A test of wills ir-1 Page 12

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  So he went to see Catherine Tarrant, and found her in her studio. It was a tiled, high-ceilinged room that had been converted from an Edwardian conservatory, with light that illuminated without blinding. And there was an earthy smell about it, mixed with the odors of paint and of turpentine- and oddly enough, the ghostly scent of roses.

  She was stretching a canvas when Vivian, who bore a faint resemblance to her sister Mary, led Rutledge there and then left, shutting the door quietly.

  "I didn't know, at the Inn," he said, "that you were C. Tar- rant. My sister is a great admirer of your work." He looked around at the paintings drying against the wall, their colors gleaming like jewels in various corners of the room.

  "That's always nice to hear. You never tire of praise. The critics are generous enough with condemnation." She glanced up and said, "But that isn't what brought you here, is it? What's happened?" Her face was tense, prepared.

  "Nothing has happened, that I'm aware of. I've come to ask you about something that has been puzzling me, that's all. The German."

  The slender stretcher in her hands snapped, and she stared at him with a mixture of anger and exasperation. "I might have known! As a general rule I find that men who were at the Front are the least prejudiced, in spite of what they've suffered. Or saw their friends suffer. I'm sorry you aren't one of them."

  He found a smile for her, although she had made him angry in turn. "How do you know? To tell you the truth, I don't have any idea what I'm supposed to be prejudiced about. Why don't you tell me, and then we'll see where I stand."

  Putting down the canvas, she walked over to one of the open windows, her back to him. "As a matter of curiosity, who told you? About the German?"

  "Several people have alluded to him," he said carefully.

  "Yes, I expect they have," she answered, weary patience in her voice. "But I really don't see what it has to do with this enquiry." She turned around, lifted one of the paintings stacked against the wall beside her, and began to study it as if she saw something she didn't like about it.

  "How can I be sure, until I hear your side of the story?"

  She glanced up wryly. "You've been talking to Lettice, I think. Well, everyone else has pawed over what happened with salacious enthusiasm, why not Scotland Yard? At least you'll hear the truth from me, not wild conjectures and the embroideries of gossip." She put that painting down and picked up another, keeping her voice coolly detached, but he could see the way her hands gripped the canvas as she held it at arm's length.

  "It's very simple, really. During the war, when there weren't enough men to do the heavy work on the farms, the government allowed people to take on German prisoners of war to help on the land. Most of them were glad to do it, it was better than being cooped up in camp all day with nothing to occupy them. Mallows was allowed three Germans to bring in the harvest one year."

  "And you?"

  She turned the painting a little, as if to see it better. "Yes, I applied for one, but he didn't work out-I don't think he'd ever seen a cow before, much less a plow! He'd been a clerk in a milliner's shop, and although he was willing, I spent most of my time trying to show him what he was supposed to be doing."

  Rutledge said nothing, and after a moment she went on reluctantly. "So they sent me a new man, and then someone to help him. He was marvelous. He could do anything- make repairs, plow, birth a foal, milk, whatever was needed-and he seemed to take pleasure in it. He had grown up on the land, but he hadn't actually worked it, someone else did that for him. He was a lawyer in Bremen. Rolf was his name-Rolf Linden. And-I fell in love with him. It wasn't an infatuation this time. It wasn't at all like my feelings for Mark. But Rolf was a German-and as far as everyone in Upper Streetham was concerned, the only good German was a dead one. And he was a prisoner, he went back to the camp every night. Hardly the stuff of high romance, is it?"

  "Nothing came of it, then?" he prompted after a time. She seemed to have forgotten the painting in her hands, and after a moment absently put it back in its place.

  "Not at first. Then I realized that he loved me."

  "Did he tell you that?" If so, Rutledge thought to himself, the man was an opportunist, whatever she had been led to believe.

  "No, it happened rather prosaically. He was gored by the bull we'd brought in for the dairy herd, and he couldn't be moved. So I nursed him, and when he was too ill to know what he was saying, he said too much. After that, well, somehow we managed to keep it a secret from everyone else. But he was terrified that I'd find myself pregnant, and late in 1917 I wrote to Lettice to ask her to contact Charles for me-I thought he might use his influence to let us be married."

  She walked aimlessly across the studio, straightening the canvas on her easel, picking up a dry brush and running the tip through her fingers, frowning at a palette as if the colors on it were entirely wrong. And all the while her eyes were hidden from him. "In all fairness," she said, as if to the palette, "I do believe Lettice when she says she wrote to him. I think she kept her promise."

  Behind the unemotional voice was a well of anguish, and Rutledge found himself thinking again of Jean. He knew what loss was, how the mind refuses to believe, the way the body aches with a need that can't be satisfied, and the awful, endless desolation of the spirit. And as always when he was under stress, Hamish stirred into life.

  "You rant about your Jean," he said, his voice seeming to echo in the high ceiling of the studio. "What about my Fiona? She promised to wait. But I didna' come back, did I? Not even in a box. There's nae grave in the kirkyard to bring flowers to, so she'll sit in her wee room and cry, with no comfort to ease her grief. Not even a kiss did we have in that room, though I saw it once…"

  Desperate to silence him, Rutledge said aloud, and more brusquely than he'd intended, "Go on. What happened?"

  "It all went wrong. He was taken away, sent elsewhere, they wouldn't tell me where he had gone. And then, around Boxing Day-no one was quite certain of the date because so many people were ill and the records were all botched- he came down with influenza. No one told me that either."

  She looked up suddenly, her eyes hot with unshed tears. "It wasn't until the war ended and I had searched half of England for him that I finally discovered he'd been dead for over a year-a year! I went a little mad, I blamed Lettice and Charles-for Rolf being taken away, for his death, for no word being sent to me-for all of it. I told myself she hadn't tried to make Charles understand how much Rolf and I loved each other. I was certain that Charles never did anything more than glance at her letter and then send it straight to the War Office. It was the only way they could have learned the truth about Rolf and me, the only reason they would have punished us by taking him away. Charles had done nothing-except betray us."

  In the brightness of the skylight over her head, he could see that her breathing was ragged, her face settling into taut lines as she fought for control. And she won. No tears fell, because the remembrance of anger had burned them out instead.

  "Did you ever ask Harris what he'd done-or not done?"

  "No." It was uncompromising. "Rolf was dead. Nothing would bring him back. I had to learn to forget, or I knew I'd be dead as well. Emotionally, I mean."

  Which gave her a powerful motive for murder. And could explain why she'd defended Wilton at the Inn.

  He looked around him at Catherine Tarrant's work, at the strength of her lights and darks, the daring use of spaces, the power of her colors. At the emotions her subjects evoked. Even the bold black of her sketches set the imagination ablaze.

  A mother and child locked in each other's arms, fierce pro- tectiveness in the mother's face, terror in the child's. He had seen refugees on the roads of France who might have posed for that. An old man, clutching a folded British flag in his arms and fighting back tears as he stood in a small, overgrown country churchyard staring down at the raw earth of a new grave. If you wanted to capture the waste of war, Rut- ledge thought, what better expression was there than this
, the very antithesis of the dashing recruitment posters? A girl in a rose-splashed gown whirling in ecstasy under the spreading limbs of an aged oak. The lost world of 1914, the innocence and brightness and abandonment to joy that was gone forever.

  There were landscapes heavy with paint, storm clouds thrusting upward, wind racing wildly through a high meadow, waves lashing a rocky coast where watchers waited for stormbound ships, to lure them inland.

  He saw enormous control in each work, the sure knowledge of exactly how much and how little made enough. A natural gift of talent honed to a cutting edge by long experience. The same control she had exerted just now.

  But there was not a single still life among them…

  As if the whirlwind in the painter's mind couldn't be leashed that far?

  He was finding it hard to relate the woman before him and the art he could see with his own eyes.

  "It's unwomanly," Hamish said uneasily. "I'd not take my ease with one of those hanging above my hearth!"

  As if she'd heard him, Catherine seemed to collect herself with an effort. She saw Rutledge examining her work. Brushing the dark hair aside, she said with a sigh, "Yes, I know, no one expects me when the artist is introduced. Everyone thinks C. Tarrant must be a man. Or one of those masculine women who wear trousers everywhere and smoke strong Russian cigarettes. I've considered wearing a patch over one eye and walking about with a trained ocelot on a leash. Were you listening at all?"

  "I was listening. And you're wrong, I would have had no objection to your marriage. Not, at least, on the basis of Linden's nationality. I didn't know the man himself."

  "But I did. And if you believe I might have shot Charles out of some twisted need to revenge Rolf, I suppose I could have. But what good would it have done, I ask you?"

  "A life for a life?"

  Her mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. "Charles Harris for Rolf Linden. Do you think that's why I came to see you about Mark? To make certain that he didn't hang for my crime?" She laughed, but there was no amusement in it. "It would be a terrible irony, wouldn't it, if Mark was punished for what I'd done? The two men I've cared for dead because of me."

  "Who were the women in Charles Harris's life?"

  The change of direction sobered her. "How should I know? He spent so little time here, and when he was at home, Mallows absorbed him completely."

  "Was he ever in love with anyone in Upper Streetham? Mrs. Davenant, for instance?"

  "Why on earth do you ask that?"

  "Most soldiers carry a woman's image in their minds."

  "Like the photos of Gladys Cooper each man wore next to his heart, in the trenches?" She considered that, head on one side. "I've never really understood why Sally married Hugh- yes, he was attractive, if you liked the ne'er-do-well dashing romantic. Enormous fun, always exciting, and he could make your heart absolutely flutter when he wanted to be charming. But as a husband, he was hopeless. For a time Laurence Royston was in love with her, I'm sure of it. I couldn't believe at first that Mark wasn't! But Charles?" She shook her head slowly. "I'll have to think about that…"

  With a smile to take the sting from his words, he asked, "And you? Were you ever in love with Charles Harris?"

  She laughed, this time a contralto laugh that rippled with humor. "Of course. When I was sixteen and went to my first ball. It was at the Haldanes'. And Charles rescued me from the possessive clutches of my father, who thought every man in the room must have designs on my virtue. It would have been far more exciting if they had, but Charles was there, splendid in his dress uniform, and took pity on me. So I promptly fell in love with him and slept with my dance card under my pillow for at least a month afterward. He was a terribly attractive man, not strikingly handsome like Mark, of course, but with something about the eyes, and the mouth, that you remembered."

  "How much would you say your art was influenced by your relationship with Linden. Before-and after?"

  "Now there's an interesting question!" she said, biting her lip as she gave it her attention. "I'd say he softened it, if anything. Love teaches you humility-patience-understanding. And acceptance. Charles told me once that I'd have made a good soldier on the battlefield because I didn't know the meaning of fear. You aren't afraid until you've got something to lose. But when you love someone or something, you're ter- rified-there's so much at stake, then, so much at risk, you see…" Driving back toward Upper Streetham, Rutledge saw Laurence Royston coming toward him on a magnificent bay hunter. Royston waved, then drew rein, indicating that he wanted Rutledge to stop as well. Leaning down to speak to him, Royston said, "While you're out in this direction, come to Mallows with me and I'll give you that Will."

  So Rutledge followed him back to Mallows. This time he was taken to a small doorway on the western side of the house nearly hidden by a giant wisteria whose faded blossoms still bore a whisper of lingering scent. Royston unlocked it and then down a short, stone-flagged passage unlocked another heavy door.

  They entered a large room, dark with paneling and bookshelves and tall cabinets, but with a pair of windows behind the desk looking out on a pleasant shrubbery. Royston went to one of the cabinets beside the desk, unlocked that with another key, and brought out several bundles of papers. Sorting them with the swiftness of familiarity, he quickly found what he was looking for and handed over a bundle tied in dark ribbon.

  "Sit down, man. That's the more comfortable chair over there. I use this one when I've got to read the riot act. It's hard enough to numb the bones! You'll notice the seal of this document hasn't been broken. The Will is just as it was when Charles brought it up from London to put in the cabinet."

  Rutledge examined the seal carefully, and agreed. "No, it hasn't been touched as far as I can see." He opened it and began to read. Ten minutes later, he looked across at Royston and said, "It seems rather straightforward. The estate is left as you would expect, and there are the usual bequests in addition to that."

  Royston smiled wryly. "I hope they include a sum for the church. We'll have Carfield ranting on the doorstep if there isn't. He's very determined to have a new organ, and something has to be done about the roof as well. The old parsonage could come down around his ears for all he cares, but the church is a different matter."

  A proper setting for a proper man of God.

  "Why isn't he interested in the parsonage? He lives there, doesn't he?"

  "To tell you the truth, I always believed that he had his eye on Mallows. By way of Lettice, of course. Charles said he would as soon see her married to a giant slug."

  Rutledge laughed. It was cruel but apt.

  He retied the ribbons and said, "I'll keep this if I may. When are the solicitors coming down from London?"

  "Not until after the funeral. I've spoken with them, and there are contingency measures to see to the running of the estate, that's no problem. Frankly, I don't think Lettice is up to hearing the Will read, and I told them as much."

  "I expect to have the Inquest tomorrow."

  "Adjourned, of course?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.

  "For the time being. Yes." Rutledge considered him. "Did you ever have a falling-out with Harris?"

  Royston shrugged. "We didn't always see eye to eye on management of the estate. But you don't kill a man over marrows and hay. Or a new barn."

  "Did you envy him? After twenty years, Mallows must carry your imprint more than his. But Harris survived his wars. He came home, eager to take charge. If Miss Wood inherited, you'd be master here again. In all but name."

  "No," he said tightly. "That's ridiculous." But then he glanced away.

  "Are you in financial trouble of any sort?" There was a sizable bequest to Royston in the Will, following the recommendation that he be kept on as agent.

  Royston flushed but said, "No. I don't gamble, I haven't time for wasting my money in other pursuits, and I'm well paid."

  "Have you ever borrowed money from Harris?"

  Unprepared for that, Royston's eyes flickered. "Once," he
said tightly. "Many years ago, when I got into the devil of a scrape and couldn't get out of it on my own. I was twenty-one."

  "What did you do?"

  Royston hesitated. "I borrowed his car without his knowledge. There was a girl I desperately wanted to see down in Dorset because I thought I was madly in love with her. Colonel Harris-Captain, he was then-was in Palestine, and at the time it didn't seem like such a crazy thing to do, taking the car." He stopped, and then added quickly, "There was an accident. I wasn't a very experienced driver, and so it was my fault, whatever the law said. I paid for what I'd done-in more ways than one. And there were hospital bills. Among other things I'd badly damaged a kidney. That's what kept me out of the war, later. Charles lent me the money to settle it all. Within five years I'd paid him back every penny."

  "It must have been a large sum."

  "Any sum is large when you're twenty-one and frightened out of your wits. But yes-it was large. The car wasn't mine, remember. And-someone was hurt. It took every ounce of courage I had to confess to Charles. All he said was, 'You've had a bad experience. But there's no going back to change it. So try to learn from it. That's the only restitution you can offer.' "

  "And did you?"

  The eyes meeting his were level and sober. "For eight years or more I had nightmares about it. The accident, I mean. Reliving it. I don't hold with Freud's nonsense about dreams, but I can tell you that nightmares strip the soul."

  Rutledge found no answer for that. Sally Davenant watched her cousin for a while, then said, "Mark, that's the fifth time you've read that page. Put the book down, for God's sake, and tell me what's wrong."

  "Nothing," he said, smiling up at her. "I was thinking, that's all."

  "Don't tell me 'nothing' when I know there is something. You've walked around like a man in torment for days now. And why aren't you at Mallows? Lettice must be frantic with grief, and surely there's something you can do for her, if only to hold her. You did that for me after Hugh died, and it was all that got me through those first ghastly days. And there are practical considerations-who's arranging the funeral? You can't leave it to that dreadful man Carfield, he'll give us a sickeningly long eulogy comparing poor Charles to Pericles or Alexander. And the solicitors in London could do worse, with something coldly formal and military. Lettice will know best what Charles would have wanted-the right scripture, hymns, and so on."