Racing the Devil

by Todd,Charles

  It might have been an act of sheer vandalism. Most especially if word had got round that he represented the Yard and was looking into the Rector’s death. Someone who simply resented a police intrusion into the quiet world in which he lived?

  It was possible. Even the sleepiest villages held secrets.

  By the same token, it could have had other ramifications. A warning, a way to slow the pace of the inquiry, or just a bloody-minded attempt to distract him.

  But why here—all but on the doorstep of the man whose motorcar had killed the Rector? When he, Rutledge, was already inside?

  He found a rag to clean his hands, looking at them ruefully afterward. It hadn’t done much good.

  Hamish, who had been hovering at his shoulder throughout his work on the tire, seeming to be intrigued by it—he was a Highlander, he’d had no motorcar of his own—startled him by saying softly in his ear, “There’s a watcher.”

  Rutledge began to fold the rag, walking purposefully back to the boot.

  “Where?”

  “Twenty-five paces left, past the log.”

  He dropped the rag into the boot and stretched his shoulders, letting his gaze sweep the thin wood on this side of the road. Hamish had always had very good hearing and vision. If he said someone was there, then someone was.

  The log was large enough that he found it easily where it lay rotting in the deeper shadows of the woods. Even as he spotted it, Rutledge thought he saw something move just behind it.

  He let his gaze drift on, sliding up into the trees, in no particularly hurry, then he turned and shut the boot. He debated whether this was the vandal, waiting to see how his handiwork had succeeded, and then decided against it. And now he was curious. Walking back toward the bonnet, he said, raising his voice only a little, “Want to come and have a closer look? I don’t bite.”

  There was silence. He thought he caught a bit of consternation in it, and stood with his back still toward the trees as he reached over with his elbow to buff an imaginary spot on the gleaming dark red paint.

  As he moved on toward the crank, still not looking back, he heard the light thrash of dry weeds and stalks as someone else moved as well.

  He tensed, but made a point of appearing to ignore the sound and reached for the crank with no intention of turning it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a thin, tallish boy in coveralls, a coat too large for him, and a battered straw hat covering short, straw-colored hair. He was carrying a sack of what looked like potatoes. Twelve, possibly? No more than thirteen, not less than ten.

  Straightening, he said, “Hallo, there. Want to see how it’s done?” He grinned on purpose and turned toward the figure that had stopped at the edge of the road.

  They stared at each other for a few seconds.

  The boy said gruffly, “I don’t deal with strangers.”

  “Ah,” Rutledge said, keeping his voice bland, showing only some little surprise. “Smart, that. Where do you come from?”

  He didn’t answer. Rutledge thought, possibly from one of the tenant farms on Standish’s land or a neighbor’s. The clothes the boy had on were clean enough but worn. There wasn’t a lot of money about, then. Or—perhaps not a tenant’s child but one of the farm laborers one of them employed.

  “Someone messed about with my tire,” he said, thoughtful now. “Not you, surely. But I wonder if perhaps you’d seen anyone here, around the motorcar.”

  The silence had a different texture, as if the boy had seen someone but either didn’t know who it was or didn’t want to give a name.

  “Well. I must go.” He bent toward the crank. The boy sidled up the road toward him for a better view. “It’s not easy, you know,” Rutledge went on instructively. “Catch it wrong and it will break your arm for you. Ever had a broken elbow?”

  “One of my brothers fell out of the apple tree and broke his arm.”

  “Painful, that. How many brothers do you have?”

  “Two. They were killed in the war. There’s only me, now.”

  He straightened, looked at the boy again, and said, “I am sorry. Hard for you, hard for your parents.”

  “My father’s dead too. I’m the man of the house now. Are you going to turn that thing or not?”

  Rutledge laughed. He reached down, caught the crank just right, and the motor turned over. Folding the crank away, he said, “Looks easy. But it takes practice. You can tell the other lads you’ve seen how it’s done in London.”

  “London?” the boy said sharply.

  “Yes. That’s where I live.”

  “Then why are you here, in Sussex?”

  “Calling on Captain Standish.”

  “Oh.”

  “While we were exchanging a little news, someone punctured that tire.” He gestured with his hand toward the right rear. “That’s why I asked if someone was mucking about here when you came along.”

  No answer.

  “Hmm.” He opened the driver’s door. “Shall I offer to drop you somewhere? Or are you close enough to walk home?”

  “I told you. I have nothing to do with strangers.”

  “Right, then.” He hesitated. “My name is Rutledge. Just in the event your mother asks who kept you. Good evening.”

  He had put one foot into the motorcar when the boy came forward again. It was clear he was torn between seeing more and remembering his mother’s warnings against strangers.

  And in the same instant it occurred to Rutledge that this lad, possibly mad about motorcars, with no way to own or even look over one, might know something more, if it were possible to dig out the answers he wanted.

  “All right, then. A compromise. I left my driving gloves at the house. I must walk back to fetch them. As long as you don’t touch anything, you can look at the motorcar. Fair enough?”

  The boy stood his ground, glaring.

  Rutledge ignored him, shoved his gloves into a pocket without the boy seeing, and started back toward the drive.

  The boy didn’t move—Hamish would have warned him—until he himself was well out of sight. He circled back toward the far corner of the low wall, where he could watch what the lad would do, taking his own stance behind the thick trunk of a tree, from which he could observe without being spotted. For the boy kept casting quick glances toward the drive even as he circled the vehicle, touching this, touching that, but always with care.

  He leaned in Rutledge’s door, which he’d purposely left standing wide, and saw the little mirror on the windscreen, paused, put his knee on the driver’s seat, and looked right into it for a moment, before brushing his grubby hands over the smooth leather. Lightly, almost with a caress. Then, startled by something, he backed out of the door.

  Satisfied that the boy had had ample opportunity to do more damage, if he’d been the vandal, Rutledge worked his way back to the drive.

  When he came through the gates a minute later, slapping his leather driving gloves against his palm, he found the lad standing where he’d left him, as if he hadn’t stirred.

  With a nod, he walked on to the motorcar and got in. As he did, the boy shifted his weight a little, and Rutledge saw the slim ankles in the old, heavy shoes that had belonged to someone else.

  He remembered the caressing touch on the leather of the seats, the brief stare into the small mirror.

  Was the lad actually a girl? Even in the moonlight, it was hard to tell.

  And that presented something of a problem. A boy could find his way home—he must often ramble far afield in search of adventure or at least respite from his chores. Rutledge had a qualm about driving away and leaving a girl there.

  Not after the tire had been cut by person or persons unknown.

  He looked at the child again, uncertain. She, if she were a she, played the part well.

  He said, “I’ve a long drive ahead of me. But not so long that I can’t drop you at the end of your lane. In London, it would be thought discourteous not to ask.”

  For an instant, yearning loomed in the child�
�s eyes, and was ruthlessly squashed.

  “I know,” he said with resignation before the lad could speak. “I’m a stranger. But you do know my name, after all, and you know I called on Captain Standish. And that I’m from London. Enough to scrape acquaintance for five minutes of driving?”

  The temptation was too much, and that worried him. The child was desperate to ride in the big London motorcar, torn about her mother’s strictures—and he understood them very well, now—possibly even fearing a whipping if the news got home somehow.

  If not Rutledge’s motorcar, someone else’s might come along . . .

  He said, intentionally harshly, “Look, my lad, I’m being kind. Nothing more. And you might as well know one other thing about me. I’m a policeman. Scotland Yard.”

  The expressive eyes, dubious and beginning to send signals of flight to the limbs, stared at him.

  “Constable Neville can vouch for me.” He let in the clutch, allowed the motorcar to move a few inches. “Come along. Or not, as you like.”

  She was across the road like a rabbit, before his hand could touch the brake. He leaned across and opened the passenger door, listening to the growl of disapproval from Hamish, just behind him.

  Leaping in with that boyish grace, she settled in the seat without looking at him, waiting for him to drive on.

  He was suddenly amused. Her theory of safety was that he could do her no mischief as long as he was fiddling with the mysteries of driving. Amusement passed into pity.

  “What’s your name, lad?” he asked, watching her face as she leaned into the movement of the motorcar.

  “Jim,” she said roughly.

  “You mentioned strangers. See many of them about, do you? I’m looking for a friend of mine—he drives a green motorcar. I’d planned to have lunch with him today, but he was late and I couldn’t wait any longer.”

  He slowed and threw the motorcar into reverse, surprising a smile and buying himself a little time.

  She said, “A few strangers come this way. Usually they’re lost. I haven’t seen another motorcar today. Not even a green one.”

  There was the slightest emphasis on motorcar, as if she had seen someone on foot or a bicycle.

  “Who was passing by as you came along?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. A man.”

  “What did he look like?”

  She shrugged again. He wondered if she had stayed well back, worried about being seen and discovered.

  He purposely gunned the motor, sending the big touring car leaping down the road, and she hastily suppressed a squeal of surprise and delight. And then she was jabbing her finger toward a lane just ahead, turning off to his right, and she was out of the door as soon as he’d slowed enough for her to get down safely.

  Sack in hand, she bucketed down the tangle of dry weeds and brambles that filled the overgrown lane, and vanished around a bend that made him wonder if she would stop just out of his sight and look back. If only to be sure he’d not try to follow.

  He drove on, giving her a brief salute from the horn before disappearing from her line of sight.

  She was safe enough now. At least he thought it very likely. From two older brothers, never mind that they were buried in France, she had learned well how to be man of the house.

  He drove on. Jim. Jem? Jemima? Beatrix Potter, Jemima Puddle-Duck. Quick thinking, that. Or had she been named for the stories? They were very popular.

  It didn’t matter. Someone would know.

  Rutledge stopped at the police station in Burling Gap, on the off chance that Neville was still on duty. But there was only the small night lamp burning on a table by the door.

  However, light shone from the windows of the house next door, indicating that someone was at home, and he knocked. They would surely know where to find the constable.

  The man himself answered the summons, surprised to see Rutledge standing on the doorstep, saying with alarm, “Is there anything amiss, sir?”

  “No, sorry, I’ve been driving through the countryside to learn the roads. How many men can you raise to search for a missing bicycle?”

  “Missing?” he repeated. His suspenders were down, his shirt open. Wafting from the kitchen in the back of the house came the smell of frying sausages and potatoes. It reminded Rutledge that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  “If Wright took the motorcar, he didn’t walk all the way there. There must have been a bicycle. Where is it?”

  Neville looked back in his memory, then said, “There wasn’t one in the stable, sir. Well, not one anyone could use.”

  “Then where did Wright leave it?”

  Neville cleared his throat. “I’ll have a half-dozen men out in the morning. We’ll search the park at the house, and any rough land around the village. But, sir, we still can’t be sure how the Rector knew the motorcar was there and the Captain wasn’t. It’s a long way to go on the off chance that he could take the motorcar without being caught. Mrs. Donaldson is a fragile link.”

  “He wasn’t likely to stumble across it. He had to know where to look for it,” Rutledge agreed.

  “I’ll send word to Constable Brewster if we find anything. Is there anything else, sir?” Suddenly aware of his suspenders, Neville pulled them back in place. A woman’s voice called from the nether regions. Neville flushed. “My neighbor offered me dinner. I had nothing in the larder, and I accepted.”

  Rutledge had intended to ask about the child he’d met, but almost at once thought better of it. There were other ways of finding out, and the last thing he wanted to do now was draw attention to her presence on the road or what she might or might not have seen. The woman in the kitchen could be a gossip.

  “No. Go and enjoy your dinner. Good night.”

  On his way back to the pub, Rutledge heard Hamish stir in the rear seat of the motorcar, where he usually sat while Rutledge was driving.

  Or so it seemed, when the voice spoke in his head. He often felt that he need only turn a little to see the dead man sitting there. But of course that was nonsense. And yet, driving alone in the night, he could almost feel the presence at his back, the deep Scots voice itself had such reality to him.

  “Yon Rector,” Hamish was saying. “It’s no’ in his character to take another man’s property just for a lark. But it wasna’ a sudden decision—he must ha’ planned it verra’ carefully. What drove him to do sich a thing?”

  “A good question,” Rutledge answered aloud, then swore. Yet it was a habit he’d found very hard to break. “If he was meeting someone else, who was it?”

  “It might be as well to ask yon housekeeper if there was anything that worrit him.”

  “I’ll call in at the rectory.”

  But it was far too late for that. Mrs. Saunders had either gone early to bed or left for her sister’s house before it grew dark, for there were no lamps lit in any of the rooms that he could see as he turned in by the church. In the moonlight, he glimpsed gravestones in the churchyard, outlined by the pale light. Their familiar shapes marched in irregular rows across the grass, punctuated here and there by bulkier darkness where a handful of table tombs reminded him of tanks in the company of infantry. And then a shadow moved across the face of the moon, casting the graveyard into darkness. After a moment, he reversed and went on down to the pub.

  The room he was shown to was adequate—large enough not to be claustrophobic, windows overlooking the back garden and what appeared to be a pen for chickens. He nodded to the middle-aged man who had taken him to have a look at it, and asked, “Do you serve dinner?”

  “Yes, sir. Pub fare, you understand.” He was apologetic. “The kitchen is still open.”

  Thanking him, Rutledge washed his hands, cleaned the mud from his shoes, and went down to the small dining room. It had been separated from the bar by a thin partition, and he could hear the drone of conversation and laughter from the other side, although not the words.

  A couple sat at a table across from the door, older, dressed f
or an occasion, for she was wearing a pretty cameo pin in the frothy lace of her collar, and her hat was trimmed in fur, but of a style that was prewar. His collar was stiff and new. Next to the partition, two commercial travelers had their heads together, talking earnestly. Rutledge chose the table by the window, farthest from the drifting tobacco smoke, heavy and stale, that also found the partition no hindrance.

  A woman came out from the kitchens and greeted him, handing him a menu. He thought she might be the wife of the man who’d shown him his room, for she was about the same age and she wore a wedding band.

  “I’m Josie,” she added with a smile. “Would you care for anything from the bar?”

  “Not tonight,” he said.

  “Then I’ll leave you to make your choice.”

  Both of them turned as the door opened and a well-dressed woman stepped in and looked around at the other diners. She hesitated as if uncertain what to do.

  Josie said brightly, “We’re busy tonight,” and went to greet her, showing her to the table across from Rutledge.

  “I’ll just have tea at the moment,” the newcomer said in response. When Josie had disappeared through the kitchen door, she sat back, trying to appear at ease.

  Waiting for someone, Rutledge thought, and uncomfortable at being the first to arrive. She was quite attractive, wearing a dark blue walking dress with a white collar. It appeared to be the latest fashion. A pert hat was set on her carefully arranged dark hair. Slender, an educated voice, blue eyes.

  Not the sort of woman who was likely to be staying at a pub, or was even accustomed to dining in one.

  When her pot of tea came, she poured it, then looked up, a tentative smile on her face that quickly faded as the man who had shown Rutledge to his room stepped in and went to the table where the commercial travelers were seated. He said a few words, the younger of the two nodded, and he withdrew, shutting the door after him.

  Rutledge had given his order and was halfway through his vegetable soup when the woman across from him got up, stepped out of the dining room, then after a few minutes returned. Josie, carrying a fresh pot of tea to the older couple, stopped and asked the woman if she was ready to order. With obvious reluctance, she did.