A Test of Wills - Charles Todd [88]
Rutledge swore under his breath. When one door opened, another seemed to close. “What’s the matter with her?”
“That’s just it, sir, Dr. Warren doesn’t know. Her mind’s gone, like. And she screams if Ted comes near her. Screams in the night too. Won’t eat, won’t sleep. It’s a sad case.”
The car bumped to a stop in front of the cottage, a neatly kept house with a vegetable garden in the back, flowers in narrow beds, and a pen with chickens. A large white cat sat washing herself on the flagstone steps leading to the door, ignoring them as they walked by.
Agnes Farrell opened the door to them. He could see the lines of fatigue in her face, the worry in her eyes, the premature aging of fear. But she said briskly, “Sergeant, I told you once and I’ll tell you again, I’ll not have that child worried!”
“This is Inspector Rutledge, from London, Agnes. He needs to have a look at Lizzie. It won’t be above a minute, I promise it won’t,” he cajoled. “And then we’ll be on our way.”
Agnes looked Rutledge over, her eyes weighing him as carefully—but in a different manner—as Georgina Grayson’s had done. “What’s a policeman from London want with the likes of Lizzie?” she demanded.
“I don’t know,” Rutledge said. “But I believe I’ve found the child’s doll. It was in the hedge near the meadow where Colonel Harris was killed. Captain Wilton here says he met her on his walk that morning, and she was crying for the doll. I’d like to return it, if I could.” He held out the doll, and Agnes nodded in surprise. “Aye, that’s the one, all right! Whatever was she doing in the meadow?”
“Looking for Ted, no doubt.” Meg Pinter came forward and touched the doll. Her face was drawn with lack of sleep and a very deep fear for her child. “She goes out to pick flowers, and that’s all right, she comes to no harm. But once or twice she’s gone looking for her father because he lets her sit on one of the horses in the stables, if the Haldanes aren’t about.”
Rutledge said, “Do you think she was in the meadow that morning? When the Colonel was killed?”
“Oh God!” Meg exclaimed, turning to stare at her mother. “I’d never even thought—” Agnes’s face twisted in pain, and she shook her head.
“She might have seen something,” he added, as gently as he could. “But I’d like to have a look at her, give her the doll.”
“No, I’ll take it!” Meg said quickly, tears in her eyes, but he refused to part with it.
“I found it. I’ll return it.”
The two women, uncertain what to do, turned to the Sergeant, but he shook his head, denying any responsibility. In the end, they led Rutledge through the neat house to the small room with its silent crib.
Lizzie lay as quietly as a carved child, covers tidily drawn over her body, her face turned toward the wall. It was a bright room, very pleasant with a lamp and a stool and a small doll’s bed in one corner, handmade and rather nicely carved with flowers in the headboard. It was very much like the crib, and empty. Even from the door he could see how the little girl’s face had lost flesh, the body bony under the pink coverlet. There had been so many refugee children in France with bones showing and dark, haunted eyes, frightened and cold and hungry. They had haunted him too.
Rutledge walked slowly toward the child. Wilton stayed outside the door, but the Sergeant and the two women followed him inside.
“Lizzie?” he said softly. But she made no response, as if she hadn’t heard him. As if she heard nothing. A thin thread of milk drained out of her mouth on the sheet under her head, and her eyes stared at the wall with no recognition of what she was seeing.
“Speak to her,” he said over his shoulder to Meg. She came to the bed, calling her daughter’s name, half cajoling, half commanding, but Lizzie never stirred. Rutledge reached out and touched Lizzie on the arm, without any reaction at all.
Meg’s voice dwindled, and she bit her lip against the tears. “I’d never thought,” she said softly, as if Lizzie could hear her, “that she might have been there. Poor little mite—poor thing!” She turned away, and Agnes took