Mrs. Grayson said, “Now, then, Betsy, it won’t help the Inspector to do his job if you run on like that. Miss Tarrant’s business is none of ours!”
He left them, the letter in his pocket, his mind on what it represented—the fact that the Colonel had been in the lane on Monday morning, just when Hickam had said he was. And Catherine Tarrant had given Hickam money….
When Rutledge arrived at the Inn, Wilton and Sergeant Davies were waiting. There was a distinctly sulfurous air about them, as if it hadn’t been a pleasant afternoon for either of them. But Sergeant Davies got to his feet as soon as he saw Rutledge, and said, “We think we’ve found the child, sir.”
Turning to Wilton, Rutledge said, “What does he mean? Aren’t you sure?”
Wilton’s temper flashed. “As far as I can be! She’s—different. But yes, I feel she must be the one. None of the others matched as well. The problem is—”
Rutledge cut him short. “I’ll only be a minute, then.” He went up to his room, got the doll, and came down again, saying, “Let’s be on our way!”
“Back there?” Wilton asked, and the Sergeant looked mutinous.
“Back there,” Rutledge said, walking down the rear hallway toward his car. He gave them no choice but to follow. “I want to see this child for myself.”
He said nothing about Georgina Grayson as he drove to the cottage. While it was, as the crow flies, only a little farther from Upper Streetham than the meadow where the Colonel’s body had been found, it was necessary to go out the main road by Mallows, through the Haldanes’ estate, and up the hill, the last hundred yards on rutted road that nearly scraped the underpinnings of the car.
On the way, he asked instead for information about the child’s family.
“She’s Agnes Farrell’s granddaughter,” Davies answered. “Mrs. Davenant’s maid.”
“The one we met at her house on Thursday morning?”
“No sir, that was Grace. Agnes was home with the child. Lizzie’s mother is Agnes’s daughter, and the father is Ted Pinter, one of the grooms at the Haldanes’. They live in a cottage just over the crest of the hill from where the Captain says he was walking when he saw Lizzie and Miss Sommers that Monday morning. When Meg Pinter is busy, the little girl sometimes wanders about on her own, picking wildflowers. But she’s quite ill, now, sir. Like to die, Agnes says.”
Rutledge swore under his breath. When one door opened, another seemed to close. “What’s the matter with her?”
“That’s just it, sir, Dr. Warren doesn’t know. Her mind’s gone, like. And she screams if Ted comes near her. Screams in the night too. Won’t eat, won’t sleep. It’s a sad case.”
The car bumped to a stop in front of the cottage, a neatly kept house with a vegetable garden in the back, flowers in narrow beds, and a pen with chickens. A large white cat sat washing herself on the flagstone steps leading to the door, ignoring them as they walked by.
Agnes Farrell opened the door to them. He could see the lines of fatigue in her face, the worry in her eyes, the premature aging of fear. But she said briskly, “Sergeant, I told you once and I’ll tell you again, I’ll not have that child worried!”
“This is Inspector Rutledge, from London, Agnes. He needs to have a look at Lizzie. It won’t be above a minute, I promise it won’t,” he cajoled. “And then we’ll be on our way.”
Agnes looked Rutledge over, her eyes weighing him as carefully—but in a different manner—as Georgina Grayson’s had done. “What’s a policeman from London want with the likes of Lizzie?” she demanded.
“I don’t know,” Rutledge said. “But I believe I’ve found the child’s doll. It was in the hedge near the meadow where Colonel Harris was killed. Captain Wilton here says he met her on his walk that morning, and she was crying for the doll. I’d like to return it, if I could.” He held out the doll, and Agnes nodded in surprise. “Aye, that’s the one, all right! Whatever was she doing in the meadow?”
“Looking for Ted, no doubt.” Meg Pinter came forward and touched the doll. Her face was drawn with lack of sleep and a very deep fear for her child. “She goes out to pick flowers, and that’s all right, she comes to no harm. But once or twice she’s gone looking for her father because he lets her sit on one of the horses in the stables, if the Haldanes aren’t about.”
Rutledge said, “Do you think she was in the meadow that morning? When the Colonel was killed?”
“Oh God!” Meg exclaimed, turning to stare at her mother. “I’d never even thought—” Agnes’s face twisted in pain, and she shook her head.
“She might have seen something,” he added, as gently as he could. “But I’d like to have a look at her, give her the doll.”
“No, I’ll take it!” Meg said quickly, tears in her eyes, but he refused to part with it.
“I found it. I’ll return it.”
The two women, uncertain what to do, turned to the Sergeant, but he shook his head, denying any responsibility. In the end, they led Rutledge through the neat house to the small room with its silent crib.
Lizzie lay as quietly as a carved child, covers tidily drawn over her body, her face turned toward the wall. It was a bright room, very pleasant with a lamp and a stool and a small doll’s bed in one corner, handmade and rather nicely carved with flowers in the headboard. It was very much like the crib, and empty. Even from the door he could see how the little girl’s face had lost flesh, the body bony under the pink coverlet. There had been so many refugee children in France with bones showing and dark, haunted eyes, frightened and cold and hungry. They had haunted him too.
Rutledge walked slowly toward the child. Wilton stayed outside the door, but the Sergeant and the two women followed him inside.
“Lizzie?” he said softly. But she made no response, as if she hadn’t heard him. As if she heard nothing. A thin thread of milk drained out of her mouth on the sheet under her head, and her eyes stared at the wall with no recognition of what she was seeing.
“Speak to her,” he said over his shoulder to Meg. She came to the bed, calling her daughter’s name, half cajoling, half commanding, but Lizzie never stirred. Rutledge reached out and touched Lizzie on the arm, without any reaction at all.
Meg’s voice dwindled, and she bit her lip against the tears. “I’d never thought,” she said softly, as if Lizzie could hear her, “that she might have been there. Poor little mite—poor thing!” She turned away, and Agnes took her in her arms.
Rutledge went around to the other side of the crib, between the child and the wall. He stooped to bring his face more in line with her eyes, and said, with a firmness that he’d learned in dealing with children, “Lizzie! Look at me.”
He thought there was a flicker of life in the staring eyes, and he said it again, louder and more peremptorily. Agnes cried out, telling him to mind what he was doing, but Rutledge ignored her. “Lizzie! I’ve found your doll. The doll you lost in the meadow. See?”
He held it out, close enough for her to see it. For an instant he thought that she wasn’t going to respond. Then her face began to work, her mouth gulping at air. She screamed, turning quickly toward the door, her eyes on the Sergeant, then on Wilton beyond. It was a wild scream, terrified and wordless, rising and falling in pitch like a banshee’s wail. Deafening in its power from such a small pair of lungs. Curdling the blood, numbing the mind. Agnes and Meg ran toward her, but with a gesture Rutledge held them back. But the screaming stopped as quickly as it had started. Lizzie reached out and Rutledge put the doll in her open arms. She clasped it to her with a force that surprised him, her eyes closing as she rocked gently from side to side. After a time one hand let go of the doll and a thumb found its way to her mouth. Sucking noisily, she clutched the doll and began a singsong moan under her breath.