A Test of Wills - Charles Todd [49]
The name suddenly clicked. He’d seen C. Tarrant’s work, powerful, memorable studies of light and shadow, of faces with strength and suffering written in each line, or scenes where color richly defined the landscape with a boldness that brought Turner to mind. His sister Frances admired her enormously, but somehow he’d thought of the artist as older, a woman of experience and style, not the earnest girl he’d talked to in the Inn parlor.
Lettice Wood was saying, “When her father died early in 1915, she came back to run their estate on her own.”
“That must have been a heavy responsibility.”
“It was. But there was no one else to take over. And the only men left to work the land were either very old or very young. Or like Laurence Royston, were trying to keep the large estates afloat, food and meat quotas filled.” She looked down at her hands, slim and white in her lap. “I admired her—I was only a schoolgirl, and I thought she was something of a heroine. A part of the war effort, doing a man’s work when she’d rather be in London, painting, going to parties and exhibitions.”
“Was her lover someone she’d left behind in London?”
She shook her head. “You must ask Catherine, I tell you.”
He was watching her closely. She had stopped taking the sedatives, he was sure of it now. But she was still dazed, a little unsteady, as if the first shock of her guardian’s death hadn’t really worn off. Or as if something was tearing her apart inside, crowding out all other emotions except grief, and she was struggling to find a way to cope. “You brought up the subject in the first place. Why, if you won’t tell me the rest of it?”
“I was trying to explain, that’s all—that she was turning the other cheek, if you like, showing magnanimity. She was doing for me what I failed to do for her.” Lettice swallowed hard. “Or rubbing salt into the wound, for all I know.”
He continued to look at her, his face cold with speculation. Lettice lifted her chin, her eyes changing again as she refused to be intimidated. “It has nothing to do with Charles. And certainly not with Captain Wilton,” she said firmly. “It’s between Catherine and me. A debt…of a sort.”
“Nothing seems to have anything to do with Charles Harris, does it?” Rutledge stood up. “Why didn’t you go riding with your guardian that last morning?”
Her mouth opened and she gulped air, as if he had struck her in the stomach with his fist. But no words came. And then with a courage he could see, she got herself in hand and answered him. “Are you telling me that he might still be alive if I had? That’s very cruel, Inspector, even for a policeman from London!”
“There was no thought of cruelty, Miss Wood,” he said gently. “In our first interview you yourself seemed to emphasize the fact that you hadn’t gone riding that morning. I wondered why, that’s all.”
“Had I?” Her dark brows drew together and she shook her head. “I don’t remember—I don’t know in what context I might have left that impression….”
“When I asked you if you’d seen the Colonel since his quarrel with the Captain. You answered, ‘I didn’t go riding that morning.’ As if that was somehow important.”
“Important! If he had asked me, I would have gone! But I know—knew—how much his early rides meant to him, and I thought there was all the time in the world—” She checked, shook her head wordlessly, and then after a moment said in exasperation, “Oh, do sit down! We can’t both prowl this room like tigers in a small cage!”
“I’d like to speak to Mary Satterthwaite before I go, if I may.”
She said, “Of course,” as if it was a matter of indifference to her, and rang the bell, then watched him silently as they waited. Hamish, grumbling deep inside Rutledge’s mind, was uneasy with Lettice Wood, his Scottish soul disturbed by those strange eyes and the intensity that churned behind them. But Rutledge found himself drawn to her against his will,