Mary Ellison from where she sat. "Must I? I can't—do you really believe that
Mary
—"

"If she told everyone that her husband was buried in London, then why is there a skeleton in the wood, with the toothpick that Beatrice had given her father? Do you believe Mrs. Ellison gave away the toothpick out of a callous disregard for her daughter's feelings?"

"I don't know. But why would Mary make up such a complicated story—the runaway horse, the cemetery lion. And how was he actually killed?"

"There's no way to be certain."

"Well, I'm glad that Beatrice isn't here. It would have broken her heart."

"I think Beatrice is dead as well. And Emma."

She stared at him, her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. "No, please, I don't want to hear this."

"I can't prove it just yet," he said, "but I've got to try."

"But how—I can't see Mary Ellison, for God's sake, taking up a gun or a knife, or a flat iron to her own flesh and blood. She's not—it sickens me to even think such a thing."

Rutledge hesitated, and then told her: "It's often said that a woman's weapon is poison."

Grace Letteridge was still upset when he left her. Part of her had wanted to believe him, and another part of her refused to accept that it was possible. Rutledge said as he walked out the door, "You mustn't say anything. Not until I'm certain. And that may take me some time."

"But the constable—who shot him with a bow and arrow?"

"Do you have Emma's archery set? And if you don't, who very likely does? Mrs. Ellison is strong enough to bend a bow, I think, although she's probably not a very good marksman. But she only had to drive the point of that arrow into Constable Hensley's back deep enough to frighten him and keep him away from the wood. It's even possible she intended to retrieve the arrow, only it had struck bone. And everyone in Dudlington would have believed the Saxon dead had attacked him with a ghostly weapon. A perfect threat to keep people out of Frith's Wood, don't you think?"

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked, at the door. "I wish you'd never come here, not to Dudlington and not to my house."

"I had to trace that toothpick. I couldn't think of anyone else who knew the family as well as you did. Mrs. Ellison never let anyone get close to her. Perhaps because of her secrets, perhaps because of her nature. I can't be sure."

"Will you tell me
why,
when you know?"

"Yes. I'd like the answer to that myself."

Rutledge sat by the fire in Hensley's office, the toothpick in his hand.

If all the world thought Harry Ellison was dead and had been buried in London for all these years, no one would have set up a hue and cry over the fact that he had disappeared.

And it was in keeping with Mary Ellison's character that she would rather have her husband decently interred than for her to be gossiped about in Dudlington as a deserted wife.

Hamish said, "She went to the wood two nights ago."

"Yes, she wanted to be sure I hadn't found her husband. She let me believe it was Emma she thought I was searching for, which was clever of her. I believed her, even pitied her. What matters now is that all alone, in the dark of night, she'd ventured into Frith's Wood. She wasn't afraid of it because she hadn't been brought up in Dudlington and taught to fear it. That much she and Constable Hensley had in common. It's not surprising that she'd see the wood as a place to rid herself of her husband's body."

"Aye, but how did she lug him there?"

"I don't know. He may have been alive when he got there, but already feeling the poison. If she was capable of killing him, she could surely think of an excuse to lure him there to die."

There was a sound at the door, and he looked up, palming the toothpick so that it couldn't be seen.

Meredith Channing stood there, her face grim.

"I came back," she said simply. "I'm not the coward I'd hoped I was."

He laughed. "I'd take you to lunch in Letherington if I thought it wouldn't start the gossipmongers talking."

"I'm hungry. And not particularly worried about gossip. For that matter, you look as if you'd be better off out of Dudlington. What's happened?"

"If you wanted to kill your husband, how would you go about it?"

"I didn't kill him, if that's what your policeman's brain is telling you."

"No. I'm not accusing you. I'd like to know how you would go about such a thing, if it were in your mind."

She walked toward the window that gave onto the street, her back to him.

"Women don't care for bloody scenes. It's easier to use poison, if you aren't there to watch him die. I should think that would be the most difficult part. Watching." She turned back to him. "I don't like being drawn into your brutal world, Ian."

Had it been his brutal world that had decided Elizabeth Fraser not to welcome him back to Westmorland? He hadn't thought of that. But she'd had a taste of just how unspeakable murder could be. For the first time since he'd received her letter he could sympathize with what must have been a difficult choice for her, and in turn respect it. Hamish said, "Aye, you wouldna' care to see her hurt." And it was true. Taking a deep breath, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, he brought his mind back to Meredith Channing.

"I'm sorry," he said as he shut the toothpick into a cabinet behind the desk and got to his feet. "I didn't intend to make you a part of it either. Lunch is still on offer. I'll just tell Mrs. Melford that I won't be in."

He left a note for her, when she didn't answer his knock, then brought around the motorcar for Mrs. Channing. As he held the door she stepped into the vehicle and found a scarf in her pocket to put around her hat.

When he turned the crank, he heard Hamish telling him he was unwise. But she was right, he needed to be away from Dudlington for a few hours. Yet he couldn't stop himself, as he got in behind the wheel, from looking up at the bedroom windows where Emma Mason had slept.

Luncheon was roast ham and potatoes, with boiled cabbage and a flan. It was the best the Unicorn Hotel could produce, but Mrs. Channing didn't complain. Instead she talked about her life in London, making it seem amusing and interesting. She'd been born in Somerset, she told him, and hadn't gone to the city until her marriage but learned to live there without too much homesickness for the West Country. She never spoke of her husband directly, as if talking about him was still painful.