by Charles Todd
“I can understand why Wheeler’s murder has remained fresh in your mind.”
“That, and the fact that it was the only case I failed to solve to my own satisfaction.” Cummins made a wry gesture and smiled. “Sheer arrogance, of course. I took pride in my record, all the same. The men used to call me Cautious Cummins. But it was always my way, to work out each detail until I could make a case out of the pieces. You remind me of myself as a young inspector, you know.” The smile widened. “I bequeath you this albatross of a case. If you ever solve it, let me know.” He went back to packing. “Don’t let Bowles lay the blame for my going on you, Rutledge,” he warned. “Because he will try. He has it in for you, he has from the day you returned to the Yard after the war. I don’t know precisely why, but he’s been instrumental in blocking promotions and failing to give you proper credit where it was due. He’s mean and vindictive. I’ve never liked him, and I’m not about to pretend now.”
“Warning taken,” Rutledge said, surprised that Cummins would speak so bluntly.
“I should finish this,” the Chief Inspector said, glancing around the room. “Two more boxes should do it, I think. I’m not one for prolonging the inevitable.” He put out his hand, and Rutledge took it in a firm grip. “I wish you well, Ian.”
“Thank you, sir. I hope your retirement will be a happy one.”
Rutledge walked to the door and was on the point of opening it when Cummins said, “Inspector. I would have no objection to hearing from you from time to time.” And then his attention returned to the half dozen books in his hands.
As Rutledge strode down the passage toward his own office, his footsteps loud on the bare boards, he wondered if he would look back at the end of his career and remember a case the way Cummins had lived with his.
“Aye, but first ye must survive long enough to leave the force on your ain twa feet,” Hamish said, his voice seeming to follow Rutledge the short distance to his own room.
Hamish was his penance for what he’d done in the war: a voice that was relentless and unforgiving, like the guilt that haunted him. In life Corporal Hamish MacLeod had been the closest thing Rutledge had had to a friend during the darkest hours of the Somme Offensive, despite the vast difference in rank between them. The young Highlander would have made sergeant if he’d survived the battle. He was a natural leader, the sort who cared for his men and understood the tactics of war. But that had been his undoing. Refusing a direct order on a battlefield had led to a firing squad. It wasn’t cowardice, it was an unwillingness to lead tired and dispirited men in another useless charge against a well-concealed machine gun nest. Yet even knowing as well as Hamish did what it would cost in lives, knowing that it was impossible to dislodge the enemy, Rutledge had had no choice but to give the order to try one more time in an effort to clear out the nest before the main attack began along the entire line. The few sacrificed for the sake of the many. And then as an example to his men, he’d had no choice but to give the order to fire that had ended Hamish’s life. Military necessity, but in human terms, despicable to Rutledge’s already battered mind.
After days of endless fighting that had killed thousands of good men for mere inches of ground and did nothing to bring the war nearer its inevitable end, this one death had seemed insupportable. A decision made at HQ, a decision that appeared sound and workable to officers far from the fighting, officers who didn’t have to look exhausted men in the face and ask them to climb over the top one more time and die to satisfy a strategy that was broken before it had even begun, had resulted in a bloodbath that was incomprehensible. Hamish MacLeod had simply given that bloodbath a personal face.
Dr. Fleming had explained it best—though it was no comfort to Rutledge to hear it: “You couldn’t accept that one man’s death. And so you refused to let him die. He’s every young soldier you tried to keep alive and failed. He’s your expression of guilt for that failure, and he will be in your head as long as that guilt lasts. Or until you die and take Hamish MacLeod with you to the grave.”
Guilt or not, Hamish’s voice sounded as clear as if it had come for a foot or so behind Rutledge’s shoulder, where Hamish had so often stood and fought. And explanations did nothing to ease the strain of knowing the voice was there, that it would speak or not as it chose, and there was nothing on God’s earth to prevent it or keep others from hearing it, even when Rutledge knew they could not. He could never be certain of anything except that Hamish had never forgiven him, just as he had never forgiven himself—even though he had never been given any choice in the matter. Hamish had taken that away too and left Rutledge to cope alone. And yet never alone.
Trying to shut out the soft Scots words in his mind, Rutledge tried to settle to the papers on his desk, and after a time he managed to concentrate on them. He knew he would miss Cummins. There were already rumors that Inspector Mickelson would be promoted to fill his place.
Copyright
Copyright 2010 by Charles Todd.
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EPub Edition © 2010 ISBN: 9780062061720
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