A Test of Wills - Charles Todd [80]
Rutledge had spoken out of irritation, exasperated with Wilton and himself. But the reaction had been completely unexpected.
“Yon pretty hero isn’t what he seems,” Hamish growled. “Unlucky in love and good for nothing but killing. But very good at that….”
Finally Wilton said carefully, “A conspiracy to murder Harris?”
“A conspiracy to hide the truth. Whatever it may be,” Rutledge amended.
Wilton finished his whiskey. “I thought you were an experienced man, one of the best London had. That’s what Forrest told us. If you can find one person in Warwickshire—other than that fool Mavers—who wanted Harris dead, I’ll willingly be damned to the far reaches of hell! Meanwhile, I’ll find the Sergeant and we’ll tour the nurseries of Upper Streetham for this child who lost a doll. Little good may it do you!”
He left, lifting a hand to summon Redfern. Rutledge sat where he was, watching the stiff, angry set of his shoulders as the Captain stalked off. “Unlucky in love,” Hamish had said.
He considered that again. Catherine Tarrant’s German. Lettice Wood’s guardian. And Sally Davenant, who might not have forgotten what had become of her husband’s old shotgun.
If Charles Harris had died of poison, Rutledge might believe in simple jealousy more easily. But a shotgun? That took rage, hatred, a need to obliterate, as Lettice had put it.
He could feel the fatigue dragging at him, the stress and the loneliness. The fear. Looking around for Redfern, Rutledge saw that he was alone in the bar. And then Carfield was coming through the doorway, glancing his way.
“Inspector. I’ve spoken with Mark Wilton,” he said, crossing over to Rutledge’s table. “We’ve settled on Tuesday for the services. I understand that Dr. Warren hasn’t lifted his embargo on visits to Lettice. I really feel, as her spiritual adviser, I should go to her, offer her comfort, prepare her for the very difficult task of attending the funeral. Could you use your good offices to persuade him that seclusion is the worst possible thing for a young woman with no family to support her?”
Rutledge smiled. Pompous ass didn’t begin to describe the Vicar. “I have no right to overturn a medical decision unless it has a bearing on my duties,” he said, remembering Lettice’s dread of having to cope with Carfield.
“And there’s the matter of the reception after the service. It should be held at Mallows. I sincerely believe Charles would have wished that. Naturally I shall take charge; I know the staff well enough, they’ll do my bidding.”
“Why not at the Vicarage?” Rutledge asked. “After Miss Wood has greeted the guests, she can go quietly home. Wilton will see to that, or Royston.”
Carfield sat down uninvited. “My dear man, one doesn’t serve the funeral’s cold baked meats at the Vicarage for a man like Charles Harris, who has his own quite fine residence! That’s what staff is for, you know, to do the labor. One doesn’t expect dear Lettice to shoulder such a burden.”
“Have you suggested to Wilton that you wish to arrange the reception at Mallows?”
Carfield’s eyebrows rose. “It isn’t his home, is it? The decision is for others to make, not for Captain Wilton.”
“I see.” He considered the Vicar for a moment. “Who told Upper Streetham that Miss Tarrant was in love with a German prisoner of war and wished to marry him?”
The heavily handsome face was closed. “I have no idea. I tried to make the village see that she had done nothing wrong, that loving our enemies is part of God’s plan. But people are sometimes narrow-minded about such matters. Why do you ask?”
“Could she have killed Charles Harris?”
Carfield smiled. “Why not ask me if Mrs. Davenant did it?”
“All right. Did she?”
The smile disappeared. “You’re quite serious?”
“Murder is a serious business. I want to solve this one.”
“Ah, yes, I can understand your dilemma, with Wilton so closely connected to the