A Test of Wills - Charles Todd [7]
But London had said nothing—Bowles had said nothing.
In the far corners of his mind, behind the spinning turmoil of his own thoughts, Rutledge could hear the wild, derisive echoes of Hamish’s laughter.
2
Misunderstanding the horrified expression on Rutledge’s face, Sergeant Davies nodded sympathetically. “Aye,” he said, “it’s hard to swallow, I know. You were in the war, then? My youngest brother was in the Balkans, lost both arms. Took it like a man. Not a shred of weakness in Tommy!”
He began to fiddle with his cup as he went on, as if to distract himself from the rest of what he had to say. “Of course we didn’t know about Hickam at first, I just came across him that same morning, lying under a tree on the lane, sleeping one off. When I tried to wake him up and send him off home, he swore he was sober as a judge, and told me I could ask the Colonel and the Captain, they’d vouch for him. I thought he meant generally, you see.”
The cup spun out of his fingers, clattering against the sugar bowl and almost tipping over the cream pitcher. Davies caught it, returned it to his saucer, then plowed on, trying to conceal the sense of guilt that was still plaguing him. “I didn’t pay any heed to him at first, I was in a hurry to find Inspector Forrest and tell him about the murder, but Hickam’s place was on my way back to Upper Streetham and he was in no shape to get there on his own. By the time I’d reached his house, listening to him ramble all the way, it was beginning to sound a bit different from what I’d first thought. So Inspector Forrest went to talk to him that afternoon and got a little straighter version, and we couldn’t just shrug it off, could we? Right or wrong, we had to take note of it, didn’t we?”
It was an appeal for forgiveness, an admission of responsibility for what had plunged Warwickshire and London into this present predicament. If he’d left well enough alone, if he hadn’t bothered to stop in the first place, no one would ever have thought to question the likes of Hickam about the Colonel or the Captain. There would have been no reason, no need.
Rutledge, still fighting his own battle for control, managed to keep his voice level, but the words came out harsh and cold, apparently without any sympathy for the Sergeant’s moral dilemma. “What did Captain Wilton have to say about Hickam’s story?”
“Well, nothing. That is, he says he wasn’t in the lane that morning, he was walking in a different direction. He says he’s seen Hickam from time to time in the mornings, reeling home or sleeping wherever he was or having one of his crazy spells, but not on that occasion.”
“Which doesn’t mean that Hickam didn’t see him.”
Sergeant Davies was appalled. “You’re saying the Captain’s lying, sir?”
“People do lie, Sergeant, even those who have earned the Victoria Cross. Besides, Hickam’s description of what he saw is strangely complete, isn’t it? The Captain holding the Colonel’s bridle, the Captain’s face turning red, the Captain stepping back with clenched fists. If it didn’t happen that morning, if Hickam saw the two men together on another occasion, it could mean that their quarrel on the night before the murder had its roots in an earlier confrontation. That there was more animosity between the Colonel and his ward’s fiancé than we know at this point.”
Sergeant Davies was dubious. “Even so, Hickam might have misread what he saw, there might have been a perfectly reasonable explanation. What if the two men were in agreement instead of quarreling? What if they’d been angry at someone else, or about something that neither of them liked?”
“Then why would Wilton deny that he’d met Harris in the lane? If this encounter did have some perfectly innocent explanation? No, I think you’re on the wrong track there.”
“Well, what if Hickam confused what he saw with something that happened at the Front? He doesn’t like officers—he might even have made mischief on purpose. You can’t be really sure, can you? Hickam might be capable of anything!” The disgust