Part 5 (1/2)
Sitting down across from her, he picked up the napkin ring and then reached for the teapot. It was a quiet domestic scene, far removed from the images that had haunted him only a short hour ago, soothing in a way that he hadn't antic.i.p.ated. As if it had the power to wipe away the past, simply by being so normal, so undemanding.
As he looked up, he thought Elizabeth was about to say something to him, and he waited, expecting her to suggest plans for the morning. But she finished her toast instead, eyes dropping to her plate.
”I'll just tell the chauffeur we're coming,” she said after a moment. ”He's waiting in the kitchen for my reply.” Rising, she walked gracefully to the door and left him to his own meal. He knew, none better, that an appearance of hearty appet.i.te was an accepted indication of good health. The knowledge had served him well when he had spent more than a week in his sister's home, an invalid after being shot in Scotland.
But Elizabeth had been picking at the food on her plate, and he wondered what was on her mind. The policeman in him was too well trained not to take notice. It would, he thought, come out one way or another in its own good time.
The door opened and she came back into the room, frowning. ”Ian. The most horrid thing. There's been another murder-closer to us this time. And on the road we took just last night. Mrs. Crawford's chauffeur, Hadley, was regaling the cook and scullery maid with the gruesome details. He'd come that way this morning-the police stopped him to ask his business-”
Rutledge stared at her. Had he struck the man in his headlamps? Was this the body that the police were examining even now?
”Who was killed? Was the driver told?” He kept his voice steady with an effort of will.
”The police didn't say. But a farmer who was bringing his horse to the farrier had seen the body and told Hadley that it was a one-legged man. Like the others.”
”How did he die?”
”I don't think they know yet. It wasn't an accident. Hadley was certain of that. Ought you to do something?”
The last thing Rutledge wanted to do was to go back to that crossroads and look down on the face of a man he might recognize. And yet he knew very well that the figure he'd seen had had two good legs. It was coincidence-and a d.a.m.ned uncomfortable one. He had to believe that. Whatever he'd glimpsed was a trick of memory, a startling but harmless tearing of the curtain between sleeping and waking.
Hamish was saying, ”You werena' asleep at the bonfire . . .” ”You werena' asleep at the bonfire . . .”
”There's nothing I can do to help. I don't have the authority here,” Rutledge told Elizabeth truthfully.
She pressed her hand to her cheek as if for comfort. ”What a terrifying start to the morning-”
”Come eat your breakfast, and don't dwell on it,” Rutledge responded quietly. ”There's nothing you can do. Nothing I can do, for that matter. I'd only be in the way.”
With a twist of her shoulders as if trying to shake off her unsettled mood, she said, ”I'd never realized, quite, how unpleasant your work must be. Dealing with such things.”
”No different, in fact, from a doctor's surgery, where one patient has hiccoughs and another has a gall bladder.” He lied with a lightness that he didn't feel. But it earned him a smile from Elizabeth. He reached for the jam pot and said in a more cheerful voice, ”What would you like to do this morning? I'm at your service.”
She bit her lip. ”Would it be too much to ask-could you help me go through Richard's things? I haven't been able to face it alone. And that's not why I asked you to come and stay-but this isn't starting out as the morning I'd planned-and-” She broke off, distracted by what she was trying to say. But the words wouldn't come, whatever they were.
”I'll help you,” Rutledge told her. ”On one condition. That we try not to make it morbid. For your sake, if not mine.”
She nodded. ”I won't cry on your shoulder. Nor you on mine. This is what one does after a death in the family, isn't it? A practical matter. Before the moths get into the clothes.” It was her turn to try for lightness; she failed wretchedly. ”Oh, h.e.l.l!” she ended bitterly. ”Why couldn't he have come home home!”
Hamish answered her, but of course she couldn't hear the words. ”Because the guid died, and left only the dregs to make the new world . . .” ”Because the guid died, and left only the dregs to make the new world . . .”
AS IT TURNED out, the morning pa.s.sed uneventfully. The clothes hanging in the wardrobes no longer carried the scent of the man who had worn them in 1914. A faint mustiness had crept in, despite applications of lavender, and they had lost the personality that had given them vitality. Elizabeth folded and packed them as Rutledge took them out and handed them to her. The drawers of the chest were easier, their contents already folded, already in neat piles. In the top drawer, Elizabeth came upon a pair of cuff links engraved with initials. She held them for a moment in her hand, then pa.s.sed them to Rutledge. ”You gave him these-a wedding gift. Would you like them back to remember him by?” out, the morning pa.s.sed uneventfully. The clothes hanging in the wardrobes no longer carried the scent of the man who had worn them in 1914. A faint mustiness had crept in, despite applications of lavender, and they had lost the personality that had given them vitality. Elizabeth folded and packed them as Rutledge took them out and handed them to her. The drawers of the chest were easier, their contents already folded, already in neat piles. In the top drawer, Elizabeth came upon a pair of cuff links engraved with initials. She held them for a moment in her hand, then pa.s.sed them to Rutledge. ”You gave him these-a wedding gift. Would you like them back to remember him by?”
He thanked her and took them. He'd liked Richard immensely, and had found in him a good friend. It was kind of his widow to remember that.
As the tall case clock in the hall struck the eleventh hour with its deep tolling chimes, they both paused in silence. Standing where they were, in the midst of their work, as a natural thing.
Rutledge thought he could hear the distant sound of the bagpipes that had buried Hamish MacLeod, but it was only a trick of the mind.
9.
TEA WITH M MELINDA C CRAWFORD WAS TYPICAL.
She was in great spirits and refused to allow her guests to enjoy anything less. She chided Elizabeth for bringing a pot of honey, saying, ”You know I'm not allowed to indulge in such things.” But the expression of delight in her eyes told them that she would enjoy it hugely.
Turning to Rutledge, she said, ”Growing old is not for most people. It's too trying. One daren't eat this or do that, or even bend over to smell the garden flowers, for fear one's back won't straighten up again.”
”You seem to thrive on it, all the same,” he told her.
”Well, it's most certainly better than the alternative.”
He looked around the room, found it unchanged from his last visit before going off to war. There were the personal possessions she'd brought home from India with her, beautiful carvings and silks, sandalwood fans that scented the warm air, and a small teak curio cabinet with ivory inlays, where she always kept smaller treasures. They were as fascinating as the stories she told about them.
It was, in a way, like stepping back into his own past, and he found it unexpectedly soothing.
She rang a little bell at her elbow, and tea appeared like magic, a wheeled cart with a silver service, fine china, and from somewhere, a single yellow rose. She had remembered that Rutledge liked cake, and had ordered two kinds, one with a lemon filling and the other with raisins.
Elizabeth was asked to pour, and as she pa.s.sed a cup to Rutledge, Mrs. Crawford said, ”You met Tom Brereton the other night at the Hamiltons. What did you think of him?”
Rutledge replied, ”Sound enough. A friend, I take it, of Mr. and Mrs. Masters.”
”Brereton was to be Raleigh's protege and read the law. A brilliant future ahead of him. The war put a stop to that.”
Elizabeth said, ”He's nice. We had lunch one day, when he came into Marling to see the doctor. He regaled me with tales about the American Expeditionary forces. He's a wonderful mimic.”
”I was thinking,” Mrs. Crawford said, ”of leaving him something in my will. His life won't be easy if he loses his sight.” She smiled. ”Of course, it could be a long wait; I'm not in the mood to shuffle off my mortal coil. All the same, it would please me to help someone in need. Brereton doesn't have a great deal of money, and independence when one is blind is important.”
”It would be a kindness, certainly,” Elizabeth said. ”But do you know him well enough? Can you be sure it's for the best?”
”I intend to know him better before making a final decision. But Ian here is a good judge of character. I'd like him to keep my notion in the back of his mind.”
Which, Rutledge thought, was a veiled suggestion that he use his resources at the Yard to verify Brereton's worthiness. But why had she chosen to speak of this in front of Elizabeth?
The answer followed on the heels of the thought.
Elizabeth said, ”Richard knew his family, of course. Tom's grandfather served in India at one time. Did you ever meet him out there?”
Mrs. Crawford set her teacup on the tray. ”We danced a waltz together in Agra. I was all of twelve, and terribly in love. He was quite das.h.i.+ng in his uniform.” But Rutledge had the strongest feeling that she was not telling the entire story.
As they finished their tea and he dutifully ate the last of the raisin cake, Mrs. Crawford turned to Elizabeth. ”My dear, will you go up to my room and fetch the small box you'll find on the desk there? I don't like to ask Shanta to do it. Her bones are older than mine!”
Shanta was the Indian ayah who had become the housekeeper, much to the shock of the neighbors. She ruled the household with an iron hand, reminding recalcitrant staff that even the Dear Queen had had an Indian servant, and that Mrs. Crawford was following royal tradition. Rutledge wondered at times how Mrs. Crawford kept any servants at all, but they seemed to adore her and seldom left until they were carried out in their coffins.