A Test of Wills - Charles Todd [51]
And although he persisted for a time, she was true to her word.
8
So he went to see Catherine Tarrant, and found her in her studio. It was a tiled, high-ceilinged room that had been converted from an Edwardian conservatory, with light that illuminated without blinding. And there was an earthy smell about it, mixed with the odors of paint and of turpentine—and oddly enough, the ghostly scent of roses.
She was stretching a canvas when Vivian, who bore a faint resemblance to her sister Mary, led Rutledge there and then left, shutting the door quietly.
“I didn’t know, at the Inn,” he said, “that you were C. Tarrant. My sister is a great admirer of your work.” He looked around at the paintings drying against the wall, their colors gleaming like jewels in various corners of the room.
“That’s always nice to hear. You never tire of praise. The critics are generous enough with condemnation.” She glanced up and said, “But that isn’t what brought you here, is it? What’s happened?” Her face was tense, prepared.
“Nothing has happened, that I’m aware of. I’ve come to ask you about something that has been puzzling me, that’s all. The German.”
The slender stretcher in her hands snapped, and she stared at him with a mixture of anger and exasperation. “I might have known! As a general rule I find that men who were at the Front are the least prejudiced, in spite of what they’ve suffered. Or saw their friends suffer. I’m sorry you aren’t one of them.”
He found a smile for her, although she had made him angry in turn. “How do you know? To tell you the truth, I don’t have any idea what I’m supposed to be prejudiced about. Why don’t you tell me, and then we’ll see where I stand.”
Putting down the canvas, she walked over to one of the open windows, her back to him. “As a matter of curiosity, who told you? About the German?”
“Several people have alluded to him,” he said carefully.
“Yes, I expect they have,” she answered, weary patience in her voice. “But I really don’t see what it has to do with this enquiry.” She turned around, lifted one of the paintings stacked against the wall beside her, and began to study it as if she saw something she didn’t like about it.
“How can I be sure, until I hear your side of the story?”
She glanced up wryly. “You’ve been talking to Lettice, I think. Well, everyone else has pawed over what happened with salacious enthusiasm, why not Scotland Yard? At least you’ll hear the truth from me, not wild conjectures and the embroideries of gossip.” She put that painting down and picked up another, keeping her voice coolly detached, but he could see the way her hands gripped the canvas as she held it at arm’s length.
“It’s very simple, really. During the war, when there weren’t enough men to do the heavy work on the farms, the government allowed people to take on German prisoners of war to help on the land. Most of them were glad to do it, it was better than being cooped up in camp all day with nothing to occupy them. Mallows was allowed three Germans to bring in the harvest one year.”
“And you?”
She turned the painting a little, as if to see it better. “Yes, I applied for one, but he didn’t work out—I don’t think he’d ever seen a cow before, much less a plow! He’d been a clerk in a milliner’s shop, and although he was willing, I spent most of my time trying to show him what he was supposed to be doing.”
Rutledge said nothing, and after a moment she went on reluctantly. “So they sent me a new man, and then someone to help him. He was marvelous. He could do anything—make repairs, plow, birth a foal, milk, whatever was needed—and he seemed to take pleasure in it. He had grown up on the land, but he hadn’t actually worked it, someone else did that for him. He was a lawyer in Bremen. Rolf was his name—Rolf Linden. And—I fell in love with him. It wasn’t an infatuation this time. It wasn’t at all like my feelings for Mark. But Rolf was a German—and as far as everyone in Upper Streetham was concerned, the only good German was a dead one. And he was a prisoner, he went back to the camp every night. Hardly the