A Test of Wills by Charles Todd Page B

have reached the meadow ahead of Charles, shot him, and made it home again before the horse arrived in the stable yard. Assuming he took the shortcut over the stile and the riderless horse stuck to the track. But you can’t count on horses, can you? Not if they’re frightened.”
    Rutledge thought, No one has mentioned a shortcut—
    “But Charles never spoke to me about any trouble with Royston,” Wilton continued, “and of course there’s the shotgun. He hadn’t taken one from Mallows. Forrest checked those straightaway.”
    “I’ve heard someone say that it would have been less surprising to hear you were the victim, not Harris.” Across the room Rutledge saw Sergeant Davies stir as if to stop him from betraying Lettice Wood.
    But Captain Wilton was laughing. “You mean Lettice’s other suitors might have had it in for me? I can’t see either Haldane or Carfield lying in wait to murder me. Can you, Sergeant?” The laughter died suddenly and a shadow passed over the Captain’s face. “That’s foolishness,” he added, but with less conviction.
    Rutledge left the questioning there and took his leave.
    Mark Wilton waited until he had heard the front door close behind the two policemen, then sat down again in his chair. He wondered if they had spoken to Lettice, and what she had said to them. What would she say to him, if he went to Mallows now? He couldn’t bring himself to think about Charles Harris’s death, only what difference it might make. He closed his eyes, head back against the chair. Oh, God, what a tangle! But if he kept his wits about him—if he was patient, and his love for Lettice didn’t trip him up, it would all come right in the end. He had to believe that….
    As Rutledge and the Sergeant let themselves out, they saw Mrs. Davenant coming toward them with a basket of cut flowers, roses and peonies with such a rich, heavy scent that Rutledge was reminded of funerals.
    “I’m sending these to Lettice, to cheer her a little. Have you talked with that man Mavers? I wouldn’t put anything past him, not even murder! We’d be well rid of him, believe me. He was haranguing people in the market square on Monday morning. Nobody really paid any attention to him—they seldom do. Making a nuisance of himself, that’s all he thinks of!”
    Rutledge thanked her, and she went back to her flowers, humming a little under her breath in quiet satisfaction.
    As the car pulled away from the gate, Hamish said unexpectedly, “The Captain’s a right fool! And too handsome for his own good. If a husband didn’t want him dead, a woman might.”
    Ignoring the voice, Rutledge turned to Davies and said, “Where can I find Daniel Hickam? We might as well talk to him and get it over with.”
    “I don’t know, sir. He lives in his mother’s cottage at the edge of the village—just ahead there, that ramshackle one beyond the straggling hedge.” He pointed to a swaybacked cottage so old that it seemed to be collapsing of its own weight, a bit at a time, and leaving in doubt whether it would go first in the center or at the walls. “She’s dead, and he’s taken over the place, doing odd jobs where he can to earn his food.”
    They stopped by the hedge and went to knock at the door, but there was no answer. Davies lifted the latch and peered inside. The single room was dark and cluttered, but empty.
    “He must be in town, then.”
    So they drove on into Upper Streetham, and saw Laurence Royston coming from the post office. Sergeant Davies pointed him out, and Rutledge looked him over.
    He was in his late thirties or early forties, already graying at the temples, neither plain nor particularly attractive, but he carried himself well and had that appearance of solidity which people seem instinctively to trust, whether trust is justified or not. His face was square, with a straight nose, a stubborn chin and a well-defined jaw set above a heavy neck and broad shoulders.
    Rutledge blew his horn and Royston