Search the Dark - Charles Todd [110]
If Aurore was guilty, then the village had not lost one of its own. . . . The stranger could be taken away, grief would disrupt Simon Wyatt’s life for a time, but the familiar face of Elizabeth Napier was assurance perhaps that he wouldn’t grieve for long. All would be as it had been.
Hamish, wary, noticed her first.
Rutledge became aware that someone was speaking his name and turned to see a woman standing beside him, casting a look over her shoulder as if afraid that she might be seen with him. She was a plump woman, attractive in a way, but with the small mouth and narrow eyes of a spiteful nature. Her dark hair was pinned up with an effort at style, and she was wearing a very becoming summer dress. He thought, if she smiled, she might even be pretty.
“Yes, what can I do for you?” he asked, giving her his full attention.
“My name is Marian Forsby. I only wanted to tell you that I haven’t seen anything that might help you with your inquiries, but I thought perhaps—” She paused, casting another look around her.
He said, “This is a very public place, Mrs. Forsby. May I offer you a cup of tea at the Wyatt Arms?” He smiled, some of the forbidding harshness of his thoughts vanishing with it.
Gratefully she accepted, and in a very few minutes they were ensconced under the trees where he had talked with Aurore, a pot of tea in front of them. Mrs. Forsby poured it delicately and served him with a practiced air of gentility. But her work-roughened hands told him otherwise. Would the women of Charlbury have been any kinder to Margaret Tarlton than they had been to Aurore? Or perhaps Margaret had expected to be here for a very short time.
There was no one else in the back garden, yet Mrs. Forsby still had an air of looking over her shoulder, even without turning her head, as if every nerve ending were attuned to movement around them.
“I am married to Harold Forsby, who owns the ironmonger’s shop. We have a house just up the way from there,” she said, busying herself with her cup so that she didn’t have to meet his eyes. “I’ve been concerned for some time—you see, I’m often occupied with the children—they’re four and eight, very active, they are. Which has made for some difficulties between myself and my husband.” Her cheeks flushed, but she went on resolutely into his interested silence. He wasn’t sure where this was leading, but a policeman quickly learned that patience was a valuable tool.
“I don’t quite know how to say this, Inspector. But Hazel Dixon mentioned that you were interested in Mrs. Wyatt’s activities. I thought it best to speak to you myself, since I was in a position to tell you some things others might not have thought it necessary to pass on. Mrs. Wyatt is—well, to put it bluntly, she is a woman who attracts the eye of a man, and she knows it. Very French, she is, and that does seem to add to her appeal. That slight accent, and the way she dresses. Well, I can only imagine what her relationship is with her husband, but a woman who is promiscuous often has a very—er—jealous nature. She doesn’t like competition! I’m sure that’s why she persuaded him to give up standing for Parliament and take on this silly museum of his! Such a waste, wouldn’t you say? We’ve had Wyatts representing us for ever so many years, he’s so suitable for the task!”
“Promiscuous?” he asked, moving directly to the key word.
“Oh, yes, I can’t imagine that any decently behaved woman would attract so much attention to herself if she was not—well, of that nature. She can’t be ignorant of the looks cast her way! A married woman neither invites nor encourages such bold notice. It’s neither proper nor genteel. And with Mr. Wyatt so busy with this museum of his, he hasn’t taken steps to put a stop to it!”
Her mouth tightened until the lips were a thin, short line.
The third stone was being cast at Aurore.…
“What has this to do with my investigation, Mrs. Forsby?” He tried to keep the anger out of his voice,