Wings of Fire - Charles Todd [110]
“All I need is proof, and Olivia gave me that—” “Proof, is it? A muckle of lines, that’s what ye’ve got! Would ye stand and recite in yon courtroom, while your fine jury nods in their seats and yon judge begs you to get on with it before he declares a mistrial? Och, man, it’s no’ a case, it’s professional suicide!”
“What about her papers? You’ve reminded me of them yourself. You must have thought they were important when you did.”
“They’re gone, man, face it. Ye havena’ found them, and never will.”
“Nicholas wouldn’t have destroyed those out on the headland, she wouldn’t have let him! Cormac might have, if he found them first, before the lawyers and Stephen got there. But somehow I don’t think he did find them. I think he’s been looking as hard as I have. I can’t believe he wants anyone to know the truth about what happened between him and Olivia. Before I’m finished, I’ll find those bloody papers!” “Oh, aye, we’re back again to a dead woman’s poems! A
dead woman’s papers! What you need is a live killer. And a
confession. A witness to confront him! And there’s no’ any
hope of finding those.”
“No,” Rutledge retorted bitterly. “But I’m not beaten yet.”
He rose at five o’clock, his head feeling stuffed with cotton wool from an hour’s heavy sleep at the very end. Shaving with cold water, he dressed and hurried down the back stairs, startling the elderly scullery maid setting out the crocks of butter and putting the new-baked bread into cloths in a basket in the kitchen.
“Lord, sir! You gave me such a fright!” she cried, looking up at him and then burning her fingers on a hot loaf of bread, nearly dropping it. “Was it coffee you were wanting, sir? It’s not been put on yet.”
“Is there someone here who can carry a note over to Mrs. Otley’s house for me?”
Her eyebrows flew up. “A note! At this hour, sir? Surely not!”
“As soon as may be,” he said testily.
“There’s the boy taking out the ashes—”
“He’ll do.” He was already writing several lines on a sheet from his notebook, frowning as he worded it to his satisfaction, then ripping it out to fold and address on the outside. “Bring him here.”
She went to fetch the boy, looking at Rutledge over her shoulder as if he’d lost his wits. The sleepy child, no more than nine or ten, took the note, opened his eyes wider at the sight of the sixpence in Rutledge’s hand, and paid close heed to his instructions.
Then he was off.
Rutledge followed him out of the kitchen and down the hall, watched him drag open the inn door and set off through the early mists up the hill towards the Otley cottage.
It was ten minutes before he was back, breathless and red-faced, but smiling.
“She wasn’t that happy with me, sir, for waking her. She said I was to tell you that, and say that I’d earned a shilling for the trouble it took to bring Mrs. Otley to the door.”
It was highway robbery, but Rutledge handed over a shilling, and the boy went dashing back down the passage towards the kitchens.
Rachel’s reply was hardly more than a scrawl. “If you haven’t run mad, you soon will. But if this is what it takes to send you back to London, I’ll do it.”
Grinning, he stuffed the paper into his pocket and went around to the back of the inn where his motorcar was parked in one of the disused sheds.
Within five minutes he was driving up to Mrs. Otley’s cottage, the sound of the car loud in the street, and down near the wood someone’s dog was barking in savage displeasure at the racket. The dog the rector had warned him of? You could hear the damned thing all over Borcombe!
Rachel came down the cottage steps ten minutes later, dressed in a dark coat and a hat she’d tied down with a scarf.
Rutledge got out and held the door for her. “Are you sure you can drive this automobile?”
She looked at him in disgust. “Of course I can. Probably better than you do, on these roads. I know them, you don’t.”
“And you’ll tell Susannah that if she’ll grant this one wish, I’ll be leaving for London