A Test of Wills - Charles Todd [94]
It wasn’t quite the same version of the story Mavers had told, but Rutledge thought that it was very likely that Royston’s was closer to the truth.
Some of the color was coming back to Royston’s face, and with it, the shuddering acceptance of the immensity of Mavers’s revenge. “I’ve never felt quite so deliberately spiteful as I did when I told him that. I was thinking that it was one of the few times in my life when I actually relished causing pain. What I didn’t realize was that I would cause so much! God, I feel—filthy!”
Rutledge answered harshly, “Don’t be a fool! They’re all so horrified they don’t know how it began or why. Leave it at that. Let them blame Mavers. Don’t give them a scapegoat! It will ruin you, and only a bloody idiot is that self-destructive.”
After a moment, Royston nodded. He turned and walked away, joining the others who were now coming, by ones and twos and threes through the lych-gate, heads down, hurrying toward the safety of home. On the church steps, Carfield was alone, staring after his flock with an empty face.
He hadn’t come forward in a heaven-sent rage to defy Mavers and protect his parishioners. He’d stood there, missing the opportunity of a lifetime to play the grand role of savior and hero, waiting in the shadows of the church door geared for flight and not for fight. Planning to make a hasty and unseen departure if need be, unwilling to do battle with the powers of darkness in the form of one wiry little loudmouth with amber goat’s eyes.
A mountebank, Mavers had called him.
He looked across the churchyard and saw Rutledge watching him. With a swirl of his robes he vanished inside the church, shutting the door firmly but quietly behind him.
Rutledge walked slowly behind the last of the parishioners hurrying down the lane. By the time he reached the High Street, he was alone.
That afternoon Dr. Warren allowed him to visit Daniel Hickam. Rutledge stood in the doorway, looking down at the man in the bed, thin, unshaven, but clean and as still as one of the carved Haldanes on the church tombs.
Then as Rutledge stepped into the room, the heavy eyelids opened, and Hickam frowned, knowing someone was there. He moved his head slightly, saw Rutledge, and the frown deepened, with incipient alarm behind it.
Dr. Warren moved out from behind Rutledge’s shoulder and said briskly, “Well, then, Daniel, how are you feeling, man?”
Hickam’s eyes moved slowly to Warren and then back again to Rutledge. After a moment he said in a croak that would have made a frog shudder, “Who are you?”
“I’m Rutledge. Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard. Do you remember why I’m here?”
Alarm widened his eyes. Warren said testily, “Oh, for God’s sake, tell the man he’s done nothing wrong, that it’s information you want!”
“Where am I?” Hickam asked. “Is this France? Hampshire—the hospital?” His glance swept the room, puzzled, afraid.
Rutledge’s hopes plummeted. “You’re in Upper Streetham. Dr. Warren’s surgery. You’ve been ill. But someone has shot Colonel Harris, he’s dead, and we need to ask people who might have seen him on Monday morning where he was riding and who he was with.”
Dr. Warren started to interrupt again, and this time Rutledge silenced him with a gesture.
“Dead?” Hickam shut his eyes. After a time he opened them again and repeated, “Monday morning?”
“Yes, that’s right. Monday morning. You’d been drunk. Do you remember? And you were still hungover when Sergeant Davies found you. You told him what you’d seen. But then you were ill, and we haven’t been able to ask you to repeat your statement. We need it badly.” Rutledge kept his voice level and firm, as if questioning wounded soldiers about what they’d seen, crossing the line.
Hickam shut his eyes again. “Was the Colonel on a horse?”
Rutledge