A Test of Wills - Charles Todd [27]
“Which means the killer chose this place because he felt sure the shot might not be heard. There aren’t any other houses in this area?”
“No.”
Rutledge walked around the meadow for a while longer, not knowing what he expected to find and finding nothing. Finally, satisfied, he called to Davies and they started back toward the car.
But he changed his mind when he reached the field of marrows and said, “We’ll walk along the track—the crossbar of the H—as far as that other path coming up from the churchyard. I want to see for myself how these two connect.”
The track meandered, but bore mainly eastward through plowed fields, crops already standing greenly after the rain. It joined the churchyard path in the middle of a stretch of fallow land, more or less out in the open. They were standing there while Davies described how they could continue over the ridge to the mill ruins when they saw a woman in the distance, her skirts blowing in the wind as she crested the ridge, her stride long and competent and graceful.
Sergeant Davies shaded his eyes. “That’s Miss Sommers—Miss Helena Sommers. She and her cousin live in a little cottage that belongs to the Haldanes. They let it for the summer, now and again, when there’s no other tenant.”
“She’s the woman who encountered Wilton on his walk?”
“Aye, she’s the one.”
Rutledge moved in her direction. “Then we’ll see if we can talk to her now.”
Davies hailed her in a baritone that carried clearly, and she turned, acknowledging the shout with a wave.
Miss Sommers was in her late twenties or early thirties, her face strong and her eyes a clear and untroubled gray. She stood waiting for them, calling, “Good morning!”
“This is Inspector Rutledge from London,” Davies said, more than a little short-winded after the fast pace Rutledge had set. “He’s wanting to ask you some questions if you don’t mind.”
“Of course. How can I help you?” She turned toward Rutledge, shielding her eyes from the sun as she looked up at him.
“Did you see or hear anything unusual on Monday morning when Colonel Harris was shot? I understand you were out walking.”
“Yes, I was. But this part of the country is rather hilly, and the echoes do funny things with sound. I didn’t hear a gunshot, but once over the crest of the hill there, I wouldn’t be likely to if it came from this side.” She smiled, indicating the fine pair of field glasses around her neck. “I enjoy watching birds, and when I first came here, I was forever getting confused. I’d hear a song and swear my quarry was in that tree, only to discover he was nothing of the sort, he was in a bush over there. And the next time it would be just the opposite.” The smile faded. “They say Colonel Harris was shot in a meadow—the small one beyond a copse of trees. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
She nodded. “I know where it is then. I followed a pair of nesting robins there one afternoon. I wouldn’t have been very likely to hear any sounds from there, I’m afraid.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“Captain Wilton,” she answered with some reluctance. “I didn’t speak to him, but I did see him, and he waved.”
“At what time was this?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Early, I think. Around eight, I imagine, or a little after. I was engrossed in tracking a cuckoo and was mainly glad that Wilton wasn’t the sort who’d want to stop and chatter.”
“Which way was he going?”
“The same way you are.”
“Toward the old mill, then.”
“Yes, I suppose so. I wasn’t really paying much attention, he was just walking along here. I saw him, realized who it was, waved, and then went on my way.”
“Did you know the Colonel well?”
“Hardly at all. We’ve been here since April, and he very kindly asked us to dinner one evening. But my cousin is shy, almost a recluse, and she didn’t want to go. I did, enjoyed the evening, and that was that. We spoke to each other on the High Street, and I