Search the Dark - Charles Todd [115]
“Mr. Napier, I don’t believe Bert Mowbray killed Miss Tarlton. I think that her murder was no accident, it was a deliberate attack on her personally. And I suspect that there has been another murder of a young woman, some months ago. How they’re related I can’t say at the moment—”
“Do you believe Simon is guilty of either of them?”
“No, why should I—”
“But one of them might be set at the door of his wife? Possibly both?”
“As to that, I can’t tell you—”
“Then find the answers, damn you! I came to warn you that I don’t want my daughter’s name dragged into this. I’m taking her back to Sherborne at once. And I don’t want to read about Simon in the papers either, nor about that house in Chelsea, nor about any child that might or might not have been born.”
Rutledge said, “Margaret Tarlton’s murderer has covered his tracks quite cleverly. Still, there’s an answer somewhere. Ferreting it out may open the Wyatts to speculation and some scandal. I’ll avoid that if I can, I’ve always tried to shield the innocent. But in the end there may be nothing either of us can do to protect them. The other woman who may have died by the same hand—”
“I’m not concerned with another woman! I want you to stop this fool Hildebrand from walking in heavy boots through the life of a man who is very easily destroyed. Personally, professionally. Do you hear me? If any of this touches Simon Wyatt, I’ll hold you personally responsible. I’ll see to it that you suffer the consequences. I want this business cleared up without damaging Simon or Margaret, I want Margaret’s killer hanged, and I don’t want any foulness from this affair touching my daughter in any way. You would do well to believe me, Inspector! I am a man who never makes idle threats.”
Napier got to his feet and stood looking down at Rutledge. Whatever he read in the other man’s face, he changed his tactics abruptly.
“There’s that fellow, Shaw,” he said roughly. “He was in love with her in the war, and he’s still in love with her for all I know. If Mowbray didn’t kill her, then Shaw probably did. Find out, and make an end to it.”
Rutledge felt himself welling with anger as Napier walked away. Napier had protected his own, he hadn’t cared about anyone else. He had willingly sacrificed Mowbray, he had callously abandoned Aurore to the mercy of the police. Even Daniel Shaw was expendable. Politicians made difficult decisions; Napier was used to sacrificing one good for another. But this was ruthlessness.
Walking away from the pond, Rutledge toyed for a moment with the possibility that Napier had killed Margaret himself, out of jealousy or anger at her refusal to carry on with an affair that she may have considered, in the end, was taking her nowhere. But Napier was too well known in Dorset—even whispers of his involvement would ruin him. This was, possibly, what drove him harder than his concern for Simon Wyatt. If he’d wanted Margaret dead, surely he’d have killed her anywhere but here.
By the same token, to be fair, Napier had been unable to show his grief, his love, his loss, in public. He had had to stand aside and let strangers bury Margaret, turning whatever it was he felt inward, to fester and rankle. He may have made his threats out of love for her rather than any fear for Simon.
They were still threats, and Rutledge took them very seriously.
“It’s no’ in your hands,” Hamish reminded him. “Whatever Napier has said. But either way, ye’re sacrificed as well.”
“Not if I can help it,” Rutledge said as he turned the crank and brought the car to sputtering life. He got in and drove to the Wyatt farm, his mind full of Hamish:
“If you no’ can finish this business, you’ll be back in yon hospital, crouched in a dark corner of your soul. It’s got to be finished, look you, and not for the woman’s sake, for your own!”
Jimson was working in the yard, mending the wheel on a barrow, his gnarled hands deftly shifting