A Test of Wills by Charles Todd Page A

easily, did he keep his friends? Was he a heavy drinker? Did he have affairs? Was he honest in his business dealings?”
    Wilton frowned, his elbows on the chair arm, his fingers steepled before his face, half concealing it. “Yes, he had a temper, but he’d learned long ago to control it. I don’t know if he carried grudges or not, but most of his friends were Army, men he’d served with for many years. I don’t know if he had enemies—I never heard of any, unless you wish to include that idiot Mavers. As for his drinking, I’ve seen Charles drunk—we all got drunk in France, when we could—but he was a moderate drinker as a rule, and affairs with women must have been discreet. I’ve never heard him described as a womanizer. You’ll have to ask Royston about business matters, I’ve no idea how they stand.”
    “You met Harris during the war?”
    “In France just at the end of 1914. In spite of the differences in age and rank we became friends. A year ago, when he heard I was coming out of hospital, he brought me to Mallows for the weekend. That’s when I met his ward. If he had secrets, he managed to keep them from me. I saw nothing vicious, mean, or unworthy in the man.” The hands had come down, as if the need for them as a shield had passed.
    This was a better epitaph, but still no help to Rutledge, who wanted the living flesh and blood and bone of the man.
    “And yet he died violently in a quiet English meadow this past Monday morning, and while everyone tells me he was a good man, no one seems to be in any particular haste to find his killer. I find that rather curious.”
    “Of course we want the killer found!” Wilton responded, coloring angrily. “Whoever it is deserves to hang, and what I can do, I shall do. But I can’t think of any reason why Charles should have been shot, and you damned well wouldn’t thank me for muddying the waters for you with wild, useless conjectures!”
    “Then we’ll start with facts. When did you leave this house on Monday morning? Where did you go?”
    “At half past seven.” Wilton had gotten himself under control again, but his words were still clipped. “Exercise strengthens my knee. On Monday I followed the lane that runs just behind the church and up the hill beyond, skirting Mallows. I reached the crest of the ridge, went on toward the old mill ruins on the far side of it, which lie near the bridge over the Ware, then returned the same way.”
    This was not the lane where Hickam claimed to have seen the Colonel and the Captain having words. “Did you hear the shot that killed him? Or sounds of the search—men shouting or calling?”
    “I heard no shooting at all. I ran into one of the farmpeople on my way home, and he told me what had happened. It was a shock.” He stirred suddenly, as if reminded of it. “I couldn’t really believe it. My first thought was for Lettice, and I went straight to Mallows.”
    “Did you meet anyone during your walk?”
    “Two people. A farmer’s child who had lost her doll and was sitting on a stump crying. I spoke to her, told her I’d keep an eye open for the doll, and asked if she knew her way home. She said she did, she often came that way to pick wildflowers for her mother. Later I saw Helena Sommers. She was on the ridge with her field glasses and didn’t stop, just waved her hand.”
    “What about the Colonel’s man of business, Royston? He went down to the stables looking for Harris and got there just as the horse came in without its rider. In time, in fact, to direct the search. Do you think he’s honest? Or is there the possibility that the meeting he was expecting to have with the Colonel at nine-thirty might have been one he had reasons to prevent?”
    “Do you mean, for example, that Royston may have been cheating Charles, embezzling or whatever, had been caught, and expected to be sacked at nine-thirty, when Charles came in?” He frowned again, considering the possibility. “I suppose he could