by Todd,Charles
Trotter set the lamp down on the workbench, and as the light touched his face briefly, his features were cast into relief, giving them a sinister look.
“Look around you. I have a goodly number of expensive tools. A thief could sell them at a market stall in Hastings or Brighton, and who would be the wiser? And so I take precautions. Whoever it was, he came in, poked around for a time, and went out again without taking anything. And look here,” he added, leading the way to the Standish motorcar. “I left that door shut. And the mat below it is rumpled where someone stepped on it.”
He lit a third lamp so that Rutledge could see clearly that the door was now ajar, and the mat had been displaced.
“Whoever it was, he came while it was light enough to see whatever it was he wanted to see. Perhaps he had a torch with him. And I was back here by dusk. I’d left at two o’clock to drive to Seaford. I’d had a message asking me to come look at a clutch that was giving the owner trouble. I brought the motorcar here to work on it over that pit.” Rutledge turned slightly and looked at the pit by one of the windows near the rear of the building.
“That motorcar is out back, right now, if you need corroboration. I took the lorry with me. If he was watching the garage, then he saw me leave. If he wasn’t watching, he looked for the lorry and didn’t find it. It’s always here when I am.”
“How did he get in?”
“Look at this building. It’s older than my grandfather. The latch on the rear door was forced. The wood splintered. I should have replaced it long ago, but there hasn’t been enough money to do it right.”
“What was the intruder after? If he took nothing.”
“I don’t know. At a guess he was looking for something that should have been in the motorcar. It’s the only reason I can think of for opening that door. Unless it was sheer curiosity. But Constable Neville had already searched it for anything that might explain why Rector was driving it.”
It was possible. But not likely. What then?
Rutledge asked Trotter for his torch and went to the rear, where the streaks of dark green paint had been so obvious before.
“Come have a look,” he said, and Trotter walked over to where he was standing.
Someone had carefully buffed away all signs of green paint.
It was as if they had never existed.
Trotter swore with feeling.
“He’ll have done the same with his own motorcar. You can be sure of that,” Rutledge said. “He must have seen the scrapes of dark red paint and realized there would be marks on the Captain’s vehicle as well. Only three people knew about those marks. You, Constable Neville, and myself.”
“And I haven’t talked about it. You never said anything to Standish about them?”
“No. On purpose.” Rutledge took a deep breath as he passed the torch back to Trotter. “Could you tell, if someone had removed those paint marks?”
“Possibly. It depends on how well it was done. But whoever it was did a fine job here.”
Rutledge left soon afterward, and drove straight to the Standish house.
The Captain was not receiving guests at this hour, he was told by the prim housekeeper.
“I’m not a guest,” he said, and gently setting her aside, he asked, “Where is he?”
She protested, but Standish came to the staircase and started down.
“What is it, Rutledge? Is there news?”
“Just a question that has come up in the course of the inquiry.”
Standish thanked his housekeeper and led the way into the drawing room, this time offering Rutledge a seat. “I hope you’ve found out why Wright helped himself to the motorcar.”
“Not at present,” Rutledge said easily. “I’m told by someone I’ve interviewed that a dark green motorcar drove out of Eastbourne heading toward Beachy Head on the night of the storm. We’re hoping that Wright might have passed him. If so, he might be able to give us some sense of where Wright was coming from. Constable Neville doesn’t know of any motorcar fitting that description. I thought perhaps you might have friends or acquaintances who own such a vehicle?”
Standish frowned. “I know six or seven people with dark green motors. It’s a common color. But I can’t think that any one of them would have been in Eastbourne on the night of that storm. Three of them live in London, one in Surrey, one in Chichester, another in Arundel.”
“If you’ll give me their names, I’ll get in touch with them.”
“I’ve just thought of someone else. A medical man living in Eastbourne. A Dr. Wilding.”
Hiding his surprise that Standish knew the man, Rutledge said, “Is he a friend?” Was this the connection between Wright and Standish that he’d been searching for? Miss Wilding? She had said nothing about knowing anyone else in East Dedham. But then he hadn’t asked.
“No, no, I was under his care briefly. The surgeon recommended several local doctors, and I looked them up. Wilding seemed more experienced in such cases.”
“Why did you see him?”
“I told you, he was recommended.” Standish was abrupt, making it clear he was not prepared to discuss his reasons.
Rutledge had no official cause for insisting. But he thought he knew. The missing hand.
Before he left, Standish gave him the list of names.
Looking them over, he asked, “Have any of these people visited you in the past two or three months?”
“I haven’t seen any of them in the past year. With the exception of Wilding, of course. Nor have they visited me.” He shrugged awkwardly. “I’ve not been in the mood for house parties or the like. You were in the war?” He didn’t wait for an answer, he took that as a given, because they were of a similar age. “You must know what it’s like. There are those who came home to forget, hoping to outrun the past. I’ve seen them, drinking too much, dancing all night, brittle, seeking oblivion. The rest of us haven’t found our place yet. It isn’t a world we recognize, and we don’t feel we’re a part of it. We fought for 1914, but it’s long since vanished in the smoke of guns and the blood soaking into the fields of Flanders. Wright felt the same way, I think. He avoided me, as I avoided him. We weren’t likely to sit around over a glass of whisky and reminisce.” Standish paused. “Well. That wasn’t the question you asked, was it? I intended to explain why I haven’t kept in touch, and ended up rambling like an idiot. Forgive me.”
Rutledge understood what he’d said, better than Standish realized. But he answered only “Nothing to forgive.”
He thanked the Captain and said good night.
But after he’d turned the crank on his motorcar, he stood there, staring into the night.
Hamish said, his voice carrying above the wind in the trees, “Ye ken, it’s the living and no’ the dead who know the truth. The dead still believe it was worth dying for.”
Rutledge got into the motorcar without answering. There was no answer.
He drove down the rutted drive and through the gates, turning back toward East Dedham. But he’d gone less than a hundred yards when his headlamps picked up the figure of a woman just coming out of the lane where he had dropped Jem off to hurry home. Slowing, he drew up near her and called, “Is something wrong?”
She looked to be in her late thirties, and she was wearing a coat over her nightdress.
Turning quickly away, she started back down the lane, embarrassed and wishing him at the devil. And then her need stopped her. Staying out of the brightness of his headlamps, she said, “I can’t find my—my son. He’s a young lad. Have you seen anyone on the road in that direction?” She pointed toward the way he’d come.
Trying to conceal his own rising alarm, he replied, “A boy? Sorry, no. I just left Captain Standish’s house. I’ll help you search, if you like.”
She drew her coat closer, torn. “I can’t think he’d come this far. It’s not like him. But I’ve looked everywhere else.”
“Perhaps he’s gone out after rabbits,” he offered, trying to find a reason that woul
d persuade her to let him help.
But she shook her head. “That’s not like him,” she said again. “I’m worried—”
“Mum?”
They both heard the voice at the same time. She whirled, hunting the shadows behind her, and then hurried away from the road toward the voice.
“Mum?”
“Where have you been, Jem? I’ve been worried sick. Do you know what time it is? For heaven’s sake, where have you been?”
“I woke up thinking there was a dog whining somewhere, as if he was hurt or lost. I went out to find him. I didn’t want to wake you . . .”
He couldn’t hear the rest, for they were out of earshot.
Hamish said, “It’s no’ wise for a lass to be out roaming the fields at this hour.”
But Rutledge wasn’t listening. “I smell smoke.”
The wind had veered, blowing from behind him. He got out of the motorcar, unwilling to turn and look over his shoulder, directly into the space where Hamish might have been sitting.
But he couldn’t see anything. Neither smoke nor flames. And yet the odor was so strong that he knew it wasn’t the smoke from a chimney.
He got back into the motorcar and quickly reversed, racing back to the gates and up the drive.
Coming to a rocking halt, he got out and pounded on the door.
It was the Captain who opened it.
“What the hell do you think—Rutledge? What is it, man?”
“Step out here. I smell smoke.”
Standish went out into the drive, sniffing the air, turning this way and that. “Yes, it’s coming—good God!”
Rutledge had seen it in the same instant. A growing brightness in the night sky. And it lit the billowing plumes of smoke rising above it.
“The stable. Behind the house,” Standish said, already running back into the hall to shout for help.
Rutledge didn’t wait. He turned and ran.
He got there first, realizing that the stable was well alight, and that there was nothing he nor Standish nor the servants could do to save it.
Coming to an abrupt stop, he could feel the heat of the flames on his face, and his first thought was, where had Jem been tonight? And had she done this? But why?
Behind him he could hear voices coming from the rear of the house. And the clanging of a fire bell, carrying on the night air.
Hamish shouted “’Ware!”
It was all that saved him. He could sense the blow coming, vicious and with intent to kill, and he managed to jerk away. But not far enough. Whatever it was, cold and hard, it grazed his temple and he went down, dazed, on the edge of losing consciousness, feeling the cold grass on his face as he fell.
“Get up!” Hamish was shouting. “Now!”
But he couldn’t, he was too busy fighting the spinning confusion that was pulling him down into a well of blackness.
Hamish was calling his name, and he opened his eyes. For one chilling, awful moment he thought that he could see the Scot bending over him, and flung up an arm to shut out the horror of it.
Someone caught first one foot and then the other, and began to drag him toward the blaze.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollinsPublishers
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11
Rutledge realized with a shock that he could feel hands on his ankles.
Not Hamish, then. But someone else—whoever had hit him—
He fought the darkness now, pushing it away through sheer will, knowing that if he didn’t, he was going to be burned alive.
Catching his assailant unaware, he managed to jerk his left foot free, drawing it up toward his body as soon as the grip on it slackened. And then before whoever it was could recover, he kicked hard at the shadowy figure bending toward him.
There was a grunt, half pain, half curse, and his other foot was dropped.
Rutledge struggled to rise to his knees and then stand, but he was far from steady enough. Whoever was there, that black shape he could only half see, growled like a cornered animal and shoved him backward with all his might. Rutledge could feel the flames now, far too close, far too hot, and caught at the arms pushing him. It wasn’t enough. Letting go, he aimed a blow toward the figure and struck him in the middle of his body, knocking him backward. Rutledge went down as well, and rolled.
There were others on the scene now, voices exclaiming, shouting orders.
When he scrambled to his feet and braced himself for another attack, he realized that he was alone. And as his vision cleared, Standish was racing toward him, pulling him away from the fire.
“For God’s sake, Rutledge, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Rutledge shook his head, trying to clear it, and stopped almost at once as it made him dizzy.
“Did you see him?”
“See who?”
“The man—” He coughed as the wind blew smoke over them, and Standish, one arm over his face, dragged him away from the stable.
It was engulfed, now, the old wood feeding the flames. The staff had disappeared, and he could hear them shouting as sparks wafted toward the house.
“There was a man here. I didn’t see him clearly. I don’t know if he thought I was you or wanted me. He was bent on killing one of us.”
Standish glanced at the dark spread of blood across Rutledge’s face, but he didn’t have time to worry about it. He said abruptly, “It can wait. The house—”
And he was sprinting back toward the kitchen garden.
Rutledge stood there, looking at the stable and the shadows where the fire’s brightness couldn’t penetrate. But there was no sign of whoever had attacked him.
Turning, he forced himself to race toward the house, to help if he could.
Standish was shouting orders. Other men were there now, from the tenant farms, dragging up ladders and climbing up to the roof, buckets of sand or water in one hand. Rutledge helped pass up more buckets as they were needed, until the wind veered again, and the sparks went the other way only to come hurling back soon after.
Wives and children from the tenant farms were there as well, doing what they could to help, steadying the ladders, filling buckets with more sand, more water. And behind them the stable fell in with a whoosh of sound that sent sparks flying in every direction, raising a cry of fear from the women present, and angry shouts from the men.
Early on, someone noticed Rutledge’s bloody face, but assumed he’d hurt it trying to save the stable, and a woman handed him a wet cloth to wipe the worst of the blood and soot away. But the cut where the blow had landed continued bleeding freely, sometimes blinding one eye until he had a free hand to clear it again.
It was touch and go, a good two hours or more before they could be sure the roof was safe, that the urgency had passed. Behind them the fire continued to consume the stable, but it was dying down, no longer the first shooting flames that towered into the night sky.
The cook, Mrs. Donaldson, brought out a large tray with mugs of tea and cakes she had cut into squares to go farther.
Tea was passed up to the men sitting on the roof, and others came to take theirs. Rutledge had a moment to look around at the tenants. He thought he recognized each family from the description he’d been given. Jem’s mother was there, helping drag buckets of water out of the pond and pass them on. She looked tired, a woman who had already worked through the short November day and had been robbed of sleep worrying over her daughter. And now this.
Jem was everywhere, doing what she could and avoiding any contact with Rutledge.
One of the maids was standing by the ruined kitchen garden, where busy feet had disregarded the cabbages and onions and other root vegetables still in the ground. The scent of trampled herbs vied with the heavy smell of smoke and burning wood.
“At least there were no horses,” someone was saying to Standish. “I doubt we would have been in time to get them out.”
“No.” He looked exhausted, hi
s clothes filthy from his exertions, and his hair standing on end.
The other man glanced across at Rutledge, and frowning, said, “What happened to your face?”
“Trying to save the stable,” Rutledge said as others turned to hear his response.
It was another hour before everyone went home and the women from the household had gathered up the tea things and taken them inside.
Standish was looking up at the roof, searching for any sign of smoke. Finally he said to Rutledge, who was seated on the lip of the well, “It was a near-run thing.”
“Yes.”
“How did you know?”
“I was on the road when I smelled smoke. I turned back to find out where it was coming from.”
“Yes, well, I owe you for that.”
They stood in silence for a time, and then the Captain said, “I have no idea how it got started. There’s nothing out there to cause a fire.”
Rutledge said, “It was arson. Someone set the stable alight.”
“You aren’t serious? Yes, you are, aren’t you? Who the hell would do such a thing? I can’t think why anyone would even want to do it.”
“I told you. He wanted to kill one of us. And I think the stable was a way to draw his victim out here in the dark.”
Standish frowned. “Yes, you said something—I was too worried about the house to heed any of it. But it was bad timing for it to start. The fire. We wouldn’t have noticed it until far too late to do much about it. Hardly the best way of attracting attention.”
“Or he knew I’d spread the alarm, and was hoping one of us might come running.”
The Captain shook his head. “Doesn’t make sense.” He gestured around his feet, where the grass was trampled and muddy. “The grass was high by the stable. You didn’t know the area. Are you certain you didn’t trip and fall, striking your head?”
He hadn’t imagined the blow to the head, the hands gripping his feet, dragging him toward the burning stable. But he couldn’t tell Standish that he’d been here before, in the dark.
