Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [142]
“That’s a nasty cut on her head. It could be serious—I’d not be surprised if there’s some concussion. Bruises,” Stephenson told Rutledge. “And a good many more will likely show up. She’s already sporting deep bruising on the shoulder and hip. But nothing appears to be broken. The ankle has been sprained, and I’ve taped that to reduce the swelling.”
“The head injury. Serious enough to confuse her memory?”
“I can’t say. The woman is suffering from more than the effects of the car running into the ditch—agitation and emotional collapse, to head the list. The sedative I’ve administered will keep her quiet for some hours, and we’ll see whether she’s calmer then.” He paused. “The right eye is turning black now. She won’t want to look into her mirror for awhile. And I took a stitch or two in another cut on her scalp. Bit of glass lifted a flap of skin and hair. I daresay she’ll have a headache for a day or so. I’ll find someone to sit with her. Ellen Baker should do, she’s gentle and has a way with her. High-strung women like Miss Connaught aren’t always the best of patients.”
Rutledge said, “You may want to make another choice. She was looking for ways to kill herself. She ran into that ditch on purpose, from what I could learn, and she believes she’s killed a man.”
Stephenson’s eyebrows rose. “Does she now! I could tell she’d been weeping. I didn’t know the rest of it, and she didn’t volunteer anything. Why does she want to kill herself? Because of this man Walsh? Doesn’t make any sense! Didn’t realize she even knew him!”
Rutledge felt the fatigue burrowing deep into his very bones. “It has nothing to do with Walsh. Not directly. But there’s a strong sense of guilt. Real or fancied, I don’t know. I think she ought to be—watched.”
“In that case, I’ll send for Mrs. Nutley. She’s had seven sons, all of whom have battled their way through life, and she’s nursed everything from broken bones to depression to drunken stupors. She’ll manage well enough.” He crossed the room to stand at the window, looking out at the marshes. “It’ll rain before dinner.” He turned back to Rutledge. “There’s a narrow line between love and hate sometimes, you know. And it can be crossed unwittingly.”
“I can’t tell you what’s behind it. She’s—a very private person.” And he wasn’t prepared to break her confidences. Not yet.
“That isn’t much help. I’d need to know what signs to look for!”
Rutledge rubbed his face with his hands. “All I can tell you is that she went out last night”—was it only last night?—“to look for Walsh. She was—one of Father James’s flock, and afraid the man would escape justice. And somewhere between that time and dawn this morning, she believes she killed someone and she tried to kill herself.”
“Went out on her own? I can’t see Blevins allowing that!”
Rutledge was too close to exhaustion to fight a battle of wits with this very sharp man. “He didn’t know. Ask him yourself, if you like.” Whatever secrets Priscilla Connaught possessed, if the good doctor hadn’t stumbled over them in ten or twelve years, it was a salute to her deep and abiding need for privacy.
But Dr. Stephenson’s curiosity was, quite frankly, aroused.
“Then what did she say when you walked into the farmhouse?”
“That someone was dead. And she’d tried to miss the horse. But later on she was confused about the horse, whether it was there at all.”
It was a bald account. Rutledge left it at that.
Dr. Stephenson grunted. “Well, the accident itself could have caused confusion between what she intended to do and what she did do.” He took out his watch and looked at it, sighing. “I’ve a long day ahead of me. I’ve had two men brought in with broken bones, and a woman hysterical enough to deliver prematurely.