A Test of Wills - Charles Todd [78]
Nothing. Nothing—
Except—
In the lee of the hedge, near where he and the Sergeant had cut through on their first visit. Something dull and gray and unidentifiable. Something he hadn’t been able to see from any other part of the meadow. What was it?
He walked down to the hedge, keeping his bearings with care, and found the place, the thing he’d seen. He squatted on his heels and looked at it, thinking it was a scrap of rotting cloth. Nothing…Ignoring the brambles, he pushed his way nearer to it. Closer to, it had shape, and staring eyes.
Reaching into the brambles, he touched it, then pulled it forward.
A doll. A small wooden doll, in a muddy, faded gown of pale blue flowered print, the kind of cloth that could be bought in any shop, cheap, cotton, and favored by mothers for children’s clothes. A girl’s dress, with the leftover cloth sewn into a gown for her favorite doll.
Hadn’t Wilton said something about seeing a child who had lost her doll?
Rutledge picked up the little bundle of cloth and stared down at it.
Hickam might not be fit to testify against the Captain. Would a child be any more reliable as a witness? He swore. Not bloody likely!
Making his way through the hedge, Rutledge went striding down to the lane, ignoring the high grass and brambles, his mind working on how to deal with the child, and with Wilton. Hamish was silent now, but somewhere he still moved about restlessly, waiting.
When he got to his car, left in the brushy, overgrown lane, Rutledge swore again. With infinite feeling.
One of his tires was torn. As if viciously slashed with a knife or a sharp stick. Deliberately and maliciously damaged.
Rutledge didn’t need a policeman to tell him who had done this.
Mavers.
13
Rutledge sent the blacksmith to bring his car back to the village and then went to find Inspector Forrest. But he wasn’t in—he’d been called back to Lower Streetham on the matter of the lorry accident. Fortuitously, Rutledge told himself irritably.
It was long past time for luncheon, and Rutledge turned back toward the Inn. After a hasty meal, he crossed to Dr. Warren’s surgery to look in on Hickam. He was no better—awake, but without any awareness in his eyes. A dead man’s stare was focused on the ceiling of the tiny room, blank and without knowledge or pain or grief.
Dr. Warren came in as Rutledge was leaving. “You’ve seen him? Well, it’s something that he’s still alive, I suppose. I’ve got enough on my hands—I can’t stand over him. You might see if the Vicar will pray for him”—he snorted—“it’s about all he’s good for!”
“Can you tell me if any young children live near the meadow where Harris was found?”
“Children?” Dr. Warren stared at him.
“Girls, then. Young enough to play with something like this.” He held out the muddy wooden doll.
Dr. Warren transferred his gaze to the object in Rutledge’s hand. “There must be seven or eight on the estate itself, servants’ and tenants’ children. More, scattered on the farms thereabouts. The gentry have china dolls, not wooden ones. As a rule. Why?”
“I found this under a hedge. Captain Wilton says he saw a child that morning, that she’d lost her doll.”
“Then ask the Captain to find her for you! I’ve got a breech birth to see to, and after that, a farmer whose ax slipped and damned near took off his foot. If I save the limb, it’ll be a miracle. And he won’t have the Army to provide him with a false one if I don’t.”
Rutledge stood aside and let him walk into the small surgery, where Warren restocked his bag and then set it on the scrubbed table. “You understand, don’t you, that if Hickam lives, he may not have enough of a mind left to testify at all? Everything that’s happened could be wiped out?”
Rutledge replied, “Yes. I know. You’ve served the people of this town for most of your life. Who do you believe might have killed Charles Harris?”
Warren shrugged. “Mavers, of course.