A Test of Wills - Charles Todd [107]
“Why? Do you think I’ll shoot myself when you aren’t looking? Or run to France? The only hope I have of a normal life is proving I didn’t shoot Charles! A trial is as important to me as it is to you. Give me twenty-four hours!”
Rutledge looked at him, trying to read the man. Behind the handsome face was an extraordinary strength. And a gambler’s instincts? High in the clouds, pitting his wits against another man, with death as the price of losing, he had come through duel after duel almost unscathed. It was a remarkable record, and his nerve had never broken—
Hamish, who’d been silent most of the morning, stirred to life. “But yours did! That’s why you’ve lost your skills, man, you’ve broken. Nerve, mind, spirit. You aren’t the hunter anymore, you’re the prey!”
He forced himself to think, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind. Wilton was waiting, patient, watchful. He wanted this very badly. And he didn’t like begging.
Dredging up his own instincts, Rutledge sorted them out. And made his decision.
“All right, then. Twenty-four hours. But if you trick me, by God I’ll crucify you!”
Wilton shook his head. “It isn’t for me. It’s for Lettice.”
And driving back to the Inn, Hamish was raging. “The witch again! She’s cast a spell on you with those strange eyes, and you’ve lost your soul—”
“No,” Rutledge said, concentrating on the road. “I’m beginning to think”—he dodged a big yellow dog ambling peacefully across his path—“I’m beginning to think I might have found it.”
“You’ve got the man—witnesses—the shotgun—the reason why yon fine Colonel needed to die that morning. You’ve done your work, man, don’t throw it away!”
“On the contrary. I’ve stumbled around in the dark, letting other people tell me what was happening. I’ve been terrified that someone might see my own terrors and turn them against me. I’ve dreaded failure and done very little to prevent it. I was lost—lost!—and couldn’t find my way back to 1914. If I can’t do any better than this, I deserve to be locked away in that damned clinic with the other wretched dregs of humanity. If I want to survive, I’ve got to fight for it….”
He spent the day organizing his evidence, finishing his report. Before he began he put in a call to Bowles in London and said, “I’ve got enough proof to ask for a warrant. Tomorrow at noon. The case is as strong as I can make it, but not without some problems. I think a good KC can fill them in, and we’ll have our conviction.”
Bowles, listening, finally interrupted. “I hope to God you aren’t telling me we’re going to arrest Wilton! The Palace called this morning; they want to know whether to send a representative to the funeral. Wilton’s marrying Harris’s ward—”
“Tell them to send someone who knew Harris. He was a good soldier, he served the King well. It doesn’t matter about Wilton.”
“Rutledge, if you’ve got this wrong, the Yard will have your head. Do you hear me? Leave the man alone unless you’ve got such proof that Christ Himself couldn’t find a way out of it! I won’t be responsible if you humiliate the Palace and disgrace the Yard!”
“I won’t,” Rutledge said, with more firmness than he felt. “If I do, you’ll have my resignation on your desk by Wednesday morning.”
“A hell of a lot of good that will be, man! After the damage is done!”
“I know. That’s why I’m taking my time.” Rutledge hung up. So much for the confidence and support of his superiors. He felt suddenly isolated, alone.
But loneliness was also a strength. When you trusted, you were more vulnerable. You gave yourself away. He would have told someone about Hamish long ago, if he’d trusted. As long as it was his own private hell, he was, in a sense, far safer. No one could reach him. No one could destroy him. Except he himself, in the muddle that was now his life.
By late afternoon he’d covered sheet after sheet with notes and a framework for his evidence. Satisfied that he’d been thorough, he reread the pages. It wasn’t a clever work of detection, nor was it complete, since there were no eyewitnesses to the death itself.
Except for the child, and the doll.