Wings of Fire (23 page)

Rutledge put everything back exactly as he’d found it, brushing the pansy leaves clean of any bits of earth, using his hands to smooth and press the disturbed earth. Then he got to his feet and thought about what he’d done, whether he’d left any task undone. Then he remembered the entrenching tool, and groped for that.

With the same care he’d exercised coming here he made his way out of the valley and back to the inn, returning the tool to its place in the car before going upstairs again to his room. Looking down at his shoes, he grimaced. The caked mud reminded him of the trenches. Taking them off, he set them outside his door for the boot boy.

Washing his hands well, then blotting the worst of the dew out of his trouser knees, he went back to his earlier task. The poems.

It was in some ways quite unnerving to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Like working out the obituaries of people he knew. But Olivia seldom failed him once he learned the technique of what she had tried to do. All the members of her family were here, cleverly disguised by the allegorical themes she’d chosen for each. Sometimes, like “Eve,” they were given biblical names, at others wrapped in Cornish legends, or cloaked in bits of well-known history—whatever fit her purpose, but always with such artistry that the mask itself had
a life and drama of its own. He marveled again at such talent, and the tragedy of its loss. She had barely reached her prime…

Of course she wasn’t the first to use poetry as a vehicle for her own designs. Poets—Swift and Wordsworth were the first names he thought of—had employed their pens to mock political figures or make literary allusions to famous events or writers. Some employed satire and a vicious humor to bring down governments or ruin reputations and careers. But to his knowledge this was the first time one had grimly catalogued a murderer’s career.

“Bathsheba,” the faithful wife whose husband had been placed in the forefront of battle because King David desired her, had become Rosamund. Olivia described her as an unwitting pawn of a cruel and passionate man who wanted her at any price, and took from her the mainstay of her life, the kind and thoughtful husband who had filled her with happiness. James Cheney? Or Brian FitzHugh? Which had been killed because he was Rosamund’s husband?

No, Rutledge told himself, from the description it had to be Cheney, the kind and thoughtful man who’d replaced the dashing soldier.

The hidden depths of feeling in the lines, the understanding of love and lust, gave them a soaring beauty that worked at any level, but it was also a devastating portrait of a killer scheming to have what he wanted most, at any price.

He went on, skimming again, looking for something, missing it at first glance, then turning back again to see.

It was a short poem. Two men standing at the water’s edge argued over possession of the land that stretched out behind them, rich and fallow in the sun. Anger turned to blows, and one was killed. To that point the lines seemed to follow the death of Brian FitzHugh, and then it took an odd twist as the killer stared down at the bleeding body. “My hand it was that gave you this, Mine that takes it from you!” And the dying man answers, “Was it so—was it yours to give? I’m glad I never knew.”

Nicholas? Somehow Rutledge couldn’t quite see that par
allel. What could Nicholas have given and taken away again from Brian FitzHugh? He reread the poem, and shook his head. Be patient, man! he told himself. Olivia knew the answer to that—she’d leave it for him somewhere if not here.

Hamish, in the back of his mind, was more or less agreeing with Harvey about women penning such lines. “A tormented soul—” he began.

“Yes. And a damned brave one,” Rutledge retorted.

Later there was a reference to a man passing through a wood, finding Death waiting for him there, and facing it with courage and disdain. Death struck, and laughed. The man managed to break away, but felt no sense of victory, only of postponement.

So much of life…and yet Nicholas had chosen suicide.

Rutledge was tired, his eyes burning, his head spinning from the effort he was making to follow the remarkable thread set out for him. To sort through Olivia’s allusions, to find the bedrock of accusation beneath. And yet he felt he was missing something. What was behind what Olivia was trying to tell him? She hadn’t written a great body of poetry just as a memorial to her family’s suffering. Or just as a record for any astute policeman who might stumble over the evidence she’d documented in it. It was a warning. A very public forum of denunciation, but to what end? She must have said. Somewhere…

Then where had he, Rutledge, gone astray? Surely it wasn’t just his own stubborn insistence on closure, surely Olivia would have wanted that too. Then why hadn’t he seen it? What didn’t he know about the Trevelyan family that might have guided him now?

Another poem to Rosamund was moving, a tribute that made his eyes sting with tears as it spoke of her life, her
loves, her deep belief that she could find peace for herself and her family.

And the last line left him chilled.

“When he couldn’t have her, the hound of Hell destroyed her.”

They were all there. Anne, Richard, Rosamund, James, Brian. All of them. Except the last pair to die…

He went through the book again, searching. Finding nothing. And then he saw something unexpected. It was in a poem—on the surface—about Rome, and two small children suckled by a wolf. Romulus and Remus, who grew up to found a great city. Only this was not a city, this was a tower of the heart. He’s missed it, confused by the legend. Mistakenly taking the wolf literally, as an animal and not as a childhood nightmare of death and fear that drove two people to a strange and tender interdependence.

Unexpected—and enlightening. If it was true, it explained so much.

But it was only half of the final answer. He was sure of it now.

It was well after three o’clock—he’d heard the church clock strike the hours since midnight, and felt time passing like a heavy burden. His mind was worn and his spirits had sunk like a stone, the earlier enthusiasm already attacked by doubt. Writers often used their own experience for inspiration. Was that all she’d done? Had he counted too much on her, wishing his own need into her words?

No, that was all wrong, all wrong. He just hadn’t learned to see it in the right way yet. With exhaustion nagging at him, caught in the tumult of his own depression and Hamish’s
prodding, he’d failed
her
. Not the other way around.

He rubbed his eyes, then got up and washed his face in the cold water from the pitcher. The coffee was even colder, but he forced himself to drink it, and then stretching his shoulders as he’d done a thousand times on night watches in the war, he finally sat back down again. Giving up was defeat. And by God, he wasn’t going to face the shaving mirror in the morning with excuses and evasions. He’d start all over again, if he had to. At the beginning if that’s what it took to cudgel his wits into action.

“There’re still the papers,” Hamish reminded him. “If ye’re half the detective ye think ye are, you’d have found them by now.”

The finest moment in the final volume was “Lucifer,” the centerpiece of the book, a description of the great and glorious prince whose ambition reached too far. To Milton he’d been the archangel who had dared to envy God, finally to be disgraced and hurled, headlong and flaming, into the pit of Hell to reign over the damned.

To Olivia Marlowe, he’d been the dark angel of death.

Rutledge read the lines again, and this time the image created by the words took shape in his mind.

The dark angel. Beyond her power to control, beyond her power to condemn. Beyond her power, nearly, to understand.

But not an
angel
, not an allegory of Death. A
man
.

Clever, unemotional, his own law. Resolute, fearless. Without compassion. And immutable. However long it took, however dangerous it was, however destructive, he got what he desired.

A man who was neither good nor evil, merely unbound by the constraints of humanity or God. A glittering archangel, perhaps, but without a soul. And yet, like Lucifer, filled with envy and the need to possess what to him was omnipotence. Only, his heaven had been earthbound.

A Gabriel Hound, the old woman called him, heathen.

It was a chilling portrait, and it was the most truly dev
astating study of cold, hard ego, of a core of being without light or grace, that he’d ever seen.

By the time Rutledge had finished the poem the last time, he felt an exaltation in his blood that had nothing to do with poetry or Olivia Marlowe, and everything to do with the great courage of O. A. Manning.

He knew now the name and face of the Gabriel Hound. Proving it was going to be very dangerous. And Rachel would be brought to tears if he succeeded.

Rutledge found it hard to sleep, and Hamish, ever vigilant for an opening, was there in his mind, critical, disagreeing, ridiculing, citing all the objections to his arguments.

Pointing out over and over again—

“You havena’ found a
why
. You havena’ got the reason!”

“I don’t need reasons. Leave that to the lawyers—”

“Lawyers are no’ policemen, they’ll twist the truth until it’s lost!”

“All I need is proof, and Olivia gave me that—”

“Proof, is it? A muckle of lines, that’s what ye’ve got! Would ye stand and recite in yon courtroom, while your fine jury nods in their seats and yon judge begs you to get on with it before he declares a mistrial? Och, man, it’s no’ a
case
, it’s professional suicide!”

“What about her papers? You’ve reminded me of them yourself. You must have thought they were important when you did.”

“They’re gone, man, face it. Ye havena’ found them, and never will.”

“Nicholas wouldn’t have destroyed those out on the headland, she wouldn’t have let him! Cormac might have, if he found them first, before the lawyers and Stephen got there. But somehow I don’t think he did find them. I think he’s been looking as hard as I have. I can’t believe he wants anyone to know the truth about what happened between him and
Olivia. Before I’m finished, I’ll find those bloody papers!”

“Oh, aye, we’re back again to a dead woman’s poems! A dead woman’s papers! What you need is a live killer. And a confession. A witness to confront him!
And there’s no’ any hope of finding those
.”

“No,” Rutledge retorted bitterly. “But I’m not beaten yet.”

He rose at five o’clock, his head feeling stuffed with cotton wool from an hour’s heavy sleep at the very end. Shaving with cold water, he dressed and hurried down the back stairs, startling the elderly scullery maid setting out the crocks of butter and putting the new-baked bread into cloths in a basket in the kitchen.

“
Lord, sir!
You gave me such a fright!” she cried, looking up at him and then burning her fingers on a hot loaf of bread, nearly dropping it. “Was it coffee you were wanting, sir? It’s not been put on yet.”

“Is there someone here who can carry a note over to Mrs. Otley’s house for me?”

Her eyebrows flew up. “A note! At
this
hour, sir? Surely not!”

“As soon as may be,” he said testily.

“There’s the boy taking out the ashes—”

“He’ll do.” He was already writing several lines on a sheet from his notebook, frowning as he worded it to his satisfaction, then ripping it out to fold and address on the outside. “Bring him here.”

She went to fetch the boy, looking at Rutledge over her shoulder as if he’d lost his wits. The sleepy child, no more than nine or ten, took the note, opened his eyes wider at the sight of the sixpence in Rutledge’s hand, and paid close heed to his instructions.

Then he was off.

Rutledge followed him out of the kitchen and down the hall, watched him drag open the inn door and set off through the early mists up the hill towards the Otley cottage.

It was ten minutes before he was back, breathless and red-faced, but smiling.

“She wasn’t that happy with me, sir, for waking her. She said I was to tell you that, and say that I’d earned a
shilling
for the trouble it took to bring Mrs. Otley to the door.”

It was highway robbery, but Rutledge handed over a shilling, and the boy went dashing back down the passage towards the kitchens.

Rachel’s reply was hardly more than a scrawl. “If you haven’t run mad, you soon will. But if this is what it takes to send you back to London, I’ll do it.”

Grinning, he stuffed the paper into his pocket and went around to the back of the inn where his motorcar was parked in one of the disused sheds.

Within five minutes he was driving up to Mrs. Otley’s cottage, the sound of the car loud in the street, and down near the wood someone’s dog was barking in savage displeasure at the racket. The dog the rector had warned him of? You could hear the damned thing all over Borcombe!

Rachel came down the cottage steps ten minutes later, dressed in a dark coat and a hat she’d tied down with a scarf.

Rutledge got out and held the door for her. “Are you sure you can drive this automobile?”

She looked at him in disgust. “Of course I can. Probably better than you do, on these roads. I know them, you don’t.”

“And you’ll tell Susannah that if she’ll grant this one wish, I’ll be leaving for London as soon as I’ve tied up all the loose ends?”

“Yes, but I still don’t see why you need something like this. It’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard of!”

“You’ll understand. Afterward. It will save
days
of work. Trust me.”

“I’ve seen spiders I trust more,” she said tartly, and stepped into the driver’s seat. “If you cause Susannah any pain, any grief—if she has a miscarriage because of you—”

“She won’t. What I’m about to do will give her peace of mind.”

“Learning that her half sister was a murderess? Oh, yes,
I call that quite soothing for a woman in her condition.” She turned and looked at Rutledge, a long, earnest look that seemed to probe beneath his skin and into his very brain.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing? Are you quite sure?” she asked quietly, her face sober and very worried.

He reached out and touched her hand as it rested on the wheel. “I can only tell you that what I’m doing will be for the best. If there was murder done, it ought to be known, and the past put to rest. There ought to be justice, for the dead, if no one else.”

“The dead are dead. It’s the living I’m worried about now. And—and Nicholas.”

“No one can touch Nicholas,” he said gently. “Not now. Not ever again. You know that better than I do.”

“I won’t let you destroy his memory, Inspector Rutledge. I won’t let you. If you do try, I’ll find a way to put it right. Whatever I have to do, I will do. Believe that.”

He felt cold in the early morning breeze, in spite of his coat.

“I can’t hurt Nicholas,” he said again. “He’s dead, Rachel. You have to accept it, and what it means. He left you, he chose to die with Olivia, not to live with you.” He could see the flare of pain in her eyes, and ignored it. “That’s what he told you in his last letter. He didn’t want you.”

Her mouth tightened. “I wanted him,” she said quite simply. “Now start this damned thing or I’ll not go at all, not even for Susannah’s sake!”

He shut the door, walked around, and bent down to turn the crank. He could sense her watching, he knew what was in her mind. As the engine roared into life again and he stepped back, the crank in his hand, she looked straight at him over the bonnet of the car. “Leave Cormac out of this,” he said, coming around the wing towards her. “Don’t send for him. It’s between Olivia and Nicholas, you and me. He’s not a Trevelyan. Don’t send for him, he’ll just make matters worse.”

“No one could make them worse. Except you.”

She took off the brake, let in the gear and the car moved briskly off down the road. She didn’t look back. He watched her handle the car around the curve, his mind on her driving, judging whether he’d made the right decision to send her. But there was no one else who could have persuaded Susannah.

Hamish, lurking in the shadows, said only, “Play with witchcraft, and you’ll burn yourself.”

“It isn’t witchcraft,” Rutledge answered harshly. “It’s the only way I can think of to get at the truth!”

There was an echo of the engine from the narrow hedgerows, although the car had long since vanished to sight. Rutledge started to turn back towards the inn, then looked up to find Mary Otley watching him from the doorway of the cottage.

“You haven’t put her in harm’s way, have you, sir?” she asked.

“No. With any luck, I’ve put her out of it,” he answered, and walked back to the inn for his breakfast.

“The constable’s still at his breakfast, sir,” Mrs. Dawlish said, opening her front door to the Inspector from London.

“I’ll just come through and have a word with him in the kitchen,” he said, gently pushing the door wider. “If you don’t mind.”

She did, but was too polite to say so, though he could read her face clearly enough.

The constable stood up hastily, napkin still stuck under his chin, as Rutledge came down the passage and turned into the kitchen. It was a large room, with windows on two sides and a door into the back passage at the rear, next to the great polished black stove. A table with the remains of breakfast and an unexpectedly bright bowl of zinnias stood in the very middle of the room. A vast Cornish dresser took up most of one wall, the pantry through a door beyond, and against the other wall the smaller, scraped wood top of the cooking table shone in the light from the east. The curtains at the windows, the pattern on the tablecloth, and the walls themselves were
all a summer blue, as if somehow to bring the color of the sea into the house.

“Sir!” he said in alarm.

“It’s all right, Dawlish. I’ve just come to tell you that you can call off the search on the moors. This morning.”

The man’s face brightened. “Then you’ve given it up, sir? All this nonsense about the Trevelyan family? You’re going back to London?”

“There are some loose ends to tie up. Some statements I’ll need, to cover the questions I seem to have raised. You won’t mind helping with those?”

“No, sir, not in the least,” Dawlish said expansively, willing to do cartwheels if it got rid of the inconvenient man from London and put Inspector Harvey into a pleasanter mood. “Whatever you wish, I’ll be happy to help.”

Rutledge smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, and for an instant Dawlish was filled with a new uncertainty. But he brushed it aside as Rutledge said, “I’ll be back in two hours with a list of names. I don’t want you to tell anyone else who is on that list. Do you understand me? You’ll send for these people one at a time, exactly as you’re told to do, and you’ll have them write their statements for me exactly in the order I’ll give you, and in the circumstances I describe. It may seem strange to you, but I think in the end you’ll see what I’m driving at. There will be a specific list of questions for each interview. And I want you to ask them exactly as written. Change them in any way, and I’ll have it all to do over again. It will only take longer. Do you understand me?”

Dawlish didn’t, and Rutledge knew he didn’t. But Dawlish nodded, and Rutledge turned to go.

“Two hours. Be here when I come. And don’t forget the men on the moors.”

“Not bloody likely!” Dawlish answered to himself as Rutledge turned and walked out of the sunny, blue kitchen.

Working fast and steadily, Rutledge made his lists, his mind tied up with the complexity of details, setting them out with precision. He had always been good at organizing his
thoughts, at creating a picture of events from start to finish. And this time the facts were there. No gaps, no guesses. No room for doubt. No room for Hamish to creep in and haunt him. But Hamish was there, still debating the wisdom of what lay ahead, a stir in the silence.

Trask came up with a telegram for Rutledge, and he opened it reluctantly, knowing it came from London, knowing it was from Bowles.

It read, “If you aren’t doing your job, you’re needed here. If there’s something happening, I want to know about it.”

“No answer,” Rutledge told Trask, and went back to what he was writing.

Explaining to Bowles would be the same as emptying the Sahara with a teacup. There was not enough time for it. Not today. Tomorrow might be different.

Finally he sat back and looked at the sheets of paper on his desk.

How weak was the evidence?

Damned weak at the moment.

Without statements, without the voices of people and their written words, evidence was always thin.

And yet, it was there. It was
there
. Waiting to be culled.

He felt satisfied.

Rachel had driven straight to the Hall and left the car there before walking back into the village. She came into the inn as Rutledge ran lightly down the stairs, and he knew the instant he saw her face that he’d got what he wanted.

“You’ll have to get it out of the car yourself. Susannah says if you damage the frame at all, she’ll have you up before the courts. It took two grooms to load it safely.”

“Thank you!” he said, smiling, and she felt a deep sense of foreboding as she watched it light his eyes. He seemed to have lost five years over night, a man who had changed so much that she was afraid.

And then the smile was gone, and with it the strangeness. He was himself again, the thin face, the lines. The bonetiredness. But she thought that that might have been a sleep
less night, not the weariness he’d seemed to bring from London with him.

Rachel opened her mouth to say something, then decided against it. “Come on, then,” she said instead. “It shouldn’t be sitting out there in the sun.”

They walked in silence to the house, and Rutledge was grateful for it, for the lack of questions in spite of the doubts that he knew were seething just below the surface in the woman at his side.

She was spirited. She’d have made someone a very good wife. But not for Peter, who had valued his peace. In the long run, Rachel would have needed more than a book-filled house in the country and quiet evenings by the fire discussing Roman ruins. And not for Nicholas. Because the Nicholas she’d seen and loved was a figment, a falsehood built on lies that he couldn’t do anything about. The man who cared for Rachel, the man who’d done his best to send her away, was there inside, but for reasons Rachel herself would never willingly grasp.

Rachel’s tragedy, he thought, as they came out of the woods and turned up the drive towards the house, was that love had seemed so real and so possible because she had wanted it too much.

Just as he had wanted to believe Jean loved him as deeply as he believed he’d loved her. Jean, who hadn’t had very much courage, who turned from him because she couldn’t accept any other dream but the shiny, perfect one that had been shattered in 1914. Four years of war hadn’t changed her. And it had changed him—their lives—beyond recognition. Had he wanted her so much because he’d thought she could restore what was gone? Or had it really been love? He didn’t know any more.