A Test of Wills - Charles Todd [90]
The horse he’d been riding ambled over and nudged his shoulder. Ted reached up to its muzzle without thinking, stroking the soft nose. Rutledge watched him.
“Does your daughter like horses?”
“Horses? Aye, she’s been around them most of her life. Not to ride, but I’ve let her sit on their backs, held her in front of me. Let her touch them. She likes to touch their coats, smooth it, like. Always has.”
Rutledge gestured to Davies and Wilton to get into the car. “If you want my advice, send for Dr. Warren and let him take another look at her. And stay away from her for a few days, Pinter, if you can. There’s a chance that she can sleep now. It ought to help. When she wakes up, if she’s at all capable of talking, send for me. Do you understand? It could be very important! For your sake and for hers.”
Ted nodded, his wife and mother-in-law watchful, wary. But Rutledge, looking at them, thought they’d do it. “Stay away from her, mind!” he added. “Let her heal, if she can.”
Agnes said, “I’ll see to it. For now.”
“I’ve seen men suffer like that. In the war,” he added. “Shock can do that. If that’s what’s wrong with her. But don’t let her be frightened, don’t let her scream. That means she’s remembering. Keep her warm and quiet and at peace. Let her sleep. That’s the main thing now.”
He turned toward the car. Hamish, silent throughout the half hour in the house, said, “You ought to know about sleep. It’s the only time you’re safe….”
The drive back to Upper Streetham was quiet, only the sound of the tires along the road, and once a dog barking furiously as they passed. When they reached the Inn, Wilton said only, “God, I’m tired! It’s been a damned long day.”
Sergeant Davies got out stiffly and said, “I’d best say something to Inspector Forrest about this. Unless you’d rather speak to him yourself, sir?”
It was the last thing Rutledge wanted to do. He said, “No, that’s all right, I’ll see him tomorrow. There’s not much more we can do tonight anyway.”
Davies nodded to Wilton and said, “Until tomorrow, then, sir,” to Rutledge, before marching off down the street toward his own house.
Wilton waited, making no move to get out of the car, but Rutledge said nothing, leaving him to break the silence. In the end he did.
“Does the child damn me? Or clear me?”
Aware of the envelope in his pocket, Rutledge said only, “I don’t know. Do you?”
“I didn’t kill him, Inspector,” Wilton said quietly. “And I don’t know who did.” He got out, closed the car door behind him, and walked away, his limp more pronounced than usual, a measure of the tension in him.
Rutledge sighed. A child, a doll, a drunkard. The evidence was still slim. But the letter from Harris to Mrs. Grayson was something else.
It could very well send the handsome Captain to the gallows.
15
That night Rutledge lay in his bed, listening to the street noises dwindle into silence, then the sound of the church bell marking the passage of time.
He couldn’t get Lizzie out of his mind. She was terrified. But of what? The roar of a shotgun? The bloody death of a man? Of a killer she’d seen—and somehow recognized?
Then why hadn’t she screamed in terror at sight of Mark Wilton?
Her father, not the Captain, frightened her most.
Why?
He wrestled with the puzzle for an hour or more and came no closer to an answer.
Bowles. He was supposed to call London on Monday and speak to Bowles. A drunk, a child, a whore. Witnesses against the Royal Family’s favorite war hero. He, Rutledge, was going to look a right fool at the Yard!
“Aye, and is it why they’ve sent you to Warwickshire, then?” Hamish asked. “A sick man who’s not up to the business in hand? Who’ll be blamed for muddling the evidence and give them a reason to let the Captain off the