A Test of Wills - Charles Todd [104]
Catherine Tarrant sat in her studio, in a darkness lit by heat lightning, the patter of rain on the surrounding glass a counterpoint to her tears. On the easel in front of her was the wrapped portrait of Rolf Linden. She didn’t need to take the cloth off, she knew it by heart. But it was Mark Wilton she was thinking about, and Charles Harris—and how the body ached with longing for a man who would never come back to her. She could forget, sometimes, when she was painting, or in London. Somehow Charles’s death and Mark’s dilemma had stirred her feelings into life again, and left her vulnerable. While memories, like long-buried ghosts, crept around her in the silence, she made herself remember too what she owed Mark.
He was awake as well, metaphorically setting his house in order, arranging his affairs and steeling himself to meet what was coming. There was no way out for him, he had to accept that. Still, he’d found the courage he needed in France, and it hadn’t deserted him yet. It would be there when he needed it now. From hero to gallows’ bait, a great comedown for a proud man, he thought with heavy irony. If only he could guess what Lettice would do—But there was one final duty to perform, and after a while, he decided that the best way to achieve it was with honesty rather than guile….
But in a cottage on a hillside above Upper Streetham, a small child slept with the deepness of death, without dreams for the first time in days.
18
The rain had drifted away by morning, and a watery sun soon broke through the clouds, strengthening rapidly until there was a misty, apricot light that warmed the church tower and touched the trees with gold.
Rutledge walked out of the Inn door and stood for a moment watching the early market goers hurrying to set up booths or find a bargain. A low murmur of voices and laughter, the noises of traffic, people coming and going—he’d seen markets like this in a hundred English towns, peaceful and bustling. A week ago a man had died on market day, Mavers had made his way through the crowds shouting, agitating, locked in hatred, and a child had been frightened nearly to death. But a traveler, strolling through Upper Streetham this pleasant summer morning, wouldn’t hear about it, wouldn’t be touched by it. None of the drama, none of the misery, none of the lasting pain showed.
He turned and moved briskly down the sidewalk, stopping at Dr. Warren’s for a report on Hickam. The man had had rather a restless night, Warren’s housekeeper reported, but he’d eaten a decent enough breakfast and seemed a little stronger.
“That’s when the craving for gin will return, as he improves,” she added. “The poor soul isn’t out of the woods yet, I can tell you! And what he’ll do with himself when he’s well enough to go home is another worry.”
“I’m told he was a cabinetmaker before the war,” Rutledge said.
Surprise spread across her face. “Aye, that’s true. I’d forgotten. And very good he was! But not anymore, not with hands that shake like leaves.” She picked up the broom she’d leaned against the wall while talking to him. “They’ve already started. The tremors. But he’s stronger than he looks, which is a good thing!”
Rutledge thanked her and turned back to the Inn, walking around past the small gardens to the car. Ten minutes later he was pulling up in front of the Davenant house.
Grace let him in, and Sally Davenant came to meet him as soon as she heard his voice. She quickly glanced behind him to see if Rutledge had brought Sergeant Davies with him, looking decidedly relieved to discover that he was alone. “Good morning, Inspector! We’ve been sitting on the terrace, having a last cup of coffee. Won’t you join us?”
He let her lead him to the French doors that opened onto a slate-floored stone terrace overlooking the gardens. There was a wide sweep of lawn, edged by trees and set with beautifully manicured borders,