"Inherited the family pile on the Isle of Skye, filled it with books, and prefers them to people. That's why he didn't come south for my wedding. I shan't be surprised if he misses my funeral as well." It had been said in jest.
There were voices in the kitchen, where food was being collected as friends and neighbors brought dishes along with their sympathy.
The day dragged on, and at one point, Rutledge found himself speaking to the rector of St. Paul's, Chaswell's church.
"Scotland Yard, are you?" Mr. Gramling asked. When Rutledge nodded, he went on, "I understand you are here in your capacity as a friend, not as a policeman? Good. Then you'll be pleased to hear that I've determined that Captain Hume died while his mind was overcome by his suffering. Wounds take many forms," he said to Rutledge with a perfectly straight face. "I see no reason why he may not be buried in holy ground."
"I'm glad to hear it," Rutledge responded. It was something that had been on his mind most of the afternoon. There would of course be an inquest. Someone else had brought that up. But he had hoped for Rosemary's sake that it would be reasonably considerate of her feelings. "I hope that I shan't be required to give evidence." Hume's letter was still in his pocket. He had no intention of reading it aloud at an inquest.
"I see no reason to impose on your personal grief," Mr. Gramling agreed, understanding Rutledge's unspoken message. "He regularly attended services with his wife, even when he couldn't hear what was being said. I could consider that a proof, if we need it, that he was sound of mind and spirit. Mr. Hume did not fail in his duty to the church, and the church will not fail in its duty to him."
"I consider that very enlightened of you," he said, and Gramling smiled.
He was a short, stout man with heavy shoulders. Just beginning to gray, he had deep-set dark eyes under thick eyebrows, lending him a sinister look until he smiled. "I don't hold with judging my flock. I see no reason to usurp God's right." He paused, then added, "Max and I spoke from time to time. Often on a tablet of paper I kept in my desk. I burned the sheets afterward. I considered him a friend."
They stood there talking about the war and the past, and then Rosemary called to Rutledge, asking him to help Reginald up the stairs to lie down for a while.
He was a pale shadow of his cousin. Thinner, fairer, his features less well defined because of his suffering. Each breath was a testament to his will to live. If asked, Rutledge would have thought that Reginald was the more likely of the two men to end his own life. But there was a tenacity in his face that gave it its intense character. He thanked Rutledge as he sank back against his pillows. "I came for Rosemary's sake," he managed to say. "Not for Max's. He told me he would not expect to see me at his graveside."
"Rosemary will need your strength."
"I've loved her as long as I've known her," Reginald said. "Max was aware of that. He knew I would have come for her sake if not his."
"Rest, while you can," Rutledge said. "I'll see that she's all right."
He left the room, the sound of Reginald's raucous breathing following him even after he had pulled the door closed behind him. On the stairs he found Rosemary sitting on one of the treads, out of sight on the landing. He thought she was crying, but she was simply sitting there, quietly staring into space. She turned as she heard his footsteps, and said, "Is he all right?"
"He's resting. It's for the best."
She nodded. "He got a letter too."
"Did he?" He had said as much, but Rutledge hadn't asked him the contents.
"Everyone but me."
She stood up resolutely and walked down the stairs without looking back.
The funeral the next day was well attended, although most of the people there had known Rosemary Hume most of her life, and Max Hume only for the past eight years, four of them interrupted by war. Rutledge was glad to see that she would have support after he had left. The service was simple, stressing the qualities of the man they were gathered to bury. And then it was time to follow the wooden coffin to its final resting place.
Rutledge watched it being lowered gently into the ground, and as he took up a handful of earth to cast into the grave in his turn, Hamish said, "It willna' be you, lying here. It's no' the answer."
But it had been in his mind, and Hamish knew it.
No. Not yet, he silently answered as the earth spilled from his fingers to land softly on the coffin lid. And then he was following Rosemary and Reginald Hume back through the churchyard, to where his motorcar was ready to carry them to the house.
A police constable stood by the bonnet, and he nodded to Rutledge as he came through the gates of the churchyard. Rosemary was settling Reginald in his seat, trying to save his energy for the meal already waiting at the house. She looked up to say something to Rutledge just as the constable stepped forward.
"Inspector Rutledge?"
"Yes, I'm Rutledge."
"A message from Scotland Yard, sir. Will you proceed with haste to Sussex. The village of Eastfield, just above Hastings. It's a matter of some urgency."
Rutledge glanced at Rosemary Hume. "I'll see my friends home first," he said. The inquest was that afternoon. Rosemary had asked for it to wait until after the funeral. He knew she expected him to be present.
She said, tentatively, "Ian?"
"I'll put in a call to the Yard. This may not be as urgent as it appears."
She shook her head. "It's better if you go."
Surprised, Rutledge said, "But I thought-" and broke off.
"I have my family now, and my friends. I don't need Max any longer. I don't need Max's friends."
He was on the point of arguing when he caught Reginald's eye. There was a warning there.
After a moment Rutledge said, "Yes, I understand. But you know how to find me if you should change your mind."
"I won't," she said with finality. And when he had delivered his passengers at the Hume house, Rosemary offered him her hand as he stood ready to help her out of the motorcar. "Thank you for coming, Ian. It was very kind of you. Maxwell loved you in his way. I think because you understood better than the rest of us. Thank you for that, as well."
And she turned to offer her support to Reginald, her back to Rutledge.
Reginald's face was expressionless. But as he shook Rutledge's hand, he said, "I'm glad you were here. Keep in touch, will you? I have a feeling about things sometimes. I'd like to hear from you."
Rosemary had gone ahead to open the house door and was out of earshot as Reginald spoke the last words. And then she was back, taking his arm as she steadied him on the short walk to the house.
Rutledge saw them inside, and then turned to drive to the police station.
But the constable-his name was Becker-had no more information than the brief message he had passed on to Rutledge.
"The hotel sent someone to find me," he explained. "It was a Sergeant Gibson on the line. I asked him if there was any further information to pass on to you, but he said that someone in Eastfield would explain all you needed to know. I was to tell you privately that the Chief Superintendent had not been at the Yard when the message from Eastfield had come through. And it was too urgent to await his return."
Rutledge said, "My things are at the hotel. I'll be packed and ready to leave in ten minutes."
"I've taken the liberty, sir, to ask Samantha if she will put up sandwiches for you. It's a long way. There will be a bottle of cider as well."
Rutledge thanked him. And in fewer than the ten minutes he was on his way, the sandwiches in a small basket beside him. It was necessary to drive past the Hume house on his way out of town. The windows were open to the summer heat, and through them he could see silhouettes of people moving back and forth inside.
He felt a surge of something, he couldn't have said what, and then returned his attention to the road.