Wings of Fire - Charles Todd [98]
“Aye, that’s true enough, in the heat of the moment I felt it could be so. But it’s different when you have a face to put to someone she may’ve killed ...” He shook his head. “We don’t get many child murderers in these parts. I wasn’t that fond of the woman, but it’s another matter saying she was one. She was different. That was her problem. She was ... different.” There was something in his eyes that pleaded for Rutledge to understand what he was trying to say. That whatever Olivia Marlowe was, by its very extraordinariness she was outside the realm of his comprehension, and therefore suspect, even if he couldn’t condemn her for a specific crime. Capable of anything.
“When did this discussion with Olivia take place?”
“Oh, long before the war. I’d just arrived in Borcombe. I didn’t know her mother, the one they still call Miss Rosamund, that everyone was so fond of, and I knew only that Miss Olivia was one of the family up at the Hall. Her and her brother, and the two younger ones, the twins.”
“How did you answer her?”
“I had to tell her the truth as I saw it. That the darkness in the human soul was something I’d never come to understand in my years of policing but I believed it to be beyond healing. That struck her as sad, I could see it in her eyes. And then she said, ‘Do families believe you, when you tell them a son—or a daughter—is guilty of murder?’ I said, ‘They’re often the last to believe,’ and she nodded as if she understood, and thanked me for my time, and walked away.” When Rutledge made no answer, Harvey added, “Not a natural conversation to have with a young woman, would you say?”
He wanted reassurance. He wanted to believe that Olivia and not he himself had been out of line. He didn’t want to think that she had had a guilt on her conscience, had turned to the figure of authority in Borcombe, and been rejected because he had somehow failed to understand her. Rutledge wondered if she’d brought this up before, with Harvey’s predecessor, or the rector before Smedley. And found no absolution for the burden she carried.
Which meant in turn that Rutledge was not going to confide in Harvey either. Not until he was sure of his ground. It would be wasted breath, and if he, Rutledge, turned out to be wrong, the damage as Rachel had pointed out, and Cormac as well, could be enormous.
And so, in pacification, Rutledge said, “To the end of the week, then. I’ll continue the search for the boy, I’ll continue my questions, and then if I have no more to go on than I have now, I’ll come to you and confer.”
“Find him or not, mark my words, the lad is dead.”
The innkeeper, Trask, brought a tray and a pot of coffee to Rutledge in his room and made a show of setting the cup within reach, putting out the sugar bowl and small pitcher of milk, refolding the napkin that had covered the thick sandwiches. Affably mentioning Harvey’s visit, he showed all the signs of a man prepared to linger and gossip.
For once Rutledge preferred the innkeeper’s opinions to the silence of his own thoughts. Or Hamish’s.
“A good man, we’ve had no complaint of him, keeps the peace and is fair-minded. The magistrates seem to think well of him too, from what I hear. Thorough, that’s the reputation they give him.” Disappointed when Rutledge didn’t take the hint and offer his own views on the local constabulary, Trask reminisced for a time about the Trevelyan family, leaving the impression that The Three Bells had been the center of social life for generations of them. Rutledge swallowed that with his first cup of coffee, and a grain of salt.
Then something the innkeeper was saying caught his attention. “And of course her mother was the old nanny there. That’s the reason Miss Rachel prefers the cottage to the inn.”
“Are you telling me that the Trevelyan nanny is still alive?” He felt a surge of wrath that no one—least of all Rachel—had seen fit to tell him that.
“Lord, no, she’d be near ninety, wouldn’t she! Polworth, her name was, she’d been nanny to Miss Rosamund,