done was to go back to his desk that evening to retrieve some papers."
"Constable Hensley knew all this?"
"Why else were they in such haste to get him out of London?"
"And what you're trying to say, then, is that you believe he killed Emma Mason."
It was her turn to stare at him.
"You already know about her!"
"I only know that her name comes up when people talk about Constable Hensley."
"As God is my witness, he killed her and buried her in Frith's Wood. I can't prove it, mind you, but there's no other explanation for her disappearance."
"Did you shoot him down with that arrow, out of revenge? One of Emma Mason's arrows, perhaps, as a sort of poetic justice?"
"Was it one of Emma's? How fitting! I gave that archery set to her, you know. For her birthday. But I wouldn't have missed my aim, Inspector. If I'd held that bow, Constable Hensley would have died where he stood."
12
The vehemence in Grace Letteridge's voice was chilling, and Rutledge, listening to her, realized that she could indeed have killed.
The question was, why?
Hamish said, "She was plain—and the other lass was pretty."
Rutledge asked, "Where is her archery set now?"
"Truthfully? I have no idea what became of it. Even if I did, I'd be mad to tell you, wouldn't I?"
"What was Emma Mason to you, that you'd have killed for her?"
She looked at him pityingly. "What was Emma to me? A mirror of myself. Motherless. Her grandmother living in a world of pretense and denial. Only in my case, it was my father who couldn't cope with the realities of life. My mother died in childbirth, and my father felt that God had cheated him. And so he drank himself into an early grave—the only reason he lived until I was twenty was an iron constitution that refused to give up as easily as he had.
Mrs. Ellison, on the other hand, saw in Emma a second chance. The perfect child who would make up for the loss of her daughter, one who wouldn't fail her the way Beatrice had."
"You're very frank about your own life."
"I've had to be. I grew up very quickly. It wasn't pleasant, but I refused to let it break me the way it had my father." She met his glance with her chin lifted, defiant.
Hamish said, "It didna' break her, but the hurt went deep."
"I was going to say," Rutledge commented, "that you're very frank. But was Emma as frank? Or did you read into her circumstances more than was there?"
"I didn't read anything. I didn't need to. Beatrice was amazingly pretty, and people made much of her, the way they do. She was talented as well—a wonderful pianist and a very accomplished watercolorist. She painted these—" Grace Letteridge gestured to the watercolors on the wall. "You've noticed them, I saw your eyes on them. She gave them to me, before she left Dudlington the first time. She didn't want her mother to have them, because her mother was against Beatrice going to London to study art. She saw it as a waste. Women got married and had babies. That was their duty and their purpose. Accomplishments were fine, as long as they enhanced the bride price, so to speak. But a woman most certainly didn't pursue a career among artists. Prostitution was only one step away, in Mrs. Ellison's view."
"But Beatrice Ellison married."
"Yes, of course she did, but she made a poor choice. He wasn't very good to her, and in the end, he left her with a child, no money, and no prospects. She had to swallow her pride and bring Emma here to live with her grandmother. I can understand why she didn't want to stay in Dudlington herself, but she knew what her mother was like, and I consider it very selfish of her to abandon the child like that."
She got up, restless, and went to the window to look out at the street. "She wouldn't talk to me when she came home. She was unhappy and unsettled. It was a difficult time. But Emma grew up to be prettier than her mother, and that was the trouble."
"Trouble in what sense?"
"Everyone made over Beatrice," she said, turning from the window. "But Emma
"Constable Hensley knew all this?"
"Why else were they in such haste to get him out of London?"
"And what you're trying to say, then, is that you believe he killed Emma Mason."
It was her turn to stare at him.
"You already know about her!"
"I only know that her name comes up when people talk about Constable Hensley."
"As God is my witness, he killed her and buried her in Frith's Wood. I can't prove it, mind you, but there's no other explanation for her disappearance."
"Did you shoot him down with that arrow, out of revenge? One of Emma Mason's arrows, perhaps, as a sort of poetic justice?"
"Was it one of Emma's? How fitting! I gave that archery set to her, you know. For her birthday. But I wouldn't have missed my aim, Inspector. If I'd held that bow, Constable Hensley would have died where he stood."
12
The vehemence in Grace Letteridge's voice was chilling, and Rutledge, listening to her, realized that she could indeed have killed.
The question was, why?
Hamish said, "She was plain—and the other lass was pretty."
Rutledge asked, "Where is her archery set now?"
"Truthfully? I have no idea what became of it. Even if I did, I'd be mad to tell you, wouldn't I?"
"What was Emma Mason to you, that you'd have killed for her?"
She looked at him pityingly. "What was Emma to me? A mirror of myself. Motherless. Her grandmother living in a world of pretense and denial. Only in my case, it was my father who couldn't cope with the realities of life. My mother died in childbirth, and my father felt that God had cheated him. And so he drank himself into an early grave—the only reason he lived until I was twenty was an iron constitution that refused to give up as easily as he had.
Mrs. Ellison, on the other hand, saw in Emma a second chance. The perfect child who would make up for the loss of her daughter, one who wouldn't fail her the way Beatrice had."
"You're very frank about your own life."
"I've had to be. I grew up very quickly. It wasn't pleasant, but I refused to let it break me the way it had my father." She met his glance with her chin lifted, defiant.
Hamish said, "It didna' break her, but the hurt went deep."
"I was going to say," Rutledge commented, "that you're very frank. But was Emma as frank? Or did you read into her circumstances more than was there?"
"I didn't read anything. I didn't need to. Beatrice was amazingly pretty, and people made much of her, the way they do. She was talented as well—a wonderful pianist and a very accomplished watercolorist. She painted these—" Grace Letteridge gestured to the watercolors on the wall. "You've noticed them, I saw your eyes on them. She gave them to me, before she left Dudlington the first time. She didn't want her mother to have them, because her mother was against Beatrice going to London to study art. She saw it as a waste. Women got married and had babies. That was their duty and their purpose. Accomplishments were fine, as long as they enhanced the bride price, so to speak. But a woman most certainly didn't pursue a career among artists. Prostitution was only one step away, in Mrs. Ellison's view."
"But Beatrice Ellison married."
"Yes, of course she did, but she made a poor choice. He wasn't very good to her, and in the end, he left her with a child, no money, and no prospects. She had to swallow her pride and bring Emma here to live with her grandmother. I can understand why she didn't want to stay in Dudlington herself, but she knew what her mother was like, and I consider it very selfish of her to abandon the child like that."
She got up, restless, and went to the window to look out at the street. "She wouldn't talk to me when she came home. She was unhappy and unsettled. It was a difficult time. But Emma grew up to be prettier than her mother, and that was the trouble."
"Trouble in what sense?"
"Everyone made over Beatrice," she said, turning from the window. "But Emma
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