A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [80]
And so he would never say good-bye. Not now.
The last time he’d seen her, she was coming out of St. Margaret’s Church, where she was soon to be married. A cluster of her friends surrounded her, their voices traveling to him where he stood. Her face was shining with happiness and excitement as she discussed flowers and candles and ribbons. It had broken his heart—and yet he had never hated her for leaving him. He had known what sort of husband he would have made. She was better off without him.
Still, he felt a surge of guilt for letting her go.
If she had stayed in England—
But that was pointless.
Rutledge set Frances aside and went to the window to look out on the street, not seeing it.
She went away, and came back presently with a cup of tea.
Rutledge drank it, the hot strong liquid cutting through the shock of Frances’s news.
There was nothing he could do. No word of comfort for the bereaved husband—who probably had never known Rutledge existed—and no flowers for the raw earth of the grave.
He finished his tea and said, “I need to walk. Will you wait?”
“Of course.”
He had never taken off his coat. He just went out the door.
An hour later, he saw that there was a church on the next corner, smoke-stained stone, with a spire that gleamed in the sun.
The door was unlocked and he went inside into the silent dimness. His footsteps echoed against the stone walls, and he got as far as the first row of chairs. There he sat down. It wasn’t the comfort of God he sought so much as the need to be alone. And Hamish, mercifully, was quiet.
He hadn’t expected it. That was the problem. The loss was emotional, sharp.
Their engagement had not been spent growing closer to each other, settling into a warm and responsive companionship that would carry them into old age, as it should have been. Four years of war had seen to that and changed them both. She was another man’s wife, now. Not his, never his. And while he grieved for the girl he had asked to marry him in 1914, she had left a long time ago.
He rose after a while and walked back the way he’d come.
Hamish, at his shoulder, said only, “It was verra’ different with my Fiona. I should ha’ come home to her, and left you dead in France. Your Jean wouldna’ have missed you…”
The voice was sad, as if half convincing himself that this was true.
Together the two men, one of whom didn’t exist, went back to the flat.
15
Frances was waiting, as she’d promised.
She said as he came through the door, “The Yard sent someone. You are to come at once.”
Rutledge swore silently. There was never any time…
“Yes, I’ll go. Shall I give you a lift home?”
“As far as Trafalgar Square, if you don’t mind. Ian—are you all right? Do you want me to call the Yard and ask them to give you an hour or two?”
“Work,” he said bitterly, “is its own panacea. But thanks.”
He stopped long enough to change clothes. And then he shut the flat door behind them as he led the way to his motorcar. He couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before he crossed his threshold again without remembering the news that had been waiting here today.
Frances kept him busy with trivial gossip until he put her down in the square, and she leaned across to kiss him before she got out.
He watched her walk briskly in the direction of St. Martin’s in the Fields, and then turned toward the Yard. He hadn’t mentioned seeing Simon Barrington. It hadn’t seemed the right moment, and then too important to be a parting remark.
It was Simon’s business and none of his, after all. As long as Frances wasn’t hurt. But he thought she was going to be.
His eye was caught by a familiar figure walking toward him along the street. It was Meredith Channing, dressed in a becoming dark red coat and matching hat. She didn’t look his way, but he could have sworn she had seen his motorcar and recognized it as quickly as he had recognized her.
Bowles was waiting for him at the Yard and almost as he walked in the door asked abruptly for his report.
“There’s no time to write