front, and it was occupied by a desk sitting across from the hearth, papers scattered over its surface. Rutledge paused to look at them and found nothing of interest. Notices from Northampton, a letter inquiring for a Mr. Sandridge in the town, and a logbook that had been kept meticulously until the day Hensley was shot.
In the back was a sitting room, a kitchen with an empty larder, and upstairs a bedroom with sheets on the bed that were damp and wrinkled.
"It willna' do," Hamish told Rutledge. "It's no' a place to be comfortable."
Rutledge took out his pocket watch and looked at it. The Oaks would be serving dinner in another forty-five minutes, and the thought of a warm meal and a bed pulled at him. Keating be damned.
There was a voice from the hall at the foot of the stairs. "Halloooo!"
He went to the top of the steps and called down, "Inspector Rutledge here. What do you need?"
"Well, I told myself it couldn't be Bart Hensley." She moved into the light of his torch as he pointed it down the stairs in her direction. "What are you doing here? He hasn't died, has he?"
"No." He could see her now, a tall, slender woman wearing a knitted hat and a gray coat with a black collar. "I've come to investigate what happened to him."
"Well, then, dinner is at eight. I usually prepare it for him. An arrangement we've had since he came here in 1915. You might as well take your meals at my house too. There's not much choice in Dudlington. I'm your neighbor next but one, on the other side of the bakery. Oh, and you can leave your motorcar just by the side of the house. It's out of the way there." And she was gone, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Rutledge presented himself at the house on the far side of the bakery, exactly at eight. The door was opened, and the woman invited him in. "My name is Barbara Melford. I'm a widow, I live alone, and I am paid for each meal. The dining room is this way."
Her house was larger than the constable's, with good furnishings and a fire in the dining room where the table was set for one.
"You don't take your meals with Hensley?" Rutledge asked.
"I am paid to feed him, not to keep him company. As I've already said, I'm a widow. And I'm not looking to marry again, least of all, not to Constable Hensley."
He could see her clearly now in the lamplight: a woman in her thirties, smartly dressed—for his benefit and not Constable Hensley's—trying to cover her apprehensiveness with a chilly demeanor.
Hamish, taking a dislike to her, said, "Why did she invite you to dine?"
For information?
Rutledge took the chair at the head of the table and pulled his serviette out of a china ring with blue violets painted in a garish pattern.
"We've had no news about Constable Hensley's condition. Was his surgery successful?" Barbara Melford asked as she brought in the soup, creamed carrots with leeks.
"Apparently, although he was in a good deal of pain when I spoke to him," Rutledge answered, choosing his words with care. "Nothing was said about when he might be released."
"I can't imagine being driven that far with an arrow in my back!" she commented, returning to the kitchen while he sat in the dining room in lonely splendor. It was a pretty room with drapes of a floral brocade and an English carpet under a table that could seat eight. Rutledge found himself wondering if Mrs. Melford had ever entertained here, when her husband was alive.
He was tired, and it was a very tense meal, as his hostess brought each course in silence and disappeared again, but he could feel her eyes on him through the crack in the door leading to the kitchen.
Once he tried to question her about what had happened, but she answered brusquely, "I can't see the wood from my windows, thank God! You must ask someone who can." There was a flan for dessert, better than many he'd had, but he didn't linger over his tea. As soon as the first cup was empty, he folded his serviette, and calling to Barbara Melford to thank her, he
In the back was a sitting room, a kitchen with an empty larder, and upstairs a bedroom with sheets on the bed that were damp and wrinkled.
"It willna' do," Hamish told Rutledge. "It's no' a place to be comfortable."
Rutledge took out his pocket watch and looked at it. The Oaks would be serving dinner in another forty-five minutes, and the thought of a warm meal and a bed pulled at him. Keating be damned.
There was a voice from the hall at the foot of the stairs. "Halloooo!"
He went to the top of the steps and called down, "Inspector Rutledge here. What do you need?"
"Well, I told myself it couldn't be Bart Hensley." She moved into the light of his torch as he pointed it down the stairs in her direction. "What are you doing here? He hasn't died, has he?"
"No." He could see her now, a tall, slender woman wearing a knitted hat and a gray coat with a black collar. "I've come to investigate what happened to him."
"Well, then, dinner is at eight. I usually prepare it for him. An arrangement we've had since he came here in 1915. You might as well take your meals at my house too. There's not much choice in Dudlington. I'm your neighbor next but one, on the other side of the bakery. Oh, and you can leave your motorcar just by the side of the house. It's out of the way there." And she was gone, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Rutledge presented himself at the house on the far side of the bakery, exactly at eight. The door was opened, and the woman invited him in. "My name is Barbara Melford. I'm a widow, I live alone, and I am paid for each meal. The dining room is this way."
Her house was larger than the constable's, with good furnishings and a fire in the dining room where the table was set for one.
"You don't take your meals with Hensley?" Rutledge asked.
"I am paid to feed him, not to keep him company. As I've already said, I'm a widow. And I'm not looking to marry again, least of all, not to Constable Hensley."
He could see her clearly now in the lamplight: a woman in her thirties, smartly dressed—for his benefit and not Constable Hensley's—trying to cover her apprehensiveness with a chilly demeanor.
Hamish, taking a dislike to her, said, "Why did she invite you to dine?"
For information?
Rutledge took the chair at the head of the table and pulled his serviette out of a china ring with blue violets painted in a garish pattern.
"We've had no news about Constable Hensley's condition. Was his surgery successful?" Barbara Melford asked as she brought in the soup, creamed carrots with leeks.
"Apparently, although he was in a good deal of pain when I spoke to him," Rutledge answered, choosing his words with care. "Nothing was said about when he might be released."
"I can't imagine being driven that far with an arrow in my back!" she commented, returning to the kitchen while he sat in the dining room in lonely splendor. It was a pretty room with drapes of a floral brocade and an English carpet under a table that could seat eight. Rutledge found himself wondering if Mrs. Melford had ever entertained here, when her husband was alive.
He was tired, and it was a very tense meal, as his hostess brought each course in silence and disappeared again, but he could feel her eyes on him through the crack in the door leading to the kitchen.
Once he tried to question her about what had happened, but she answered brusquely, "I can't see the wood from my windows, thank God! You must ask someone who can." There was a flan for dessert, better than many he'd had, but he didn't linger over his tea. As soon as the first cup was empty, he folded his serviette, and calling to Barbara Melford to thank her, he
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