Hamish said, “It wasna’ well done, looking without permission.”
“But now I know,” he answered. One more of the dead on the Somme. A young man who was engaged to marry one woman—but who had been seen by Constable Markham rolling in the grass near the church with Emma Mason.
Rutledge brought the books and writing materials to the rector, and set them on the bed where he could reach them.
“I couldn’t find anything to write on.”
“That small flat handkerchief box over there will work nicely,” Towson told him, pointing to it. “I shan’t do it any harm.”
Rutledge brought it to him and set that within reach also.
“How can you write?”
“I’m accustomed to using either hand. When the rheumatism is worse, I switch. My mother was told when I was a child that I was contrary, using my left hand more than my right. My schoolmaster forced me to use my right, and it took me nearly thirty years to forgive him.” He added ruefully, “Now I’m grateful.”
“Who will deliver your sermon on Sunday?”
“I shall, of course. Propped in the pulpit like a log.
There’s nothing wrong with my voice, and as soon as the tenderness in my leg and back has passed, I’m allowed to be up and about.”
Rutledge grinned at him. “You must be careful on the pulpit steps.”
“I always am, with my robes trailing about my ankles.”
“I was just across the way, speaking to Ted Baylor. His windows look out on Frith’s Wood, perhaps a better view than yours.”
“Baylor told me once that the servants when he was a child hated that view and would refuse to sleep in that room, for fear of seeing something unspeakable in the night.”
“What became of the servants?”
“Off to the war, of course, or to the cities, to work in the factories. There were only the three boys, after their parents died, and I expect they fared well enough. The house stood empty for two years, you know. Half of Dudlington helped care for the livestock. It muddled social standings when you were ankle-deep in muck, cleaning out the barns.”
“And all three of them survived the war? That’s astonishing.”
But Hamish was chiding him for misleading the rector.
“Ted did, although he was wounded twice. Robert was killed. Joel came back with strange notions about what had been done to the common soldier. He’s not quite right in his head, I’m told. Ted takes care of him, but there’s no one to take care of Ted. Life’s not always fair.”
“What do you mean, not quite right in his head?”
“I can’t say with any certainty. Can you pass me that glass of water? Thank you. Joel never comes to church services, and he never sets foot out of the house, as far as I know. I doubt anyone has seen him at all. We leave him in peace, hoping one day he may heal.”
Rutledge stood to go as he heard Hillary Timmons coming up the stairs.
She thanked him for spelling her and added, “I’ve found you a nice bit of ham for your dinner, Rector.”
“You feed me better than I feed myself, my dear.”
She blushed. “Mr. Keating says I’m a terrible cook. But I’ve noticed the inn guests never complain.”
“What did Mr. Keating do, before he bought The Oaks?” Rutledge asked her.
“I don’t know,” she told him simply. “He never talks about himself. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he had no other life before The Oaks. But he must’ve. There’s a wicked scar—”
She clapped a hand over her mouth, suddenly frightened.
“I won’t tell him,” Rutledge assured her. “It’s all right.”
But she hurried from the room, looking as if she was on the verge of tears.
“What was that in aid of?” Towson asked, worried for her.
“She’s been warned not to talk about Keating. It’s worth her job.”
“Then you shouldn’t have pressed her,” Towson told him roundly. “She needs the work, to help her family.
That’s why I pay her to clean for me. As do several others.
She’s vulnerable.”
“There’s no harm done,” Rutledge answered him. “I shan’t say anything about it, and neither will you.”
But when he left, he noticed that the rector didn’t ask him to come to visit again.
***
On the way back to Hensley’s house, he thought about what he’d learned that day. It was still a jumble of impres-sions and facts, and he wasn’t sure where they were leading. But he had come to rely on intuition over the years and never discounted the smallest bit of information. It sometimes loomed large in the end, once he’d pried open the secrets locked in a silent village.
Hamish said, “Ye’re wasting time climbing the kirk tower. It willna’ tell you who hated yon constable.”
“Grace Letteridge for one. Possibly Keating. There may be others keeping their heads down. Even Ted Baylor, who had the best view of Frith’s Wood and may have seen his chance. Though what he has against Hensley I don’t know yet. Unless it has to do with his dead brother and Emma Mason.”
Rutledge listened to his footsteps echoing against the stone walls of Whitby Lane, keeping pace with his thoughts.
Were the small windows of Dudlington meant to keep the cold out or to conceal what was inside?
He realized, glancing up, that there was a motorcar just by the door of Hensley’s house, and he stopped, trying to place it.
But it wasn’t one he could recall seeing at The Oaks.
He walked through the door, but there was no one in the parlor. He went through to the sitting room beyond it, and stopped stock-still on the threshold, unable to believe his eyes.
In the chair on the far side of the room, half-hidden in the shadows, was Meredith Channing.
20
Mrs. Channing spoke first.
“Yes, well, I thought I ought to come.”
It was as if she had answered the thought in his head.
Hamish, unsettled and pressing, hissed, “Send her away.”
“There have been no more casings,” he said baldly. “I think it’s finished.”
“No. Not finished. Waiting.” She began to remove her gloves.
“How could you possibly know that?”
“It doesn’t matter how. You’re being lulled into dropping your guard. Forgetting to look before you find yourself in a position where you can’t fight back. Where you’re a perfect target and helpless.”
Rutledge saw himself in the spire, pinned there in the wooden octagon of boards, unable to protect himself. His skin crawled.
“You understand, I see.” She dropped her gloves into her handbag.
“Why should it matter to you one way or another?”
She smiled. “How like a man! You’re a friend of Maryanne’s—I’ve met your sister. And a few of your other friends. How could I turn away?”
“It was a long distance to drive, just to deliver a warning. You might have written instead.”
“Oh, do stop being suspicious and sit down!” She had lost patience with him. “I’m here. What I want to know is, what can I do?”
He stood there for a moment longer, then realized how foolish he looked, like a defiant child. Crossing the room, he sat down in the chair on the other side of the oval table at her elbow.
Glancing around, she said, “These are spartan quarters!
Waiting for you, I looked in the kitchen, hoping for a little tea to warm me. There’s none in the tea tin, and none on the shelves.”
“It’s Constable Hensley’s house,” he said. “I’m using it while he’s in hospital.”
“I’ve a very nice room at The Oaks. I’m surprised you aren’t staying there.”
He smiled grimly. “Then you haven’t met the owner.
He’ll have nothing to do with a policeman under his roof.”