A Test of Wills - Charles Todd [67]
“Carrying a shotgun?”
She was momentarily at a loss, then rallied. “No, certainly not. Not out in the open. But people do have things they carry without arousing suspicion. A workman with his kit of tools. Salesmen with sample cases. Whatever. And you don’t wonder what’s inside, do you, when you see someone carrying something that belongs with him. You assume, don’t you, that it’s all aboveboard?”
Rutledge nodded grudgingly. She was right.
“I’m not suggesting that it happened this way. I’m merely pointing out that Mark Wilton needed a very powerful reason to kill his fiancée’s guardian, practically on the eve of their wedding.
And he had heard Lettice, only hours ago, putting off the marriage. Because she was in mourning.
It made sense, what Helena Sommers had said. And it gave him a very sound excuse for ignoring Hickam’s statement. But her argument also left him with the whole of England to choose from, and nothing to go on in the way of motive or evidence. Bowles would not be happy over that!
Helena seemed to appreciate his dilemma. She said ruefully, “I’m sorry. I have no business interjecting my views. I’m an outsider here, I don’t know any of these people very well. But I have met them, and I’d hate to think one of them is a murderer. ‘Not someone I know, surely!’ You must have heard that often enough!”
He had. But he answered, “I suppose it’s human nature.”
As the clock in the other parlor began to chime the hour, she got up quickly. “I’ve been away longer than I intended. Maggie will be wondering what’s become of me. I must go.” Hesitating she added, “I’ve never been to war, of course, and I know nothing about it except what one reads in the news accounts. But Colonel Harris must have had to do many things as an officer that he as a man wouldn’t care to talk about—was ashamed of, even. When you find his murderer, you may discover that his death has its roots in the war. Not in the affairs of anyone we know.”
The war.
But if she was right, the war also brought him full circle to Mark Wilton, who had known Harris in France.
Or to Catherine Tarrant…
When he’d seen Helena to the dogcart and watched the Haldane pony trot off down the main street, Rutledge went back to the station to rout out Sergeant Davies. He sent him off to Warwick to find out, if he could, about anyone who had arrived there by train shortly before the murder and come on to Upper Streetham.
A wild-goose chase, Sergeant Davies thought sourly as he set out. He knew his own ground, and there hadn’t been any unexplained strangers in Upper Streetham or even in Lower Streetham for that matter—before, during, or after the killing. Except for that dead lorry driver who’d been accounted for. There were always eyes to see, ears to hear, if anyone passed through. And news of it reached him, directly or indirectly, within a matter of hours. Strangers stood out, nobody liked them, and word was passed on. But going to Warwick, waste of time though it was, kept him out of the Inspector’s clutches, and that counted for something.
As he was finishing his dinner, Rutledge looked up to see Mark Wilton standing out in the hall of the Inn. The Captain saw him at the same time and crossed the dining room to Rutledge’s table.
“I’ve come to speak to you about the Inquest. And the release of the body.”
“I was just on my way out to see Dr. Warren. But that can wait. Can I offer you a drink in the bar?”
“Thanks.”
They went through to the public bar, which was half empty, and found a table in one corner.
Rutledge ordered two whiskeys and sat down. “The Inquest will be at ten o’clock. I don’t expect it will last more than half an hour. After that, you can speak to the undertakers.”
“Have you seen the body?” Wilton asked curiously.
“Three days after death, I didn’t expect it to tell me very much. I wasn’t there to