Wings of Fire - Charles Todd [111]
“Yes, but I still don’t see why you need something like this. It’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard of!”
“You’ll understand. Afterward. It will save days of work. Trust me.”
“I’ve seen spiders I trust more,” she said tartly, and stepped into the driver’s seat. “If you cause Susannah any pain, any grief—if she has a miscarriage because of you—”
“She won’t. What I’m about to do will give her peace of mind.”
“Learning that her half sister was a murderess? Oh, yes, I call that quite soothing for a woman in her condition.” She turned and looked at Rutledge, a long, earnest look that seemed to probe beneath his skin and into his very brain.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing? Are you quite sure?” she asked quietly, her face sober and very worried.
He reached out and touched her hand as it rested on the wheel. “I can only tell you that what I’m doing will be for the best. If there was murder done, it ought to be known, and the past put to rest. There ought to be justice, for the dead, if no one else.”
“The dead are dead. It’s the living I’m worried about now. And—and Nicholas.”
“No one can touch Nicholas,” he said gently. “Not now. Not ever again. You know that better than I do.”
“I won’t let you destroy his memory, Inspector Rutledge. I won’t let you. If you do try, I’ll find a way to put it right. Whatever I have to do, I will do. Believe that.”
He felt cold in the early morning breeze, in spite of his coat.
“I can’t hurt Nicholas,” he said again. “He’s dead, Rachel. You have to accept it, and what it means. He left you, he chose to die with Olivia, not to live with you.” He could see the flare of pain in her eyes, and ignored it. “That’s what he told you in his last letter. He didn’t want you.”
Her mouth tightened. “I wanted him,” she said quite simply. “Now start this damned thing or I’ll not go at all, not even for Susannah’s sake!”
He shut the door, walked around, and bent down to turn the crank. He could sense her watching, he knew what was in her mind. As the engine roared into life again and he stepped back, the crank in his hand, she looked straight at him over the bonnet of the car. “Leave Cormac out of this,” he said, coming around the wing towards her. “Don’t send for him. It’s between Olivia and Nicholas, you and me. He’s not a Trevelyan. Don’t send for him, he’ll just make matters worse.”
“No one could make them worse. Except you.”
She took off the brake, let in the gear and the car moved briskly off down the road. She didn’t look back. He watched her handle the car around the curve, his mind on her driving, judging whether he’d made the right decision to send her. But there was no one else who could have persuaded Susannah.
Hamish, lurking in the shadows, said only, “Play with witchcraft, and you’ll burn yourself.”
“It isn’t witchcraft,” Rutiedge answered harshly. “It’s the only way I can think of to get at the truth!”
There was an echo of the engine from the narrow hedgerows, although the car had long since vanished to sight. Rut-ledge started to turn back towards the inn, then looked up to find Mary Otley watching him from the doorway of the cottage.
“You haven’t put her in harm’s way, have you, sir?” she asked.
“No. With any luck, I’ve put her out of it,” he answered, and walked back to the inn for his breakfast.
“The constable’s still at his breakfast, sir,” Mrs. Dawlish said, opening her front door to the Inspector from London.
“I’ll just come through and have a word with him in the kitchen,” he said, gently pushing the door wider. “If you don’t mind.”
She did, but was too polite to say so, though he could read her face clearly enough.
The constable stood up hastily, napkin still stuck under his chin, as Rutledge came down the passage and turned into the kitchen. It was a large room, with windows on two sides and a door into the back passage at the rear, next to the great polished black stove. A table with the remains of breakfast and an unexpectedly bright bowl of zinnias stood in the very middle of the room. A vast Cornish dresser