A Lonely Death Read Online Free PDF Page A

together? And in the marriage vows? Forsaking all others? I shall never forgive him. Until the day I die, I shall never forgive him.”
    She swung the door open at that juncture, and led him inside.
    Hamish reminded him, “Ye didna’ believe me . . .”
    Rutledge tried to ignore him as he walked into the room where friends and family had gathered. There were twelve to fifteen people sitting and standing, talking together quietly. Rosemary made the introductions, although Rutledge knew several of the former Army officers. Her parents were there, but Max’s parents had died during the war, leaving only a distant cousin who had been gassed at Ypres. He was sitting in a chair by the double windows that led to the gardens, struggling to breathe and talk, finally falling silent, his face strained.
    Rutledge hadn’t met Reginald Hume before this, and as they shook hands, he remembered Max saying something about his cousin having been schooled in England, although he’d returned to Scotland to live.
    “Inherited the family pile on the Isle of Skye, filled it with books, and prefers them to people. That’s why he didn’t come south for my wedding. I shan’t be surprised if he misses my funeral as well.” It had been said in jest.
    There were voices in the kitchen, where food was being collected as friends and neighbors brought dishes along with their sympathy.
    The day dragged on, and at one point, Rutledge found himself speaking to the rector of St. Paul’s, Chaswell’s church.
    “Scotland Yard, are you?” Mr. Gramling asked. When Rutledge nodded, he went on, “I understand you are here in your capacity as a friend, not as a policeman? Good. Then you’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve determined that Captain Hume died while his mind was overcome by his suffering. Wounds take many forms,” he said to Rutledge with a perfectly straight face. “I see no reason why he may not be buried in holy ground.”
    “I’m glad to hear it,” Rutledge responded. It was something that had been on his mind most of the afternoon. There would of course be an inquest. Someone else had brought that up. But he had hoped for Rosemary’s sake that it would be reasonably considerate of her feelings. “I hope that I shan’t be required to give evidence.” Hume’s letter was still in his pocket. He had no intention of reading it aloud at an inquest.
    “I see no reason to impose on your personal grief,” Mr. Gramling agreed, understanding Rutledge’s unspoken message. “He regularly attended services with his wife, even when he couldn’t hear what was being said. I could consider that a proof, if we need it, that he was sound of mind and spirit. Mr. Hume did not fail in his duty to the church, and the church will not fail in its duty to him.”
    “I consider that very enlightened of you,” he said, and Gramling smiled.
    He was a short, stout man with heavy shoulders. Just beginning to gray, he had deep-set dark eyes under thick eyebrows, lending him a sinister look until he smiled. “I don’t hold with judging my flock. I see no reason to usurp God’s right.” He paused, then added, “Max and I spoke from time to time. Often on a tablet of paper I kept in my desk. I burned the sheets afterward. I considered him a friend.”
    They stood there talking about the war and the past, and then Rosemary called to Rutledge, asking him to help Reginald up the stairs to lie down for a while.
    He was a pale shadow of his cousin. Thinner, fairer, his features less well defined because of his suffering. Each breath was a testament to his will to live. If asked, Rutledge would have thought that Reginald was the more likely of the two men to end his own life. But there was a tenacity in his face that gave it its intense character. He thanked Rutledge as he sank back against his pillows. “I came for Rosemary’s sake,” he managed to say. “Not for Max’s. He told me he would not expect to see me at his graveside.”
    “Rosemary will