A Test of Wills - Charles Todd [39]
Leaning across a battered desk to shake hands, Forrest introduced himself to Rutledge and said, “I’m sorry about this morning. Three dead in Lower Streetham, another in critical condition, two more seriously injured, and half the village in an uproar. I didn’t like to leave until things had settled a bit. I hope Sergeant Davies has told you everything you wanted to know.” He saw the shotgun in Rutledge’s left hand and said, “Hello, what have we here?”
“Bert Mavers says this was left to him in a Will—or rather, left to his father.”
“Good Lord! So it was! I’d forgotten about that. And Mrs. Davenant didn’t mention it either, when I went to see her about her husband’s Italian guns. It’s been years—” His face was a picture of shock and chagrin.
“We probably can’t prove it’s the murder weapon, but I’m ready to wager it was.”
Reaching for the shotgun, Forrest said with sudden enthusiasm, “Used by Mavers, do you think?”
“If so, why didn’t he have the wit to put it out of sight afterward?”
“You never know with Mavers. Nothing he does makes much sense.” Forrest examined it carefully, as if half expecting it to confess. “Yes, it’s been fired, you can see that, but there’s no saying when, is there? Still—”
“Everyone claims he was in the village all morning. Is that true?”
“Unfortunately, it appears to be.” Forrest fished in the center drawer of his desk and said, “Here’s a list of people I’ve talked to. You can see for yourself.”
Rutledge took the neatly written sheet and glanced at the names, nearly two dozen of them. Most were unfamiliar to him, but Mrs. Davenant’s was among them, and Royston’s. And Catherine Tarrant’s.
“Each of these people heard him ranting. That’s clear enough,” Forrest went on. “He was plaguing everyone who came within earshot, and each one will swear to that. Although the shopkeepers were too busy to pay much heed to him, they remember that he was making the usual nuisance of himself, and their customers were commenting on it. Putting it all together, you can see that he arrived in the market square early on and was still there at midmorning.” He rubbed his pounding temples and gestured to the two barrel-backed oak chairs across from the desk. “Sit down, sit down.”
Rutledge shook his head. “I must find Daniel Hickam.”
Inspector Forrest said, “Surely you don’t intend to take his statement seriously? There’s bound to be other evidence more worthy of your time than anything Hickam can say! If we keep looking hard enough?” He could see that the man from London was far from well, and suddenly found himself worrying about that. You don’t have the patience and the energy to give to a thorough investigation, is that it? he thought to himself. You want an easy answer, then back to the comforts of London. That’s why the Yard sent you, then, to sweep it all under the rug for them. And it’s my fault….
“I won’t know that until I’ve spoken to him, will I?”
“He can’t tell you what day of the week it is half the time, much less where he came from before you ran into him or where he might be going next. Mind’s a wasteland. Pity he didn’t die when that shell exploded—no good to himself or anyone else in his condition!”
“You took down his statement,” Rutledge pointed out. Hamish, relishing Forrest’s remark, was repeating it softly, an echo whispering across a void of fear. “…no good to himself or anyone else in his condition….” He turned away abruptly to shield his face from Forrest’s sharp gaze, and unintentionally left the impression that he was putting the blame squarely where it belonged.
“I don’t see what else I could have done. Sergeant Davies reported the conversation, and after that I had to pursue the matter,” Forrest answered defensively, “whether Hickam is mad or not. But that doesn’t mean