The Confession - Charles Todd [65]
He gave her his best smile. “Madam, you have ten fine cabbages that didn’t cost you a farthing. Be grateful.”
And he walked back to his own vehicle before she could think of a response.
The rest of the way to Chelsea was uneventful, but Rutledge fretted over the delay as he threaded his way through the streets where milk vans stopped and started with no regard to others. He had a very bad feeling about what he’d find at Cynthia Farraday’s house and hoped that her maid would have the good sense not to open the door to a bruised and bleeding stranger.
But when he pulled up in front of Miss Farraday’s house and walked quickly to the door, he found it off the latch. Opening it only a little, he stood there for several precious seconds, listening for any sounds of argument or trouble, any intimation as to where he was needed.
The house was quiet.
He pushed the door wider, prepared for an attack if Russell had seen his motorcar on the street. But none came, and he stepped inside.
The ticking of the long clock in another room could be heard clearly.
The house was unnaturally quiet.
Rutledge began to make his way from room to room on the ground floor, listening to the quality of the silence as he went. Each one was empty, and nowhere was there any sign of a struggle.
A door closing behind him creaked, and he stood still, waiting. But no one came or called out.
Worried now, he went quickly down to the servants’ hall and found no one there. Miss Farraday’s cook should have been feeding the banked fire in the cooker and preparing for breakfast. And the door to the back stairs was firmly shut. Returning to the hall, he cast caution to the winds and took the main stairs two at a time. In the passage at the top, he paused. There were several doors, all of them closed, and no way to judge which one was the master bedroom. He went to the one at the top of the stairs and opened it.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. What he found was a tidy and very feminine bedroom done up in peach and pale green, with windows overlooking the back garden. A great maple shielded them, the leaves moving gently in the early morning breeze.
Nothing was out of place, neither the chair nor the octagonal Turkish carpet in the center of the room. A large wardrobe stood against one wall, and a door beside it led to what must be a dressing room.
He started across the room to open it, and as he did, he heard a sound just behind him. Prepared for anything, he spun around. But it was only the bedroom door swinging shut.
In the quiet room it sounded as loud as a gunshot.
From the wardrobe came a whimper, cut short.
He turned toward it and reached out for the handles of the two doors.
This time Hamish warned him with a soft “ ’Ware!” just as Rutledge’s fingers touched the gilt knobs.
He stepped back at once, and in that same instant, one of the doors was flung wide from inside and a figure hurled itself at him. He recognized Cynthia Farraday just as he caught sight of the sharp, pointed scissors in her right hand.
He was only just able to dodge the blades as they slashed viciously within inches of his eyes, and he caught her hand before she could try again.
“Steady!” he said as she cried out and began to pummel him with her other hand. And then she blinked as she recognized him and broke away.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her voice overloud from anxiety.
“The outer door was open. I thought I ought to find out why.”
Struggling to regain her composure, she said, “I thought he’d come back. I could hear someone walking downstairs. Didn’t you even think to call out? Warn me that you were here?”
“It seemed wiser not to. The house was quiet. I didn’t know what to expect.”
“Yes, well, you gave me the fright of my life.” Her hair had fallen down around her face, and she brushed it back impatiently.
It was then he saw the pink mark on one cheek.
“Who slapped you?”
“If you must know, it was Wyatt Russell. I told you. He was just here, and he was very angry.”
“Where is your maid? I couldn’t find her or anyone else.”
“She and my