A Test of Wills - Charles Todd [9]
Completely hidden from the main road by banks of old trees, the house didn’t emerge until they rounded the second bend and came out of the shadows into the sun. Then mellowed brick and tall windows, warmed to gold, reflected the early morning light. Setting them off was a wide sweep of lawn mown to crisp perfection, the flower beds sharply edged and the drive smoothly raked. One glance and you could tell that not only had pride gone into the upkeep of this house, but unabashed love as well.
To Rutledge’s appreciative eye, a master’s hand had created this marvelously graceful facade. For the stone cornices, quoins, and moldings around the windows enhanced rather than overwhelmed the effect of elegant simplicity that the designer had been striving for. He found himself wondering who the architect had been, for this was a small jewel. Where had such a gift taken the man after this?
But Davies couldn’t say. “The Colonel, now, he would have told you, and if he wasn’t too busy, he’d have taken out the old plans for you to see. That was the kind of man he was, never a stickler for rank. He knew his place, and trusted you to know yours.”
As Rutledge got out of the car, he found himself looking up at the windows above. One of the heavy drapes had twitched, he thought, the slight movement catching the corner of his eye. In France, where life itself depended on quick reflexes, you learned to see your enemy first or you died. It was as simple as that.
The staff had already placed a heavy black wreath on the broad wooden door, its streamers lifting gently in the light breeze. A butler answered the bell. He was a thin man of middle height, fifty-five or thereabouts, his face heavy with grief as if he mourned the Colonel personally. He informed Rutledge and Sergeant Davies in tones of polished regret that Miss Wood was not receiving anyone today.
Rutledge said only, “What is your name?”
“Johnston, sir.” The words were polite, distant.
“You may tell your mistress, Johnston, that Inspector Rutledge is here on police business. You know Sergeant Davies, I think.”
“Miss Wood is still unwell, Inspector.” He cast an accusing glance at Davies, as if blaming him for Rutledge’s ill-mannered persistence. “Her doctor has already informed Inspector Forrest—”
“Yes, I understand. We won’t disturb her any longer than absolutely necessary.” The voice was firm, that of an army officer giving instructions, brooking no further opposition. Certainly not the voice of a lowly policeman begging entrance.
“I’ll enquire,” the man replied, with a resignation that clearly indicated both personal and professional disapproval but just as clearly made no promises.
He left them standing in the hall before a handsome staircase that divided at the first-floor landing and continued upward in two graceful arcs. These met again on the second story, above the doorway, to form an oval frame for a ceiling painting of nymphs and clouds, with a Venus of great beauty in the center. From the hall she seemed to float in cloud-cushioned luxury, far beyond the reach of mere mortals, staring down at them with a smile that was as tantalizing as it was smug.
Johnston was gone for nearly fifteen minutes.
Hamish, growing restive as the tension of waiting mounted, said, “I’ve never been inside a house like this. Look at the floor, man, it’s squares of marble, enough to pave the streets in my village. And that stair—what holds it up, then? It’s a marvel! And worth a murder or two.”
Rutledge ignored him and the uncomfortable stiffness of Sergeant Davies, who seemed to grow more wooden with every passing minute. The butler returned eventually and said with ill-concealed censure, “Miss Wood will receive you in her sitting room, but she asks that you will make your call brief.”
He led the way up the staircase to the first floor and then turned left down a wide, carpeted corridor to a door near the