himself, telling me it was nothing—nothing! And he was gone, just like that. I searched everywhere. I finally found him, he was having lunch at the Inn, and he took me outside into the garden where no one could overhear and he said it wasn’t love. It was just that he’d been away from London too long, he’d needed a woman too long, and touching me had made him forget who I was, it was only his need speaking. But it wasn’t true, it wasn’t Charles, it was what we both felt, and I was sure of it. He wouldn’t speak to me about it for days, wouldn’t listen to me, stayed away from me as if I had the plague or something, and then on Saturday—I waited until he’d gone up to his room, and I came to the door and said I wasn’t marrying Mark, that it wasn’t fair to Mark, and that the wedding would have to be called off anyway. And he just said, ‘All right,’ as if I’d told him the cat had just had kittens or the rain had brought grasshoppers with it—something that didn’t matter…. But on Sunday—on Sunday I went to his room again when he was dressing for dinner, and he didn’t hear me come in, I caught him by surprise, standing there buttoning his cuff links, and when he looked up—and I saw his face—I ran. There was such—such depth of love in his eyes as he looked up at me, I couldn’t bear it. He came after me, told me he was sorry he’d frightened me, and then he was kissing me again, and the room was whirling about, and I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think—Mark had never, ever made me feel like that, he—he was aloof, somehow, as if his head was still in the clouds, with his planes. As if his heart was shut off somewhere and I couldn’t touch it. But Charles wasn’t that way, and I didn’t care then whether Charles married me or not, there wouldn’t be anyone else in my life. He let me go, he told me to think clearly and carefully, not to make a quick judgment, that there was such a difference in our ages that I couldn’t be sure, and neither could he, what we were feeling. He talked about honor and duty—about going away for a while—and I smiled and said I’d not be hasty. But I knew I didn’t need to consider, and I was the happiest—the happiest woman on earth at that moment. I didn’t even think about Mark! And I paid for it the next morning, because we had one night together, Charles and I, and that was all. All that I’ll have to take with me as far as my grave, because it was beyond anything I’ve ever known and could ever hope to feel, whatever happens to me….”
“I didn’t go riding that morning….” Rutledge heard those words again in the far corners of his mind, Lettice answering his question about how Charles had behaved on the morning after the quarrel. She hadn’t lied, she’d told him the truth, only in a fashion that she alone knew was an evasion. For she had seen him that morning.
“I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want people pointing at me, saying I’d had a love affair with Charles and was the cause of his death. I thought there would be enough evidence—something—witnesses—that would lead you to his killer without me. When you came that first time, I thought the only happiness I’d ever have again was seeing Mark hang. And then I realized, with Sergeant Davies standing there by the door, that anything I said would be common knowledge in the village before dinner.”
“And now? How do you feel about Wilton now?” Rutledge asked, breaking the silence.
Lettice shook her head. “I know he must have killed Charles. It makes sense, the way it happened. But—I still can’t see Mark shooting him down in hot blood, obliterating him, wreaking such a terrible vengeance. He’s not—devious by nature, not passionate or impulsive. There’s an uprightness in him, a strength.”
“He wouldn’t have fought to keep you?”
“He’d have fought,” she said quietly. “But in his own way.”
20
It was after eight when Rutledge woke up the next morning, head heavy with sleeplessness that had pursued him most of the night. He’d heard the church clock chime the hours until it was six o’clock and light enough to see the birds in the trees outside his window before he’d drifted into