Armitage, perhaps, had guessed - when the time came.
He'd sent Richmond deliberately to death.
Only a miracle could have brought him through unhurt.
That miracle didn't happen.
Yes, he'd sent Richmond to his death and he wasn't sorry.
It had been easy enough.
Mistakes were being made all the time, officers being sent to death needlessly.
All was confusion, panic.
People might say afterwards,
"Old Macarthur lost his nerve a bit, made some colossal blunders, sacrificed some of his best men." They couldn't say more.
But young Armitage was different.
He'd looked at his commanding officer very oddly.
He'd known, perhaps, that Richmond was being deliberately sent to death. (And after the War was over - had Armitage talked?)
Leslie hadn't known.
Leslie had wept for her lover (he supposed) but her weeping was over by the time he'd come back to England.
He'd never told her that he'd found her out.
They'd gone on together - only, somehow, she hadn't seemed very real any more.
And then, three or four years later, she'd got double pneumonia and died.
That had been a long time ago.
Fifteen years - sixteen years?
And he'd left the Army and come to live in Devon - bought the sort of little place he'd always meant to have.
Nice neighbours - pleasant part of the world.
There was a bit of shooting and fishing.
He'd gone to church on Sundays. (But not the day that the lesson was read about David putting Uriah in the forefront of the battle.
Somehow he couldn't face that.
Gave him an uncomfortable feeling.)
Everybody had been very friendly.
At first, that is.
Later, he'd had an uneasy feeling that people were talking about him behind his back.
They eyed him differently, somehow.
As though they'd heard something - some lying rumour... (Armitage?
Supposing Armitage had talked?)
He'd avoided people after that - withdrawn into himself.
Unpleasant to feel that people were discussing you.
And all so long ago. So - so purposeless now.
Leslie had faded into the distance and Arthur Richmond, too.
Nothing of what had happened seemed to matter any more.
It made life lonely, though.
He'd taken to shunning his old Army friends. (If Armitage had talked, they'd know about it.)
And now - this evening - a hidden voice had blared out that old hidden story.
Had he dealt with it all right?
Kept a stiff upper lip?
Betrayed the right amount of feeling - indignation, disgust - but no guilt, no discomfiture?
Difficult to tell.
Surely nobody could have taken the accusation seriously.
There had been a pack of other nonsense, just as far-fetched. That charming girl - the voice had accused her of drowning a child!
Idiotic!
Some madman throwing crazy accusations about!
Emily Brent, too - actually a niece of old Tom Brent of the Regiment. It had accused her of murder!
Any one could see with half an eye that the woman was as pious as could be - the kind that was hand and glove with parsons.