Rutledge watched Laurence Royston walk away down the busy street, then brought his mind back to the task he'd set himself. He stepped out into the afternoon traffic, following a woman with a pram. Standing by the market cross, he looked up and down the main street. Two boys on bicycles passed him, grinning, trying to attract his attention, but he ignored them.
Mavers, that Monday morning when Harris was shot, had been busily haranguing the market goers. Both Mavers and any number of witnesses had sworn to it.
But Sally Davenant, for one, had suggested that it was possible for him to disappear for a short time without anyone noticing his absence.
Rutledge considered first of all Mavers's cunning, and the distance from here to the meadow where Harris died.
The gun was a problem. If Mavers went to his house first, retrieved the shotgun, then went to the meadow, waited for Harris, shot him, put the gun back, and returned to Upper Streetham, he would need at the very least some ninety minutes, possibly even two hours.
Too long. He'd have been missed.
All right then, what if he'd taken the shotgun and left it somewhere along the hedge before coming down to the village? Harangued the crowds, disappeared, and after the killing, concealed the shotgun again in the high grass before returning to his post? A long hour? Could he have done it that quickly? It was a risk, a calculated risk, and Rutledge wasn't sure that Mavers was willing to run it. On the other hand, Mavers liked nothing better than thumbing his nose at his betters…
Rutledge nodded to the woman he'd seen earlier with Sally Davenant, his attention on Mavers's movements. And then he brought himself up sharply and caught up with her as she crossed the street in the direction of the greengrocer's. Touching her arm to attract her attention, he introduced himself and said, "Were you in Upper Streetham last Monday morning? Did you by any chance hear the man Mavers speaking out here in the street?"
She was a pleasant-faced woman, dressed well and carrying a small basket nearly full of parcels. But she grimaced as Rutledge asked his question. "You can't miss him during one of his tirades," she said. "More's the pity!"
"Could you tell me if he was there, by the market cross?"
"Yes, he was, as a matter of fact."
"All the time? Part of the time?"
She frowned, considering, and then called to another woman just coming out of the ironmonger's shop. "Eleanor, dear-"
Eleanor was in her fifties, with short iron gray hair and a look of competence about her. She came across to them, head to one side, her stride as brisk as her manner.
"Inspector Rutledge from London, Eleanor," the first woman said. "This is Eleanor Mobley, Inspector. She might be able to help you more than I can-I was here only very early that morning."
Rutledge remembered the name Mobley from Forrest's list of witnesses. He repeated his questions, and Mrs. Mobley watched his face as she listened. "Oh, yes, he was here by the market cross very early on. At least part of the time. He went down along the street there, closer to the shops and the Inn, for a while. Later I saw him near the turning to the church. But he came back to the cross, he usually does." She gave him a wry smile. "I was trying to line up tables for the Vicar's summer fete. A fund-raiser for the church. You know how it is, everyone promises to contribute something for the sale. All the same, you can't let it go at that, can you-you have to pin them down. Not my favorite task, but this year I'm on the committee, and market day brings most everyone into town, I just catch them as I can. I must have been up and down this street a dozen times or more."
"He moved from place to place, but as far as you know, he didn't leave? To go to the pub, for instance, or step into the Inn?"
"Not as far as I know. But since I wasn't paying him much heed, I can't be certain that I'm right about that. He just seemed to be underfoot wherever I turned, putting people's backs up, spoiling a perfectly lovely morning."
Someone passing by spoke to the other woman, calling her Mrs. Thornton. She acknowledged his greeting, adding, "I'll be along directly, tell Judith for me, will you, Tom?"
Mrs. Mobley was saying to Rutledge, "Is that any help at all?"
"Yes, very much so. What was on his mind that morning? Do you recall anything he might have been saying?"
Mrs. Mobley shook her head. "He was running on about the Russians, you can usually depend on that. Something about the Czar and his family. I remember something about unemployment too, because I was thinking to myself that he was a lovely one to talk! The strikes in London."
"You don't really listen, do you? He's not a very pleasant man at the best of times!" Mrs. Thornton put in. "And riding his hobbyhorse, he's-repellent. As Helena Sommers put it, any good he might do is lost with every word that comes out of his mouth!"
"Was Miss Sommers here on Monday?"
"Yes, just around noon, I think it was, buying some lace for her cousin," Mrs. Mobley said. "I put her down for two cakes; I was glad to have them."
Mrs. Thornton bit her lip, then said, "You'll think it silly of me, but I don't feel it's safe for two women in a cottage in the middle of nowhere. Since the Colonel's death, I mean. Since we don't know- And Helena might as well be alone, her cousin is such a ninny! I went out there to call one afternoon, and Margaret was working in the garden. Well, that goose gave my horse such a fright, and she was absolutely too terrified even to drive the silly thing away with a broom!"
"I think they're probably safe enough," Rutledge said, refusing to be drawn.
"If you say so." Mrs. Thornton seemed unconvinced. "Now, if there's nothing else, Inspector?"
He thanked them both and went back to the market cross, threading his way between a buggy and a wagon piled with lumber.
If Mavers had moved from place to place that Monday morning, and given some forethought to the shotgun, he might-just might-have killed Harris and gotten away with it… From the market cross, Rutledge made his way to the lane where Hickam had seen the Captain and the Colonel together. Where Sergeant Davies had found Hickam drunk and rambling about the two men.
He looked about the lane for several minutes, then walked to the first house and knocked on the door, asking questions.
Did you see Daniel Hickam in this lane on the Monday morning that Colonel Harris was shot? Did you see Captain Wilton in this lane, walking? Did you see the Colonel, on his horse, riding through here, stopping to talk to anyone? Did you see Bert Mavers anywhere in the lane, coming or going toward the main street?
The answer was the same at every house. No. No. No. And no.
But at one of the doors, the woman who answered raised her eyebrows at finding him on her doorstep. "You're the man from London, then. What can I do for you?" She looked him up and down with cool eyes.
He didn't need to be told what she was, although she was respectably dressed in a dark blue gown that was very becoming to her dark hair and her sea-colored eyes. A tall woman of middle age and wide experience, who saw the world as it was, but more important, seemed to take it as it was.
Rutledge asked his questions, and she listened carefully to each before shaking her head. No, she hadn't seen Hickam. No, she'd not seen the Captain that morning, nor Mavers. But the Colonel had been here.
"Colonel Harris?" Rutledge asked, keeping his voice level as Hamish clamored excitedly. "What brought him this way, do you know?"
"He came to leave a message by the door, knowing it was an early hour for Betsy and me, but he wanted to put our minds at rest about the quarrel we'd had with the Vicar." Her mouth twisted, half in exasperation, half in humor. "Mr. Carfield is often of a mind to meddle; he likes to be seen as a thunderbolt, you might say, flinging the moneylenders out of the temple, the whores out of the camp. Not that there's that much to go on about in Upper Streetham. It's not what you'd call a regular Sodom and Gomorrah."
She caught the responsive gleam in Rutledge's eyes. "The Colonel, now, he was a very decent man. We pay our rent, regular as the day, but Vicar had been onto that Mr. Jameson about us, and he called around, talking eviction. I could have told him who put him up to it! But there was no changing his mind. So the next time I saw the Colonel on the street, I stopped him and asked him please to have a word with Mr. Jameson about it."
"Jameson?"
"Aye, he's the agent for old Mrs. Crichton, who lives in London, and he manages her holdings in Upper Streetham. Well, the short of it was, Mr. Jameson agreed he'd been a little hasty over the evicting."
"Do you still have the message?"
She turned and called over her shoulder to someone else in the house. "Betsy? Could you find that letter of the Colonel's for me, love?"
In a moment a thinner, smaller woman came to the door, apprehension in her eyes and a cream-colored envelope in her hand. She handed it silently to the older woman. "Is everything all right, Georgie?"
"Yes, yes, the Inspector is asking about the Colonel, that's all." She gave the envelope to Rutledge, adding, "He never came here-as a caller. He was a proper gentleman, the Colonel, but fair. Always fair. If you'd asked me, I'd have said I knew most of the men in Upper Streetham better than their own wives, and I can't think of one who'd want to shoot Colonel Harris!"
There were two words on the front: Mrs. Grayson.
"That's me, Georgina Grayson."
Rutledge took the letter out of its envelope, saw the Colonel's name engraved at the top, and the date, written in a bold black hand. Monday. He scanned it. It said, simply, "I've spoken to Jameson. You needn't worry, he's agreed to take care of the matter with Carfield. If there should be any other trouble, let me know of it." It was signed "Harris."
"Could I keep this?" he asked, speaking to Mrs. Grayson.
"I'd like it back," she said. "But yes, if it'll help."
Turning to Betsy, Rutledge went over the same questions he'd asked earlier, but she'd seen no one, not Mavers-"He knows better than to show his face around here!"-not Hickam, not Harris, not Wilton-"More's the pity!" with a saucy grin. "But," she added, a sudden touch of venom in her voice, "I did see Miss Hoity-toity just the other day, Thursday it was, following after that poor sot, Daniel Hickam. He'd spent the night on the floor here, too drunk to find his way home, and we got a little food into him, then let him go. She was onto him like a bee onto the honey, slinking after him into the high grass toward the trees." She pointed, as if they had only just disappeared from sight, down toward the track that eventually led up the hill to Mallows.
The one called Georgie smiled wryly at Rutledge. "Catherine Tarrant."
"What did she want with Hickam?" Rutledge asked. Thursday was the day she'd come into town to speak to him about Captain Wilton.
Betsy shrugged. "How should I know? Maybe to pose for her-she asked Georgie to do it once, and Georgie told her sharpish what she thought about that! But it was him she did want! She caught up with him where she didn't think I could see, and stopped him, talking to him, and him shaking his head, over and over. Then she took something from her pocket and held it out to him-money enough to get drunk again, I'll wager! He turned away from her, but after only a few steps turned back and began speaking to her. She interrupted him a time or two, and then she gave him whatever it was she was holding, and he shambled off into the trees. She walked back down to where she'd left her bicycle, head high as you please, like the cat that got the cream, and then she was gone. She's a German lover, that one. Maybe she's got a taste for drunks as well!"
The eyes of hate and jealousy…
Mrs. Grayson said, "Now, then, Betsy, it won't help the Inspector to do his job if you run on like that. Miss Tarrant's business is none of ours!"
He left them, the letter in his pocket, his mind on what it represented-the fact that the Colonel had been in the lane on Monday morning, just when Hickam had said he was. And Catherine Tarrant had given Hickam money… When Rutledge arrived at the Inn, Wilton and Sergeant Davies were waiting. There was a distinctly sulfurous air about them, as if it hadn't been a pleasant afternoon for either of them. But Sergeant Davies got to his feet as soon as he saw Rutledge, and said, "We think we've found the child, sir."
Turning to Wilton, Rutledge said, "What does he mean? Aren't you sure?"
Wilton's temper flashed. "As far as I can be! She's-differ- ent. But yes, I feel she must be the one. None of the others matched as well. The problem is-"
Rutledge cut him short. "I'll only be a minute, then." He went up to his room, got the doll, and came down again, saying, "Let's be on our way!"
"Back there?" Wilton asked, and the Sergeant looked mutinous.
"Back there," Rutledge said, walking down the rear hallway toward his car. He gave them no choice but to follow. "I want to see this child for myself."
He said nothing about Georgina Grayson as he drove to the cottage. While it was, as the crow flies, only a little farther from Upper Streetham than the meadow where the Colonel's body had been found, it was necessary to go out the main road by Mallows, through the Haldanes' estate, and up the hill, the last hundred yards on rutted road that nearly scraped the underpinnings of the car.
On the way, he asked instead for information about the child's family.
"She's Agnes Farrell's granddaughter," Davies answered. "Mrs. Davenant's maid."
"The one we met at her house on Thursday morning?"
"No sir, that was Grace. Agnes was home with the child. Lizzie's mother is Agnes's daughter, and the father is Ted Pinter, one of the grooms at the Haldanes'. They live in a cottage just over the crest of the hill from where the Captain says he was walking when he saw Lizzie and Miss Sommers that Monday morning. When Meg Pinter is busy, the little girl sometimes wanders about on her own, picking wildflowers. But she's quite ill, now, sir. Like to die, Agnes says."
Rutledge swore under his breath. When one door opened, another seemed to close. "What's the matter with her?"
"That's just it, sir, Dr. Warren doesn't know. Her mind's gone, like. And she screams if Ted comes near her. Screams in the night too. Won't eat, won't sleep. It's a sad case."
The car bumped to a stop in front of the cottage, a neatly kept house with a vegetable garden in the back, flowers in narrow beds, and a pen with chickens. A large white cat sat washing herself on the flagstone steps leading to the door, ignoring them as they walked by.
Agnes Farrell opened the door to them. He could see the lines of fatigue in her face, the worry in her eyes, the premature aging of fear. But she said briskly, "Sergeant, I told you once and I'll tell you again, I'll not have that child worried!"
"This is Inspector Rutledge, from London, Agnes. He needs to have a look at Lizzie. It won't be above a minute, I promise it won't," he cajoled. "And then we'll be on our way."
Agnes looked Rutledge over, her eyes weighing him as carefully-but in a different manner-as Georgina Gray- son's had done. "What's a policeman from London want with the likes of Lizzie?" she demanded.
"I don't know," Rutledge said. "But I believe I've found the child's doll. It was in the hedge near the meadow where Colonel Harris was killed. Captain Wilton here says he met her on his walk that morning, and she was crying for the doll. I'd like to return it, if I could." He held out the doll, and Agnes nodded in surprise. "Aye, that's the one, all right! Whatever was she doing in the meadow?"
"Looking for Ted, no doubt." Meg Pinter came forward and touched the doll. Her face was drawn with lack of sleep and a very deep fear for her child. "She goes out to pick flowers, and that's all right, she comes to no harm. But once or twice she's gone looking for her father because he lets her sit on one of the horses in the stables, if the Haldanes aren't about."
Rutledge said, "Do you think she was in the meadow that morning? When the Colonel was killed?"
"Oh God!" Meg exclaimed, turning to stare at her mother. "I'd never even thought-" Agnes's face twisted in pain, and she shook her head.
"She might have seen something," he added, as gently as he could. "But I'd like to have a look at her, give her the doll."
"No, I'll take it!" Meg said quickly, tears in her eyes, but he refused to part with it.
"I found it. I'll return it."
The two women, uncertain what to do, turned to the Sergeant, but he shook his head, denying any responsibility. In the end, they led Rutledge through the neat house to the small room with its silent crib.
Lizzie lay as quietly as a carved child, covers tidily drawn over her body, her face turned toward the wall. It was a bright room, very pleasant with a lamp and a stool and a small doll's bed in one corner, handmade and rather nicely carved with flowers in the headboard. It was very much like the crib, and empty. Even from the door he could see how the little girl's face had lost flesh, the body bony under the pink coverlet. There had been so many refugee children in France with bones showing and dark, haunted eyes, frightened and cold and hungry. They had haunted him too.
Rutledge walked slowly toward the child. Wilton stayed outside the door, but the Sergeant and the two women followed him inside.
"Lizzie?" he said softly. But she made no response, as if she hadn't heard him. As if she heard nothing. A thin thread of milk drained out of her mouth on the sheet under her head, and her eyes stared at the wall with no recognition of what she was seeing.
"Speak to her," he said over his shoulder to Meg. She came to the bed, calling her daughter's name, half cajoling, half commanding, but Lizzie never stirred. Rutledge reached out and touched Lizzie on the arm, without any reaction at all.
Meg's voice dwindled, and she bit her lip against the tears. "I'd never thought," she said softly, as if Lizzie could hear her, "that she might have been there. Poor little mite- poor thing!" She turned away, and Agnes took her in her arms.
Rutledge went around to the other side of the crib, between the child and the wall. He stooped to bring his face more in line with her eyes, and said, with a firmness that he'd learned in dealing with children, "Lizzie! Look at me."
He thought there was a flicker of life in the staring eyes, and he said it again, louder and more peremptorily. Agnes cried out, telling him to mind what he was doing, but Rut- ledge ignored her. "Lizzie! I've found your doll. The doll you lost in the meadow. See?"
He held it out, close enough for her to see it. For an instant he thought that she wasn't going to respond. Then her face began to work, her mouth gulping at air. She screamed, turning quickly toward the door, her eyes on the Sergeant, then on Wilton beyond. It was a wild scream, terrified and wordless, rising and falling in pitch like a banshee's wail. Deafening in its power from such a small pair of lungs. Curdling the blood, numbing the mind. Agnes and Meg ran toward her, but with a gesture Rutledge held them back. But the screaming stopped as quickly as it had started. Lizzie reached out and Rutledge put the doll in her open arms. She clasped it to her with a force that surprised him, her eyes closing as she rocked gently from side to side. After a time one hand let go of the doll and a thumb found its way to her mouth. Sucking noisily, she clutched the doll and began a singsong moan under her breath.
Agnes, watching her, said, "She does that when she's falling to sleep-"
There was the sound of a voice, then the front door slamming. A man's voice called, "Meg, honey-I saw the car. Who's come? Is it that doctor Warren was going on about?"
Lizzie opened her eyes, wide and staring, and began to scream again, turning her back to the doorway. The sound ripped through the silence in the small room, ripped at the nerves of the people standing there. Meg ran out of the room, and Rutledge could hear her speaking to her husband, leading him away from Lizzie, then the slamming of the front door.
After a time, Lizzie stopped screaming and began to suck her thumb again, the doll held like a lifeline in her other hand. After a minute or so the singsong moaning began as well. The child's eyes began to drift shut. A deep breath lifted her small chest, and then she seemed to settle into sleep. Or was it unconsciousness?
"That's the first time she's rested." Agnes stood watching for a time, then shook her head slowly, grieving. "She adored her father-it's cut him to the heart to have her like this, carrying on so when he comes into the house, not wanting him near her."
Rutledge studied the child. "Yes, I think she really is asleep," he said, gesturing to the Sergeant and Agnes to leave. "Let her keep the doll. But I'll need it. Later."
He followed them out of the room, and saw Wilton's white face beyond the Sergeant's stolid red one. The screams had unnerved Davies, but Rutledge thought that it was the doll, and the child's reaction, that had worried Wilton more.
Agnes said, her voice shaking, "What's to be done, then? If she saw the man, what's to be done?"
"I don't know," Rutledge told her honestly. "I don't know."
Out by the car, a horse was standing, reins down. In the middle of the yard, Meg was holding her husband in her arms. As they came out of his house, he stared over her head at them, raw pain in his eyes.
"I want to know what's going on," he said, "what's happening to Lizzie."
"She-your daughter was possibly a witness to Colonel Harris's murder," Rutledge said. There was no easy way to break the news. "She may have seen him shot. I found her doll in the meadow there. Captain Wilton"-he gestured toward Mark-"saw Lizzie that morning as well. Crying for the doll. I'm not sure yet how all of this fits together, but that child is frightened to death of you. Can you think of any reason why?"
Ted shook his head vehemently. "I've nothing to do with it. She was like that when I came home Monday from the stables for lunch. Meg found her wandering lost like, and brought her home. She didn't speak, she wasn't herself. Meg- gie put her to bed, and she's-it's been like that ever since." His voice was husky with feeling. "Are you sure about this? I'd not like to think of her there in that meadow with a murderer. Or a man killed. She's never had a harsh word spoken to her in her life, she's been a quiet, cheerful, good little thing-" He stopped, turned away.
The horse he'd been riding ambled over and nudged his shoulder. Ted reached up to its muzzle without thinking, stroking the soft nose. Rutledge watched him.
"Does your daughter like horses?"
"Horses? Aye, she's been around them most of her life. Not to ride, but I've let her sit on their backs, held her in front of me. Let her touch them. She likes to touch their coats, smooth it, like. Always has."
Rutledge gestured to Davies and Wilton to get into the car. "If you want my advice, send for Dr. Warren and let him take another look at her. And stay away from her for a few days, Pinter, if you can. There's a chance that she can sleep now. It ought to help. When she wakes up, if she's at all capable of talking, send for me. Do you understand? It could be very important! For your sake and for hers."
Ted nodded, his wife and mother-in-law watchful, wary. But Rutledge, looking at them, thought they'd do it. "Stay away from her, mind!" he added. "Let her heal, if she can."
Agnes said, "I'll see to it. For now."
"I've seen men suffer like that. In the war," he added. "Shock can do that. If that's what's wrong with her. But don't let her be frightened, don't let her scream. That means she's remembering. Keep her warm and quiet and at peace. Let her sleep. That's the main thing now."
He turned toward the car. Hamish, silent throughout the half hour in the house, said, "You ought to know about sleep. It's the only time you're safe…" The drive back to Upper Streetham was quiet, only the sound of the tires along the road, and once a dog barking furiously as they passed. When they reached the Inn, Wilton said only, "God, I'm tired! It's been a damned long day."
Sergeant Davies got out stiffly and said, "I'd best say something to Inspector Forrest about this. Unless you'd rather speak to him yourself, sir?"
It was the last thing Rutledge wanted to do. He said, "No, that's all right, I'll see him tomorrow. There's not much more we can do tonight anyway."
Davies nodded to Wilton and said, "Until tomorrow, then, sir," to Rutledge, before marching off down the street toward his own house.
Wilton waited, making no move to get out of the car, but Rutledge said nothing, leaving him to break the silence. In the end he did.
"Does the child damn me? Or clear me?"
Aware of the envelope in his pocket, Rutledge said only, "I don't know. Do you?"
"I didn't kill him, Inspector," Wilton said quietly. "And I don't know who did." He got out, closed the car door behind him, and walked away, his limp more pronounced than usual, a measure of the tension in him.
Rutledge sighed. A child, a doll, a drunkard. The evidence was still slim. But the letter from Harris to Mrs. Grayson was something else. It could very well send the handsome Captain to the gallows.