Nothing. Nothing—
Except—
In the lee of the hedge, near where he and the Sergeant had cut through on their first visit. Something dull and gray and unidentifiable. Something he hadn’t been able to see from any other part of the meadow. What was it?
He walked down to the hedge, keeping his bearings with care, and found the place, the thing he’d seen. He squatted on his heels and looked at it, thinking it was a scrap of rotting cloth. Nothing…Ignoring the brambles, he pushed his way nearer to it. Closer to, it had shape, and staring eyes.
Reaching into the brambles, he touched it, then pulled it forward.
A doll. A small wooden doll, in a muddy, faded gown of pale blue flowered print, the kind of cloth that could be bought in any shop, cheap, cotton, and favored by mothers for children’s clothes. A girl’s dress, with the leftover cloth sewn into a gown for her favorite doll.
Hadn’t Wilton said something about seeing a child who had lost her doll?
Rutledge picked up the little bundle of cloth and stared down at it.
Hickam might not be fit to testify against the Captain. Would a child be any more reliable as a witness? He swore. Not bloody likely!
Making his way through the hedge, Rutledge went striding down to the lane, ignoring the high grass and brambles, his mind working on how to deal with the child, and with Wilton. Hamish was silent now, but somewhere he still moved about restlessly, waiting.
When he got to his car, left in the brushy, overgrown lane, Rutledge swore again. With infinite feeling.
One of his tires was torn. As if viciously slashed with a knife or a sharp stick. Deliberately and maliciously damaged.
Rutledge didn’t need a policeman to tell him who had done this.
Mavers.
13
Rutledge sent the blacksmith to bring his car back to the village and then went to find Inspector Forrest. But he wasn’t in—he’d been called back to Lower Streetham on the matter of the lorry accident. Fortuitously, Rutledge told himself irritably.
It was long past time for luncheon, and Rutledge turned back toward the Inn. After a hasty meal, he crossed to Dr. Warren’s surgery to look in on Hickam. He was no better—awake, but without any awareness in his eyes. A dead man’s stare was focused on the ceiling of the tiny room, blank and without knowledge or pain or grief.
Dr. Warren came in as Rutledge was leaving. “You’ve seen him? Well, it’s something that he’s still alive, I suppose. I’ve got enough on my hands—I can’t stand over him. You might see if the Vicar will pray for him”—he snorted—“it’s about all he’s good for!”
“Can you tell me if any young children live near the meadow where Harris was found?”
“Children?” Dr. Warren stared at him.
“Girls, then. Young enough to play with something like this.” He held out the muddy wooden doll.
Dr. Warren transferred his gaze to the object in Rutledge’s hand. “There must be seven or eight on the estate itself, servants’ and tenants’ children. More, scattered on the farms thereabouts. The gentry have china dolls, not wooden ones. As a rule. Why?”
“I found this under a hedge. Captain Wilton says he saw a child that morning, that she’d lost her doll.”
“Then ask the Captain to find her for you! I’ve got a breech birth to see to, and after that, a farmer whose ax slipped and damned near took off his foot. If I save the limb, it’ll be a miracle. And he won’t have the Army to provide him with a false one if I don’t.”
Rutledge stood aside and let him walk into the small surgery, where Warren restocked his bag and then set it on the scrubbed table. “You understand, don’t you, that if Hickam lives, he may not have enough of a mind left to testify at all? Everything that’s happened could be wiped out?”
Rutledge replied, “Yes. I know. You’ve served the people of this town for most of your life. Who do you believe might have killed Charles Harris?”
Warren shrugged. “Mavers, of course. That would be my first thought. I don’t know your Captain well enough to judge him. Still, Lettice was going to marry him, and Charles was damned careful where she was concerned; he wouldn’t have stood by and let a fool sweep her off her feet.”
“Catherine Tarrant?”
Warren shook his head. “Because of the German? Don’t be an idiot, man. I can’t see her lurking behind a tree with a shotgun, can you? If she had wanted Harris dead, she’d have come for him at Mallows, the first day he was back from the war. Why wait until now? But I’m not paid to find murderers. That’s your job. And if you ask me, you’re damned slow going about it!”
Hamish, chuckling deep in his mind, said derisively, “You’re half the man you were, that’s what it is. Ye left the better half in the mud and terror, and brought back only the broken bits. And London knows it!”
Rutledge turned on his heel and strode out, the doll still in his hand.
He tracked down Wilton having a whiskey in the Inn’s bar, morosely staring at the glass in his hand. Rutledge sat down at the small corner table and said, “Early in the day for that?”
“Not when you’ve come from the undertaker’s,” Wilton said, turning his glass around and around in his fingers. “The fool had never dealt with a headless man before. He was half titillated, half revolted. Would we be wanting the Colonel in his dress uniform? And how was that cut, sir, with a high collar or low? Would we wish a silk scarf to cover what was—er—the remains? Would we wish for a pillow in the coffin? To rest the shoulders upon, of course, sir. And will you be wanting to inspect the—er—deceased, before the services?” The Captain shuddered. “My good God!” He looked at Rutledge. “When Davenant died, the old vicar was still alive, and he went with me to attend to matters. Before we left, Davenant’s valet handed us a box with suitable clothing in it, and that was that. It was civilized, simple.”
“An ordinary death.” Rutledge shook his head as Redfern started toward them, to indicate that he didn’t wish to be disturbed. Then he put the doll on the table.
Mark Wilton stared at it, frowning. “What the hell is that?”
“A child’s doll.”
“A doll?”
“You told me that on the morning Harris was killed, you ran into a child who’d lost her doll. On the path near the meadow.”
“Oh, yes. I remember her. She’d been picking flowers or some such thing, and then couldn’t find the doll—she’d put it down somewhere or other. I see she found it.”
“I found it. Now I want to find her.”
Wilton smiled tiredly. “To ask her if I was carrying a shotgun when she and I crossed paths? First a drunken madman, then a child. Good God!”
“Nevertheless.”
“I have no idea who she was, or what her name was. Small, fair, cheerful—a child. I’ve had very little experience with them. I’m not even certain I’d know her again if I saw her.”
“But you won’t mind accompanying the Sergeant to visit the tenants on Mallows’ land and in the farms above the church.” It was not a question.
Wilton regarded him for a time. “You’re quite serious about this?”
“Entirely.”
Mark Wilton sighed. “Very well.”
“That night, when Lettice Wood left you and Harris together in the drawing room, she said you were discussing the wedding. Where did the conversation turn after that? To Catherine Tarrant?”
Wilton was surprised. “Catherine? Why on earth should we have discussed her—much less quarreled over her? Charles and I admired her.”
“If not Catherine Tarrant, what about Mrs. Davenant?”
Wilton laughed. “You are in desperate straits, aren’t you? Did you think I’d shoot Harris over the good name of my cousin? What has she done to merit your attention?”