It was signed Max.
Rutledge stared at the letter in his hand, and then slowly reread it. It was dated two days ago. Too late. Far too late.
Maxwell Hume had been a captain of artillery whom Rutledge had come to know well at the start of the war. A career man, he was an experienced and able officer, liked by his troops and his superiors. Early in the war, the two men had shared their first leave, staying in a shell of a chateau, unable to find transportation to Paris or London-five days where their friendship had been cemented with laughter and more than a little wine salvaged from the destroyed cellars. The time had passed quickly, both men still able to see in the other an odd reflection of himself as he was before the war. And yet they had been as different as night and day. Max had possessed a mad sense of humor-"All artillerymen are mad. Just look at Napoleon"- while Rutledge had been blessed with a level head that kept both of them from breaking their necks in Max's impromptu dares amongst the chimney pots or on the half-missing staircase or wherever else his wild fancy took them.
They had convinced an elderly woman from the nearest village to cook for them and do their washing, closed their eyes to the minor pilfering that went with her, and dug through the ruins of a once-fine library to pass their evenings reading. It was the only time in all the war that Rutledge had been able to put aside what he had seen and done and felt. The certainty that the fighting would be over in the first year still blinded men, even when they began to realize it wasn't true. And then came the Somme, and madness on a level that was intolerable.
Rutledge had always suspected that it was Max Hume's guns that had fallen short and taken out his own salient the night that Hamish MacLeod had gone before the hastily collected firing squad. But he had never said anything about it when next they met. Hume, like Rutledge himself, was a changed man by that time, terse and fallible and near to breaking. Some things were better left unsaid.
And yet, he thought in some fashion that Max knew the truth, and that it was the last straw in what had been a fine career.
Setting the letter aside, Rutledge went to the cabinet beneath the other window and poured himself a drink. He silently toasted Hume, and then went to his bedroom to pack. Rosemary would need him now, and he had no choice but to go and do what he could.
"Aye." Hamish was there in his mind, as he always was in times of upheaval or stress. "But will the lass want you there?"
The viewpoint was unexpected. Rutledge heard himself saying aloud, "I was Max's friend. It's the least I can do."
"Aye. All the same, ye'll remind her of the war. And she'll no' thank ye for that."
Half an hour later, having told the Yard where to find him, he had set out for Gloucestershire and Hume's home just over the border.
It was late when he got there, and he found lodging in the small hotel that stood on the main street of the town. He had hoped to arrive in time to speak to Rosemary that evening, but the drive had taken longer than he'd anticipated.
He had never been to Chaswell. It was a pretty little town, and Max had spoken of it often, but after the war neither man was fit for casual visits, although they had stayed in touch desultorily by letter.
The next morning, he went to Hume's house. It was set back from the road, a low wall surrounding the front garden and two steps leading to the grassy walk up to the door.
Before he'd lifted the crepe-hung knocker, the door opened, and Rosemary Hume stood on the threshold, staring up at him with haunted eyes. Rutledge said, "I've come to do what I can."
She flung herself into his arms and wept on his shoulder. It was the only time he was to see her cry. Pulling away at last, she wiped angrily at her tears before he could offer her his handkerchief. In the background he could hear voices, but she pulled the door closed behind her, to shut them away, and said, "He shot himself. He went to the far side of the churchyard, and shot himself, where I wouldn't be the first to see him. And when they came to tell me that he was dead, I wanted to take up that revolver and shoot him again. The fool. The poor, wretched, damned fool."
"He wrote to me. But by the time the letter came, it was too late."
"He left only a brief message for me. He told me he loved me too much to drag me down into his despair, and he asked my forgiveness. That was all," Rosemary told Rutledge. "After what we'd endured together, what we had tried to salvage out of his despondency, all he could leave me were a few dozen words. I deserved more, Ian, I deserved to know what he was planning and why. I could have accepted it then, hard as it would be, because I was included. But I was shut out." She was a small, slim woman with fair hair and very dark blue eyes. There were heavy circles under them, now, with grim lines about her mouth.
Rutledge, who had broken such news to other people more often than he could count, said, "Rosemary. It's natural to be angry with Max. All the same, I don't think he could have borne telling you that he'd failed. That's how he had seen it, his failure. And so it was a private matter because of that."
"You've been a policeman too long, Ian," she answered him coldly. "I was his wife, for God's sake. What does it say in the Bible? Something about a man and a woman cleaving together? And in the marriage vows? Forsaking all others? I shall never forgive him. Until the day I die, I shall never forgive him."
She swung the door open at that juncture, and led him inside.
Hamish reminded him, "Ye didna' believe me…"
Rutledge tried to ignore him as he walked into the room where friends and family had gathered. There were twelve to fifteen people sitting and standing, talking together quietly. Rosemary made the introductions, although Rutledge knew several of the former Army officers. Her parents were there, but Max's parents had died during the war, leaving only a distant cousin who had been gassed at Ypres. He was sitting in a chair by the double windows that led to the gardens, struggling to breathe and talk, finally falling silent, his face strained.
Rutledge hadn't met Reginald Hume before this, and as they shook hands, he remembered Max saying something about his cousin having been schooled in England, although he'd returned to Scotland to live.