remember—”
“No. I won’t.”
“Come down to the kitchen in the morning.”
“I will that,” he said, and she grinned at him.
“I’ll have hot scones for your breakfast, come Sunday.” It was a treat, a remnant of childhood. She walked on down the stairs to put the finishing touches on the dinner she’d made.
The two men sat late over their port that evening, and Trevor took out the book sent to him by a young architect who’d joined his firm in 1912. Edward Harper had been killed in 1917, blown to bits with half a dozen other men, when an ammunition wagon went up in their faces.
“Tell me what you think of this.” The way he unwrapped it and handed it to Rutledge showed clearly how he himself treasured it.
During his months in France, Harper had managed to finish a collection of watercolors—cameos of men of every rank and unit he’d come across. African chausseurs, Malay coolies, a French dragoon, a cocky Australian grinning cheekily. A Sikh of an East Indian regiment wearing a gas mask, his flourishing black beard framing it like a giant ruff. A range of pugarees—turbans—each identifying the district Indian troops had come from. Spahis, native Africans in French service, who collected trophies. Scots in kilts and a Belgian infantryman in his odd helmet. These were indisputably individual portraits, each vividly captured. It showed a remarkable talent.
“It’s wonderful,” Rutledge said, and meant it. It also showed the public face of war, cheerful and colorful, without the casualties and the horrors. Safe to send home. But he said nothing of that to Trevor.
Rutledge sat there, turning the pages, thinking of all the men he’d watched die, and all the skills that had died with them. And for what? He wished he knew.
“I’ll frame them for the office,” Trevor was saying. “A memorial of sorts.” Then with intense anger, draining his glass, he added, “A waste. God, it was all a bloody
waste
!”
And Rutledge, watching his face, knew that he was thinking of his son.
THE WEEKEND WAS , oddly enough, healing for both men. They walked in the early morning, they sat and talked by the fire, they took the dogs out to flush game, by common consent leaving the guns at home. There had been enough killing.
Hamish, his presence always there, kept silent for the most part, as if he, too, had taken some pleasure in Trevor’s broad interests and quiet humor. Rutledge wondered if the two men would have liked each other in life. Or if his own precious and precarious sense of peace had held Hamish at arm’s length. But when Rutledge was alone, it was as it had always been, a trial of the spirit.
When he arrived in the kitchen on Sunday morning, Morag wasn’t alone.
In the big room with its iron stove and old-fashioned hearth, the scent of fresh scones was warm and delicious. But the thin, fair man who stood up from the table, pink with embarrassment and determination, was wearing the uniform of a policeman. A Scots policeman.
Morag, fetching the teapot from the stove where it had been steeping, told Rutledge, “He won’t go away. His name’s McKinstry, and he’s the grandson of my late sister’s husband’s cousin. He wants to see you.” In Scotland, kith and kin cast a wide net.
“McKinstry,” Rutledge acknowledged, taking his accustomed chair and moving his cup closer to Morag as she turned to pour. “What brings you here?”
“Inspector Rutledge,” the young Scot said with formality. “I’m not sure, sir. That is to say, it’s business, my own business, I’ve come about.”
“Just as well. I have no jurisdiction here. I’m on holiday.”
“Aye, sir. I’ve been told that.” The constable glanced uneasily at Morag. She, apparently, had made it quite plain that no kin of hers would disturb Himself’s guest. “I’m from near Jedburgh. The town where I’m stationed is smaller and not on the main road. I doubt you’ve ever heard of it until now. Duncarrick,
“No. I won’t.”
“Come down to the kitchen in the morning.”
“I will that,” he said, and she grinned at him.
“I’ll have hot scones for your breakfast, come Sunday.” It was a treat, a remnant of childhood. She walked on down the stairs to put the finishing touches on the dinner she’d made.
The two men sat late over their port that evening, and Trevor took out the book sent to him by a young architect who’d joined his firm in 1912. Edward Harper had been killed in 1917, blown to bits with half a dozen other men, when an ammunition wagon went up in their faces.
“Tell me what you think of this.” The way he unwrapped it and handed it to Rutledge showed clearly how he himself treasured it.
During his months in France, Harper had managed to finish a collection of watercolors—cameos of men of every rank and unit he’d come across. African chausseurs, Malay coolies, a French dragoon, a cocky Australian grinning cheekily. A Sikh of an East Indian regiment wearing a gas mask, his flourishing black beard framing it like a giant ruff. A range of pugarees—turbans—each identifying the district Indian troops had come from. Spahis, native Africans in French service, who collected trophies. Scots in kilts and a Belgian infantryman in his odd helmet. These were indisputably individual portraits, each vividly captured. It showed a remarkable talent.
“It’s wonderful,” Rutledge said, and meant it. It also showed the public face of war, cheerful and colorful, without the casualties and the horrors. Safe to send home. But he said nothing of that to Trevor.
Rutledge sat there, turning the pages, thinking of all the men he’d watched die, and all the skills that had died with them. And for what? He wished he knew.
“I’ll frame them for the office,” Trevor was saying. “A memorial of sorts.” Then with intense anger, draining his glass, he added, “A waste. God, it was all a bloody
waste
!”
And Rutledge, watching his face, knew that he was thinking of his son.
THE WEEKEND WAS , oddly enough, healing for both men. They walked in the early morning, they sat and talked by the fire, they took the dogs out to flush game, by common consent leaving the guns at home. There had been enough killing.
Hamish, his presence always there, kept silent for the most part, as if he, too, had taken some pleasure in Trevor’s broad interests and quiet humor. Rutledge wondered if the two men would have liked each other in life. Or if his own precious and precarious sense of peace had held Hamish at arm’s length. But when Rutledge was alone, it was as it had always been, a trial of the spirit.
When he arrived in the kitchen on Sunday morning, Morag wasn’t alone.
In the big room with its iron stove and old-fashioned hearth, the scent of fresh scones was warm and delicious. But the thin, fair man who stood up from the table, pink with embarrassment and determination, was wearing the uniform of a policeman. A Scots policeman.
Morag, fetching the teapot from the stove where it had been steeping, told Rutledge, “He won’t go away. His name’s McKinstry, and he’s the grandson of my late sister’s husband’s cousin. He wants to see you.” In Scotland, kith and kin cast a wide net.
“McKinstry,” Rutledge acknowledged, taking his accustomed chair and moving his cup closer to Morag as she turned to pour. “What brings you here?”
“Inspector Rutledge,” the young Scot said with formality. “I’m not sure, sir. That is to say, it’s business, my own business, I’ve come about.”
“Just as well. I have no jurisdiction here. I’m on holiday.”
“Aye, sir. I’ve been told that.” The constable glanced uneasily at Morag. She, apparently, had made it quite plain that no kin of hers would disturb Himself’s guest. “I’m from near Jedburgh. The town where I’m stationed is smaller and not on the main road. I doubt you’ve ever heard of it until now. Duncarrick,
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