A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [89]
She began to cry, and he gave her his handkerchief. “I’m sorry—”
But she went on, wrapped in her own despair. “There’s another woman now. I’ve seen their photographs in the newspaper in the last few months. What if she refuses to marry him, because she doesn’t want the shame of a divorce in her family? It’s quite a good family, they could object, and he’d not stop at having me killed.”
Rutledge took her arm and gently steered her into the sitting room, settling her in a chair. She was distraught, but when he turned away to bring her tea from the tray by the hearth, she clutched at him.
“I’m afraid to drink it now. What if someone slipped in and put something in the leaves? I’d never know until it was too late. I’ll have to throw everything in the rubbish bin. I daren’t trust my chances, don’t you see?”
“Mrs. Cathcart, no one is trying to kill you. You’ve had a shock, that’s all, and it frightened you. Mr. Willingham saw his killer. Whoever it was fought with him. There was no doubt that it was Mr. Willingham who was meant to die. This has nothing to do with you.”
She tried to stop shaking, her sobs choking in her throat. He went to the pot and felt it. Still quite warm. He poured a cup, drank from it, and said, “You see, there’s nothing wrong with your tea. Let me find you a fresh cup.”
He went into the kitchen, found a pretty white porcelain cup to match the one he’d used, and filled it. He added sugar and milk from the jug on the tray, then had to hold her hands around the cup to keep her from spilling it.
After a few sips, she sat back, a little steadier now.
“I’ve made a fool of myself,” she said, looking up at him in some embarrassment. “I couldn’t think of anything but dying alone and afraid in the night.”
“Why did your husband wish to divorce you?”
“He was tired of me. I wasn’t exciting, the children mattered more to me than anything, and he was ambitious. He needed to be seen at parties and attend weekends in the country. He told me it was important to meet these people, that they could do so much for his career. He’s a solicitor, you see, and wanted his own chambers. So he took away the only thing that mattered, and punished me for fighting him.”
She drank a little more of the tea. “He’s tried to do away with me. I’m convinced of it. I was on my bicycle, coming home from Uffington, and someone ran into me and left me in the ditch. The driver never stopped, and it was Ronnie, I knew it was.”
Rutledge didn’t know whether to believe her or not. But he sat opposite her, listening and offering what comfort he could.
She had been tormented to the point of convincing herself that her husband wanted her dead. And her son weighed heavily on her mind. She returned again and again to his loss, and the fact that she knew nothing of his death for months.
“Then someone sent me a cutting from the newspaper. Weeks old, the announcement of Harry’s death circled in black. That was the letter that went astray, to Mr. Willingham. I think it must have been shoved under his door. There was no stamp on it. I wanted to kill myself when I read the cutting. And then I knew that’s what he’d hoped I’d do. I wanted to die, but I wouldn’t give him that pleasure, damn him.”
Rutledge said, “Is there anyone I could bring to you? You’re too upset to stay alone just now.”
She smiled, the hurt in her eyes very plain. “I have no friends, Mr. Rutledge. They believed his lies and deserted me as well. ‘Fair-weather friends’ I call them. They couldn’t withstand the storm. But it’s kind of you to ask. I’ll be all right, but I shall lock my door tonight and drag that table across it for good measure.”
After a time, he got up to leave and she saw him