Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [140]
Rutledge looked down. One ankle appeared to be swollen, the stocking sagging around it torn and filthy. A strap on the shoe was torn as well.
“Could you make us some tea?” Rutledge asked, to keep Mrs. Danning occupied. “I think it might help. I could use a cup myself.”
“It won’t take a minute. The kettle’s still hot.”
As she busied herself with the tea preparations, Rutledge sat down again and reached out to put his hand on Priscilla Connaught’s shoulder. “You’re safe,” he told her. “It’s all right now. Come, look at me.” He took out his handkerchief and pressed it into her hands, but she just clenched her fingers around it, like a lifeline, and couldn’t seem to stop the wrenching sobs that enveloped her.
If she’d been a man, if she hadn’t had the head wound, he would have slapped her lightly, to snap her out of the hysteria. Instead he said harshly, “That’s enough!”
She took two or three gulping breaths, startled into obeying, her eyes lifting in surprise to his face. Rutledge took the handkerchief from her fingers, and began to press it against her wet cheeks.
As if the words bottled inside had finally been unstopped, she said shakily, “I tried to kill him. I saw him there in the dark, bent over in his saddle, and I wanted to kill him. I drove into the hedge instead—because I couldn’t bear to hit the horse—”
He waited, letting her talk. “I shrieked at him, blowing the horn, screaming, heading straight at him, and the horse threw him then, and I drove directly over him. I wanted him dead, and then I wanted to kill myself. I tried to point the bonnet at a tree, but the wheels slipped in the grass, and I missed it and went into the ditch instead, and was terrified that I wouldn’t die—and it went black, and I—” She started to cry again. “I’m still alive!” Her eyes were on his, begging. “I wanted it to be swift, painless, over within an instant . . .”
Beyond the table, he saw Mrs. Danning standing with the teapot in one hand, the lid in another, staring at her unexpected guest, horror on her face.
She clearly hadn’t heard this part of the story, she knew only that there had been an accident. “Is there someone dead? Michael didn’t say anything about that!”
Rutledge, his mind working swiftly through what Priscilla Connaught had said, heard Hamish ask, “It couldna’ be Walsh she ran down—”
“How do you know he’s dead, Miss Connaught? Did you see him after you hit him?”
Hamish said, “There’ll have to be a search.”
Priscilla Connaught frowned. “I drove straight over him. He must be dead!” She brushed her hair back again, and looked at the blood on her fingers. “Is that his blood?” she asked, confused. She took the handkerchief from him and scrubbed the spot. “I don’t know. I can’t—I can’t remember any more. Except that it’s finished. That’s all. Finished.” She made a faint gesture and after a moment added, as if bewildered, “It’s easier said than done, trying to kill yourself—” She stared at him, as if this was a new discovery, something she hadn’t foreseen.
She began to weep again. Mrs. Danning set down the pot, lifted the teakettle from the black stove, and poured in steaming water. “It’ll only take a bit to steep,” she said.
“How do you kill yourself?” Priscilla Connaught asked weakly through her tears. “I thought of slashing my wrists, but I didn’t have anything sharp—only the tools in the boot, and they wouldn’t do the job. I wish I was dead!”
Hamish said, “She needs a doctor’s care. She canna’ be trusted.”
It was true. Rutledge took a deep breath and said, “This isn’t the place to talk of dying. Or the time. You mustn’t upset Mrs. Danning!”
Priscilla Connaught looked up at the sturdy farmer’s wife. “I’m sorry,” she said, and then repeated it. But he thought the apology was more a response to his tone of voice than to his words.
Rutledge coaxed a cup of sugared tea into Priscilla Connaught, which warmed her, but failed to make any headway in bringing her out of her depression and exhaustion. Instead she lapsed into a silence that seemed almost a