A Test of Wills (6 page)

Watching, it was easy to see that Hickam was used to vehicles coming from every direction, and he directed his invisible traffic with efficient skill, sorting out the tangle as if he stood at a busy intersection where long convoys were passing.

He sent a few one way, then turned his attention to the left, his hand vigorously signaling that they were to turn and turn now, while he shouted to someone to get those sodding horses moving or called for men to help dig the wheels of an artillery caisson out of the sodding mud. He snapped a smart salute at officers riding past—there was no mistaking his pantomime—then swiftly turned it into a rude gesture that would have pleased tired men slogging their way back from the bloody Front or the frightened men moving forward to take their place.

In France Rutledge had seen dozens of men stationed at junctions in the rain or the hot sun, keeping a moribund army moving in spite of itself, yelling directions, swearing at laggards, indicating with practiced movements exactly what they expected the chaos around them to do. Many had died where they stood, in the shelling or strafing and bombing, trying desperately to keep the flow of badly needed arms and men from bogging down completely.

But the carts, carriages, and handful of cars of Upper Streetham merely swerved a little to miss Hickam, used to him and leaving him standing where he was in the middle of the road as if he were something nasty that a passing horse had left behind. Some of the women on foot hesitated before crossing near him, drawing aside their skirts with nervous distaste and turning their faces in fear. Yet none of the village urchins mocked him, and Rutledge, noticing that, asked why.

“For one thing, he’s been home nearly eleven months now, since the hospital let him go. For another, he took a stick to the ringleader, shouting at him in bastard French. Broke the boy’s collarbone for him.” He kept his eyes on Hickam as he swung around to face another direction, jerking his thumb at a line of convoy traffic, locked in a past that no one else could share.

“The lad’s father told us the boy deserved what he got, but there were others who felt Hickam ought to be shut up before he harmed anyone else. People like Hickam—well, they’re not normal, are they? But the Vicar wouldn’t hear of an asylum, he said Hickam was an accursed soul, in need of prayer.”

“God Almighty,” Hamish said softly. “That’s you in five years—only it won’t be traffic, will it, that you remember? It’ll be the trenches and the men, and the blood and the stink, and the shells falling hour after hour, until the brain splits apart with the din. And you’ll be shouting for us to get over the top or take cover or hold the line while the nurses strap you down to the bed and nobody heeds your frenzied screams when Corporal Hamish—”

“I’ll see us both dead first,” Rutledge said between clenched teeth, “I swear—”

And Davies, startled, looked at him in confusion.

4

You can see he’s half out of his head,” Davies said again uneasily, as Rutledge sat there, rigidly staring at the disheveled figure in the middle of the sunlit, busy High Street. The Sergeant wasn’t sure he’d understood the London man, and wondered if perhaps he had misquoted what the Captain had said to the Colonel: “I’ll see you in hell first.” Should he correct Rutledge then? Or pretend he hadn’t noticed? He wasn’t sure how to take this man—on the other hand, he hadn’t seemed to be in haste to arrest Captain Wilton, and that counted for something.

“Out of his head? No, locked into it. Hickam must have been directing traffic when the shelling started, and stayed with it until one came too close. That’s why he’s behaving this way,” Rutledge said, half to himself. “It’s the last thing he remembers.”

“I don’t know about that, sir—”

“I do,” Rutledge said curtly, recollecting where he was, and with whom.

“Yes, sir,” Davies answered doubtfully. “But I can tell you there’s no talking to him now. He won’t hear you. He’s in his own mad world. We’ll have to come back later.”

“Then we’ll see the meadow where the body was found. But first I want to find the doctor. Dr. Warren.”

“He’s just down there, past the Inn. You can see his house from here.”

It was a narrow stone-faced building that had been turned into a small surgery, and Dr. Warren was just preparing to leave when Rutledge came to his door and introduced himself.

“I want to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“I do,” Warren said testily. He was elderly, stooped and graying, but his blue eyes were sharp beneath heavy black brows. “I’ve got a very sick child on my hands and a woman in labor. It’ll have to wait.”

“Except for one of the questions. Are you prescribing sedatives for Miss Wood?”

“Of course I am. The girl was beside herself with grief, and I was afraid she’d make herself ill into the bargain. So I left powders with Mary Satterthwaite to be given three times a day and again at night, until she’s able to deal with this business herself. No visitors, and that includes you.”

“I’ve already seen her,” Rutledge answered. “She seemed rather—abstracted. I wanted to know why.”

“You’d be abstracted yourself on what I’ve given her. She wanted to see the Colonel’s body—she thought he’d been shot neatly through the heart or some such. Well, his head had been blown off at nearly point-blank range, leaving a ragged stump of his neck. And I had to tell her that before she’d listen to me. Oh, not that bluntly, don’t be a fool! But enough to deter her. That’s when she fainted, and by the time we got her to bed, she was just coming out of it. So I gave her a powder in some water, and she drank it without knowing what it was. And now there’s a baby that’s going to be born while I stand here discussing sedatives with you. A first baby, and the husband’s worthless, he’ll probably faint too at the first sign of blood. So get out of my way.”

He went brusquely past Rutledge and out toward the Inn, where he apparently left his car during surgery hours. Rutledge watched him go, then ran lightly down the steps to his own car, where Davies was still sitting.

Driving on down the High Street, Rutledge slowed as Davies pointed out the track that began behind the tree-shaded churchyard, the one that Wilton claimed he had taken. It climbed up through a neat quilt of plowed fields, mostly smallholdings according to the Sergeant, that ran to the crest of a low ridge, and then it made its way down the far side to a narrow stone bridge and the ruins of an old mill. A three-mile walk in all, give or take a little.

The church sat not on the High Street itself but just off it, at the end of a small close of magpie houses that faced one another on what Davies called Court Street. Rutledge thought these might be medieval almshouses, for they were of a similar size and design, all fourteen of them. He turned into the close and stopped at the far end, by the lych-gate in front of the church. Leaving the motor running, he walked to the rough wall that encircled the graveyard, hoping for a better look at the track. He wanted a feeling for how it went, and whether there might be places from which a plowman or a farm wife feeding chickens might overlook it. He needed witnesses, people who had seen Wilton out for his morning walk and climbing this hill with nothing in his hand except a walking stick. Or—had not seen him at all, which might be equally important…

The start of the track was empty except for a squabbling pair of ravens. The rest of it ran out of sight of the village for most of its length, for it followed the line of trees that bordered the cultivated fields, and their branches shaded it this time of year. He could see a cow tied out to graze, and that was all.

Returning to the car, he asked, “Can you reach the meadow where the body was found, from this track?”

“Aye, you can’t see it from here, unless you know where to look, but there’s a smaller track that branches off from this one, about two fields away from us. If you follow that, you’ll come to the hedgerow that runs along the boundary of the Colonel’s land. It’s there that the smaller track connects with another one running up from Smithy Lane—I’ll show you that, because it’s where I found Hickam, drunk as a lord. Think of it as a rough H, sir, this track by the church and the other by Smithy Lane forming the legs and climbing to the ridge, whilst the bar of the H is the smaller one cutting across.”

“Yes, I follow you. Once you’ve reached the hedgerow, what then?”

“Find a break in it and you’ll be in the fields where the Colonel raises corn. Above them there’s a patch of rough land that’s put to hay, between the hedgerow and a copse of trees. On the far side of those trees lies the meadow. That’s the scene of the murder.”

Rutledge reversed. Back on the High Street again, he saw Hickam weaving an uncertain path along the pavement. His head down, he was muttering to himself, once or twice flinging out an arm in a gesture of disgust. He looked half drunk now, a man without pride or grace or spirit. Neither Rutledge nor Davies made any comment, but both could see that there was no need to stop.

Still driving in the direction he had taken to Mallows earlier, Rutledge saw Smithy Lane some thirty feet ahead, just as Davies pointed it out to him. An unpaved street, it ran between the busy blacksmith’s shop and a livery stable on the right and the ironmonger’s on the left. Beyond these businesses were six or seven run-down houses straggling up the slope of the hill toward the fields beyond. Where the last house stood, the lane became a cart track and soon the cart track narrowed into a country path of ruts and mud puddles. Rutledge drove gingerly, his attention on tires and axles.

But then the cart track eventually lost its way in a tangle of hawthorns and wild cherry, and here they left the car. As Davies got out, he said, “It’s here I found Hickam—he’d fallen asleep in the leaves yonder. And there,” he said, pointing to the last open ground before the track faded into the path, “is where he claims he saw the Colonel talking to Captain Wilton.”

“Did you look for signs of a horseman here? Or the prints of Wilton’s boots in the dust?”

“Inspector Forrest came to look the next morning, and then said we’d best leave this business to Scotland Yard.”

“But were there signs of the two men?”

“Not that he could see.”

Which probably meant that he hadn’t wanted to find anything. Rutledge nodded and they moved on, soon afterward passing the point where the rather overgrown track from the east met this one.

“And that’s the bar of the H, sir, like I said.”

Skirting a field of marrows, they came at length to the hedgerows. Sergeant Davies quickly found his way through them, into the fields of young wheat beyond.

“We’re on Mallows land now,” he said. The edges of the fields where they walked were still heavy with wet earth, clinging to their boots in great clots. The hayfield higher up was a wall of tall wet stalks rimmed with weeds. Burrs stuck to their trousers and wild roses caught at their coats. Davies swore once with fervent imagination as he was stung by nettles, and then they were in the copse, where walking was easier, almost silent on a cushion of damp leaves. They came out of the stand of trees into a small, sunny meadow, where the sound of bees filled the air.

The rain had washed away any signs of blood, but the grass was still bruised and trampled from the many feet that had milled around the body.

“He lay just about there, chest down, toward the wood, one arm under him and the other out-flung. His legs were straight, slightly bent at the knees but that’s all. I’d say he fell from the horse and never moved, not even a twitch. So his attacker must have come out of the trees, just as we did. Say, just here,” Davies explained, moving a few feet away from where the body had been found. “Not more than ten feet, anyway, from where the body fell, depending on whether the shot knocked him out of the saddle or he fell out of it.”

“If he was knocked out of it, why was he on his face—chest? If he was shot from the front, the force of the blast would have driven him out of the saddle backward. Even if the horse had bolted in terror, his feet would slip out of the stirrups and he’d have come off backward. On his back, Sergeant! Or his side. But not facedown.”

Davies chewed his lip. “I thought about that myself. That Harris must have been shot from the back, to fall forward on his chest. But that doesn’t fit with the horse—I saw it, there was blood all over the saddle and its haunches, but not on its ears or mane. You’d have thought, if Harris’s head had exploded from behind, not the front, that the horse’s mane would have been matted with blood and brains.”

“Then someone turned him over. The search party?”

“They swear they never touched the corpse. And there was no question but that he was dead—they didn’t need to move him.”

“The killer, then?”

Davies shook his head. “Why would he do that? He’d be wanting to get as far away as he could, in case someone heard the shot and came to see what it was.”

Rutledge looked around. “We’ve come two miles, or thereabouts. How far is the other track from this wood?”

“Two miles, a little more than that. Shorter if you don’t mind rougher going than we just had.”

“So Wilton could have reached the meadow either way—from the lane where we came up, if Hickam is right, or from the churchyard path, if Wilton walked that way, as he claims he did.”

“Aye, but it isn’t likely, is it? Somehow I just don’t see the Captain waiting in the trees to shoot the Colonel from ambush! Besides, when Hickam saw him, he wasn’t carrying a shotgun, was he? So where did he get the gun, and where is it now?”

“A good question, that. You’ve scoured the area looking for it?”

“Aye, as soon as possible we had men in the trees there and in the tall grass. But by that time, who knows what might have become of the weapon. The killer’s hidden it somewhere, most likely.”

Looking about him, Rutledge thought, It isn’t where he’s hidden it that’s half as important as where he got it.

Davies pointed and said, “Look, if you go down this hill, over the fields yonder, and across the stile when you come to another line of hedgerows, you soon find yourself in the orchard behind Mallows, and that takes you to the gardens and the house itself. Of course, you can’t see it from here, but the going’s fairly straight if you know your way. The land’s a pie wedge, like. Mallows is out on the Warwick road, and we’ve come up from the High Street. The crust, so to speak, runs from Upper Streetham to Warwick. Up here now, we’re at the point of the wedge, having come up one side. If we followed the other side, that would be the Haldane property over there.”

He turned to point generally in that direction, then faced the way they had just come. “Behind the church are the smallholdings you saw from the churchyard. Beyond them is Crichton land. This meadow then is farther from Mallows—the house, I mean—and the village, than any other part of the Harris property.”

“Which means the killer chose this place because he felt sure the shot might not be heard. There aren’t any other houses in this area?”

“No.”

Rutledge walked around the meadow for a while longer, not knowing what he expected to find and finding nothing. Finally, satisfied, he called to Davies and they started back toward the car.

But he changed his mind when he reached the field of marrows and said, “We’ll walk along the track—the crossbar of the H—as far as that other path coming up from the churchyard. I want to see for myself how these two connect.”

The track meandered, but bore mainly eastward through plowed fields, crops already standing greenly after the rain. It joined the churchyard path in the middle of a stretch of fallow land, more or less out in the open. They were standing there while Davies described how they could continue over the ridge to the mill ruins when they saw a woman in the distance, her skirts blowing in the wind as she crested the ridge, her stride long and competent and graceful.

Sergeant Davies shaded his eyes. “That’s Miss Sommers—Miss Helena Sommers. She and her cousin live in a little cottage that belongs to the Haldanes. They let it for the summer, now and again, when there’s no other tenant.”

“She’s the woman who encountered Wilton on his walk?”

“Aye, she’s the one.”

Rutledge moved in her direction. “Then we’ll see if we can talk to her now.”

Davies hailed her in a baritone that carried clearly, and she turned, acknowledging the shout with a wave.

Miss Sommers was in her late twenties or early thirties, her face strong and her eyes a clear and untroubled gray. She stood waiting for them, calling, “Good morning!”

“This is Inspector Rutledge from London,” Davies said, more than a little short-winded after the fast pace Rutledge had set. “He’s wanting to ask you some questions if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. How can I help you?” She turned toward Rutledge, shielding her eyes from the sun as she looked up at him.

“Did you see or hear anything unusual on Monday morning when Colonel Harris was shot? I understand you were out walking.”

“Yes, I was. But this part of the country is rather hilly, and the echoes do funny things with sound. I didn’t hear a gunshot, but once over the crest of the hill there, I wouldn’t be likely to if it came from this side.” She smiled, indicating the fine pair of field glasses around her neck. “I enjoy watching birds, and when I first came here, I was forever getting confused. I’d hear a song and swear my quarry was in that tree, only to discover he was nothing of the sort, he was in a bush over there. And the next time it would be just the opposite.” The smile faded. “They say Colonel Harris was shot in a meadow—the small one beyond a copse of trees. Is that true?”