A Test of Wills - Charles Todd [113]
For an hour or more he roamed the fields above Mallows, looking for a likely place where a killer was safe, out of sight of the house, out of hearing, where none of the tenants might stumble over him accidentally and see that shotgun. But there was nothing that spoke to him, no vantage point that caught his fancy.
Look at it again, Rutledge told himself. You were a ground soldier. You’d see it differently. Wilton flew. His eye for terrain might not be as sharp as yours.
All right, then. A clump of saplings here. A high hedge full of summer-nesting birds there. A dip in the land, like a bowl or dell, where someone might quietly loiter. A section of the rose-clotted wall that separated the Haldane land from Mallows. They were all possibilities. The saplings in particular offered a shield from the house and thick brambles in which to conceal a shotgun. And the hedgerow in one or two spots was almost as good. For the most part the wall was too open, especially on this side, and the dell had no cover at all.
Another thought struck him. Betrothed to Lettice or not, Wilton would attract more notice on Mallows land than would, say, Royston, who had every reason to move about in his daily tasks. Or Lettice, who lived there and had had the run of the place since she was a child. In the spring with the fields plowed and the crops growing, you left tracks—
But Davies and Forrest had assumed that Charles was killed in the meadow, and hadn’t looked for tracks. Or blood. Or bits of flesh and bone…
Finally he turned back, still uneasy, still driven by something he couldn’t define. Not so much knowledge as a sense of alarm, a distinct frisson that rippled along his nerves like the breeze rippling softly through his hair.
In front of Mallows, in the open where there was just enough ambient light, he looked at his watch. It was after two.
“Decent Christian folk are all in their beds,” Hamish began.
Rutledge ignored him. Mallows was a house of mourning, and Charles had no close relatives. Most of the funeral’s guests would be staying the night in Warwick, or at the Shepherd’s Crook in Upper Streetham. Lettice would be alone, as she had been for the past week since her guardian’s death.
There wouldn’t be an opportunity to see her in the morning before the services began—and it would be callous to try. Afterward there was the reception that the Vicar had his heart set upon. No opportunity to speak to her then…and after the reception, time might have run out….
He turned and walked across the gravel of the drive to the front door with its black wreath darker than the night on the wooden panels. After a moment, he rang the bell, and in the stillness, fancied he heard it echo through the house like some gothic tale of late-night callers bringing bad tidings. His sister had gone through a stage of reading them just before bedtime, shivering under the covers with a mixture of horror and delight, or scratching at his door for comfort when she’d succeeded in terrifying herself too much to sleep.
Rutledge was still smiling when Johnston opened the door, eyes heavy with sleep, clothes stuffed on haphazardly.
He stared at Rutledge, recognizing him after a moment, then said, “What’s happened?”
“I have to speak to Miss Wood, it’s urgent. But don’t frighten her, there’s nothing wrong.”
“Inspector! Do you know what time it is, man! I can’t wake Miss Wood at this hour—there’s the funeral tomorrow, she’ll need her sleep!”
“Yes, I know, and I’m sorry. But I think she’d rather see me now than just as she’s leaving for the church.”
It took persuasion, and a pulling of rank, but in the end Johnston went up the stairs into the darkness, leaving Rutledge in