A Test of Wills - Charles Todd [71]
The Coroner’s Court progressed with smooth timeliness, from the finding of the body to the request for an adjournment while the police pursued their inquiries. Half an hour, and it was finished. The coroner, an elderly man from Warwick, agreed to the police request, stood up with decision, and said, “That’s it, then,” before nodding to Forrest and walking out to find his carriage. A murmur of dissatisfaction trailed him like ghostly robes as he went.
Sergeant Davies had returned from Warwick around six o’clock that morning, since he had to give evidence about finding the Colonel’s body. It had been a long night, he was tired and irritable, and his trip had been for nothing.
“There’s no reason to believe the killer came on the trains,” he said. “All strangers are accounted for, and there aren’t any reports of stragglers along the road from Warwick. That’s not to say someone couldn’t have come from another direction, but I’d give you any odds you like that he didn’t arrive from Warwick.”
Which was more or less what Rutledge had expected. He thanked the Sergeant and then hurried to catch up with Sally Davenant, who was walking along with another woman, dark haired and neatly dressed in gray. They parted just as Rutledge reached them, and Sally turned to him, smiling politely.
“Good morning, Inspector.”
It was a beautiful morning, the sky that particular shade of blue that comes only in June. The air was scented with roses, wild in the hedgerows and blooming in gardens, birds everywhere, children laughing. Not a day to consider the ramifications of a man’s death.
“I’d like to speak with you,” he said. “May I offer you a cup of tea?”
“Yes, I’d like one, after that ordeal.” She turned to walk with him back toward the Shepherd’s Crook. “I only came for Mark’s sake. I’m glad you didn’t require Lettice’s presence. Mark says she’s had a very rough time.”
Refusing to be drawn, Rutledge said, “I wanted to ask you about Mavers. About a pension he may have received from your husband. Or rather, a pension that might have been left to his father, as the shotgun was.”
Sally frowned. “I don’t know anything about a pension, Inspector. Hugh had a very high regard for the man’s father—he was dependable, honest, and knew his job. Quite different from his son. In every respect. I can tell you, Hugh had no such regard for the Mavers you’ve met.”
“Yet he left him a shotgun.”
“He left it to the father, and no one ever thought to change that article in the Will. When the Will was read, I made no objection to letting the shotgun go to the son because it was easier at the time than trying to fight over it. I had many problems with my husband, Inspector. He was a man who could charm anyone, but he wasn’t easy to live with. That doesn’t mean I didn’t love him—I did. But his death was a difficult time for me. Emotionally. I was torn between grief and relief, to be honest. And the problem of dealing with someone like Mavers was beyond me. I’d never have heard the end of it anyway, whatever the lawyers promised, and I wasn’t going to put up with a lifelong vendetta, as Charles did. How that man endured the endless bickering and trouble I’ll never know! Probably because he was never here long enough to be driven crazy. But I was, you see.”
When they were seated in the dining room, where Redfern was trying to keep up with the demand for refreshment, Rutledge ordered tea, then said to Mrs. Davenant, “What can you tell me about Catherine Tarrant?”
Her surprise showed in her face.