Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [141]
With visible effort, Priscilla Connaught roused herself from her silent misery. “Yes. I can’t stay here. I’ve caused these kind people enough distress already. But I don’t know that I can walk. My foot still hurts.”
“I’ll help you, then—”
Her eyes were red-rimmed and dark with pain. “I just want to go home. Will you take me home? Please?”
“Yes. If that’s what you want.” It would probably be best to summon the doctor to her, rather than bring her into a reception room full of staring people.
With the help of Mrs. Danning at the doors, Rutledge managed to half-carry Miss Connaught out of the house and set her in his motorcar. Mrs. Danning provided a pillow for her injured foot, and stepped back, as if glad to wash her hands of her troublesome guest. He went back to the house with Mrs. Danning, promising to see that both the shawl and the pillow were returned and making arrangements for the car to be retrieved later.
The farmer’s wife began to collect the cups and spoons from her kitchen table, her face creased with worry. “Who is it that’s dead? I couldn’t make head nor tail of her story! Should we ought to summon the police? She wouldn’t hear of a doctor for herself, and we didn’t know about anyone else being in the car!”
Rutledge said, “I’m not certain exactly what happened. Dr. Stephenson will give her something to make her rest. Then we’ll be able to sort it out.”
He was on the point of saying more, but Mrs. Danning’s face cleared and she nodded. “I’ve heard he’s a good man. He’ll see her right.” Then she added, “When my husband pulled her out of that car, she begged him to look for a horse. She thought she’d struck it. But there was no horse. Nor any other injured party! He searched for near on to a quarter of an hour, to satisfy her, and never saw any sign of a horse!”
“A Norfolk Gray mare was stolen from a stable outside of Osterley last night. If you should find her, please send word to me as soon as possible.” But he’d already seen the mare. And she showed no sign of injury.
Rutledge turned the crank and climbed into his seat. Priscilla Connaught pulled the gaudy shawl closer as he circled the yard and began the long, rough descent down the drive to the main road. “I’m sorry,” he said, glancing at her. “I’ll make the journey as comfortable as I can.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she answered tonelessly, shrugging deeper into the folds of the shawl, her chin invisible. They rode in silence for a very long time. She hardly noticed when they passed her car and the farmer with his team, though Rutledge waved to him. And then she seemed to throw off some of the lethargy that wrapped her in bleak despair, as if the tea had finally helped.
He thought she might be recovering a little of her usual strength, and was encouraged. When she turned to stare at him, he offered her a brief smile.
She didn’t appear to see it.
“You were in the War!” she said fiercely. “Tell me how to die!”
He thought of all the men he’d watched die. And tried to shake off the dark cloud that settled over his spirits.
“There’s no easy way,” he said bitterly. “Trust me. I know.”
When they had reached the marshes, turning toward Osterley, Rutledge said in a neutral tone, as if discussing the weather, “What happened to the horse?”
She turned to look at him. “What horse?” she asked, frowning. “I don’t remember a horse. . . .”
Dr. Stephenson came at once in answer to Rutledge’s summons, and listened with concern as the Inspector explained what had happened to Priscilla Connaught. Then the doctor took the stairs up to her bedroom, where she lay with the shades down, her face turned to the wall.
When he came down half an hour later, drying his hands on a pale yellow towel embroidered with white violets, he walked into the sun-bright parlor and took the chair by the window. The room was pretty, with walls of a very soft cream, accented