Wings of Fire - Charles Todd [120]
Later Rutledge walked through the gloaming towards Sadie’s cottage. The setting sun still struck the headland with a rich golden light, but in the narrow valleys it was already that soft blue dusk that stole color from the land and left it almost in limbo between day and night.
Sadie was in her garden, weeding a row of carrots. She straightened her back as he came down the path towards her and stared at him in silence.
He felt a sense of guilt, as if it was written in his face that he’d been there the night before, digging among the pansies. But he knew it was impossible for her to be sure—to have seen anything, heard anything.
“She doesna’ need to hear or see,” Hamish reminded him. “She has the gift.”
“Good evening,” Rutledge began, keeping his voice neutral. “I’ve come to ask you why you didn’t walk across to the Hall to talk to Constable Dawlish. He waited, hoping to speak to you.”
“Let him wait,” she said, “I’ve naught to say to him.”
“To me then. Will you speak to me?”
“I’ve told you before—”
“That you want no part of the Gabriel Hound! I know. I won’t ask you about him, not directly. But I hope you can tell me more about Olivia. How she managed to keep such secrets, young as she was. How she grew into the woman she was, without breaking under the strain. And then this spring, why she chose to take her own life. If she expected to bring him down with her, or if she’d given up. I need Olivia’s help, and she’s dead. But she trusted you. Will you let her speak through you? I’m ready to bring this killer into a courtroom, and I need all the secrets now. Except his name. I know that. Finally.”
She cocked her head to one side and examined him. “I’d not be in your shoes, then. There’s no mercy in him.”
“That’s why I must finish this tonight.” His voice was gentle now.
“Did you come in the night? Last night?”
“Yes. I came. I found Richard. There are pansies at his feet.”
Something in her face crumpled. But she said nothing.
“She couldn’t stop the hounds,” he said. “She couldn’t bring him to justice. But she did tried to leave the evidence, one way or another. In hope. Don’t let it be wasted! Let me see that justice is done for her.”
Sadie pulled her black shawl closer about her thin shoulders. Weighing him. Judging him. “He’s run free all these years. He’ll slip any leash put on him. And come back here.”
“No one comes back from the gallows.” He searched for something else to convince her. “And the dead can sleep in peace, then.”
“I’d like that,” she answered after a time. “Before I die, I’d like to be certain sure of that.”
He thought she was still going to refuse. He thought, watching the play of emotions on her lined, tired face, the telltale eyes, that he was going to lose her.
But she straightened her back again and started to walk towards the cottage door. “Come inside, and I’ll make tea. And answer your questions.”
Sadie was the only person connected with the family that Olivia hadn’t written about in her poems. He’d noticed that omission last night, and now he understood it. He’d been right to look behind the facade.
He followed the old woman through the low doorway and took out his notebook. She gestured for him to sit, and the cat on the window ledge stared at him through slitted eyes as he took the chair Sadie indicated. In silence she put the kettle on, got out cups and the tin of tea.
He waited, giving her space and time.
When the small teapot was set on the table and she began to pour, he asked his first question. She handed him his cup before she answered.
And in the next hour, he was very glad after all that she hadn’t come to the Hall to be interviewed by Constable Daw-lish.
Her voice was shaking when she started. A thin, frail thread of sound that worried him, made him careful neither to overwhelm nor overtire her. He could see, too, when it became a catharsis, like confession before a priest. A deep and emotional release that welled up slowly, and yet brought with it waves of intense feelings. She wasn’t retelling an old story, she was quite literally