Racing the Devil

by Todd,Charles

  She couldn’t do much, her shoulder was still hurting, but he’d reasoned that helping him might make her disappointment less painful.

  When it was done, he thanked her, held out his hand, and solemnly shook hers, careful of her scrapes.

  “Can you find your way home from here? I can see the lane, not more than twenty feet away. I’ll watch you go.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t need to have you watch. I can find my own way home.” She paused. “You won’t tell my mother, will you?”

  “She’ll see the bruises and scrapes.”

  “I’ll tell her I fell out of a tree in the orchard. I always climb the trees there—”

  She broke off as a shot rang out in the night’s stillness, and Rutledge didn’t need to ask what it was. A revolver. And the sound had come from the house.

  Standish. Had he killed himself? Like Cedric Russell? He’d sent the staff away. He’d seen Rutledge leave . . .

  He ran for the driver’s door. “Go home,” he told Jem sternly. “Go in and lock the door. Do you hear me?”

  “What was it? A shot? But who’s shooting at this hour?”

  “It doesn’t matter. The Captain cleaning his revolver. I’ll have a look. Now run.”

  This time she didn’t argue. As he was reversing to return to the house, he could see her moving as quickly as her stiffening body could manage. She would hurt tomorrow.

  As soon as she reached the lane, he was gunning the motor a second time in a matter of minutes, back to the drive, and up it to the door.

  Leaving the motor running, Rutledge got out and, ignoring the brass knocker, pounded at the wood.

  “Standish?”

  “I’ve got a shotgun. Come through that door, and you’re a dead man.”

  “Standish, it’s Rutledge. Don’t be a fool.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then he could hear Standish drawing the bolt and opening the door.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Standish demanded. “Inside. Shut it. Now.” He was still holding the shotgun.

  Rutledge did as he was instructed, shoving the bolt home as Standish gestured with his weapon.

  “The drawing room. Stop at the door.”

  Rutledge walked to the doorway and looked inside the pretty room.

  A vase lay shattered on the carpet, and broken glass was scattered under the window.

  “He missed,” Standish said in fury. “I don’t know how, he had a perfect target.”

  He broke the shotgun and set it against the wall. “Did you see anyone as you came up the drive?”

  “No—”

  Jem.

  Rutledge turned to Standish. “I’ll have a look.”

  “You aren’t armed.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  He ran to the door, swore as he was stopped by the bolt, and fumbled at it before he had it open.

  Rutledge had always had a very good sense of direction. He didn’t waste time driving back to the road, but on foot cut across the lawn and into the trees, heading in the general direction of the lane.

  His mind was focused on the girl, out in the dark alone while a murderer was on the loose. That added wings to his fear.

  He was never sure later what had warned him—the sixth sense that had kept him safe all through the war, or some slight sound. He had been running in a direct line, and now he altered that, slightly to his right, thinking to head Jem off.

  The shot was almost point-blank, and he ducked reflexively, but he had already heard the whisper as it flew past his ear.

  Jem was safe for now. The killer was still here. There would be enough time for her to reach her cottage safely.

  Cursing himself for not bringing his torch, he swerved in the direction he’d seen the muzzle flash, and was almost on the man. But the shooter dodged to the left and set out again, Rutledge no more than twenty paces behind.

  Then Rutledge lost him in the hedge alley where the shadows were deeper.

  He heard him to his left and turned toward the sound, tackling the man moving fast toward the first line of trees.

  They went down hard, and a shotgun went off nearly in their faces.

  “Standish?” Rutledge said.

  “What the hell are you doing, Rutledge?”

  “I lost him in the hedge alley. I thought you were in the house.”

  “So I was, until I heard the second shot. I swear I saw him heading this way.”

  Rutledge helped the man to his feet but kept the shotgun. “Is the other barrel loaded? Right. Go inside. Stay there until I come back.”

  “Like hell I will—he missed me by inches. I want him as badly as you do.”

  But it was too late now. They listened and cast about for several minutes. The shooter had gone.

  “He’s in a hurry,” Rutledge said. “He’s no longer willing to wait to set up a motorcar crash; he’ll kill you now, any way that he can.”

  They turned back toward the house, and Standish stopped by Rutledge’s motorcar. “Where did that bicycle come from?”

  “It belonged to Wright, I think. It was—”

  He was saved from answering by a scream, high-pitched and terrified.

  Standish whirled, looking back the way they had come.

  “It’s the child of one of your tenants. I’d swear to it. Which way? Hurry, man.”

  “Follow me.” In the dark, the park was treacherous underfoot, brambles and vines catching at their feet as they ran. They reached the bottom of the lane, and some thirty paces on they could see the flint cottage belonging to Jem’s mother.

  The door was wide open, lamplight spreading down the steps and across the edges of small gardens outlined with stones, marking the path.

  They reached the door at the same time, and Rutledge stepped inside. Jem’s mother was lying on the floor.

  “Oh God.” Standish was across the room, kneeling beside a slim fair-haired woman. There was blood on her face and in her hair from a blow to the head. “Mrs. Meadows? Can you hear me?”

  Rutledge knelt beside him, searching for a pulse. “She’s alive,” he said. “Where’s her daughter?”

  They searched the small cottage, Standish calling the girl’s name. “If you’re hiding, it’s all right to come out now. It’s Standish, Jem. And Rutledge. You’re safe.”

  But Jem didn’t come out from behind the bed or under the kitchen table. They looked into the back garden, calling again.

  “He’s taken her.” Rutledge cursed himself for not seeing her home, knowing it still wouldn’t have been enough to save her. Whoever it was had come here, to the cottage, and attacked her mother to get at Jem.

  “Why?” Standish asked as he hurried back to the front room and knelt again by Mrs. Meadows. “I don’t understand.”

  “I expect it was because she’d seen his face. I don’t know of any other reason why he would come to the cottage.” But how had he got here? And how had he taken the girl away? In the dark green motorcar that Trotter had been searching for?

  Rutledge went to the pump and drew water in a small copper pot, found a towel in a cupboard drawer, and brought them back to Standish. “Stay with her—if she wakes up, see what she has to say. I’ll search for her daughter.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he left, moving up the lane at a fast trot, searching for Jem. Or her body. He could remember that scream, terrified, chilling.

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  19

  He reached the road without any sign of Jem and turned back toward the Standish drive. Stopping only long enough to untie the bicycle, he left it by Standish’s door.

  And he began to search, driving this road and that, making his way toward the village, driving the streets, quiet at this hour of the night. He got out, took his torch, and quartered the churchyard, then went to the dark rectory and circled it.

  Where else? The Downs. There were sheep
pens here and there, but it was empty land, no place to put a child. The cliffs overlooking the sea . . .

  Rutledge ran for his motorcar, and driving fast, came to the headland. It was too dark to see a body down there. Even against the white of the chalk, the shadows were confusing, their shapes strange and unlikely.

  He searched Belle Tout, then went to find Constable Neville.

  The constable was washing up after his evening meal, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He listened intently to Rutledge’s account of the missing child.

  “Jem Meadows? Everyone keeps an eye out for her. There’s no one here who would harm her, much less her mother. Jem’s lost her brothers and her father, a plucky little thing, and even here in the Gap, we admire her spirit.”

  Rutledge put his hands up, rubbed his eyes, then dropped them. “She has to be somewhere.”

  “I’ll call out every able-bodied man, and we’ll search. Speak to Constable Brewster. He’ll do the same in his patch.”

  Rutledge wasted no time. Back in East Dedham, he went in search of Constable Brewster. He found the man by the pub, coming out after having a beer. Explaining what he needed, he said, “How do you summon people at a time like this?”

  “Rector rang the church bell.”

  “Then let’s be about it.” They hurried to the church, and Rutledge, torch in hand, found the ropes to the bells tied up in the tower. Too high to reach, to keep them out of the hands of children and mischief makers.

  He found the table where the booklets about the church and other pieces of literature were kept, swept them to one side, and between them, Rutledge and Brewster carried the table to the tower.

  “There must be an easier way. Rector would have known.”

  “There’s no time to search,” Rutledge told him, and climbed up. He caught the bell ropes, and leaping down, he gathered them in his hands and began to pull them.

  He’d seen bell ringers, pulling down on the ropes in a long motion, then letting go. He tried that, and first one bell and then the next began to toll. Not in an orderly fashion, but regular enough to bring the village men in a hurry.

  Brewster went outside to wait for them, and soon Rutledge could hear voices as people gathered. Brewster began to explain what had happened, and then he sorted the gathering crowd into search parties.

  Barnes came down from the rectory, willingly joining one of the groups. By this time, Rutledge had abandoned the bell ropes and was outside, adding to what Brewster had said.

  “Whoever he is, he’s armed, dangerous. And the child is at his mercy. If you see anything, use caution—keep watch, and send one of your number to find me. If she’s found, we’ll ring the bells again, to bring you back in. Good luck. Find lamps, torches, rope—anything you might need—and take it with you.”

  “There’s the cliffs,” a voice from the crowd asked. “What about them?”

  “I’ve looked. It’s too dark and too far down to be certain of anything. Let’s pray we find her anywhere but there.”

  He watched them sort themselves out as Brewster gave them instructions. This surely isn’t the first time they’ve done this, he thought.

  For they were starting out in an orderly fashion, silent and intense.

  Rutledge had no choice but to wait in the pub for reports, wishing himself out in the field. But these men knew the ground, they could cover it more thoroughly than he could alone, and someone had to hold the fort in the interim. That someone had to be him.

  Mrs. Saunders came, sat with him for a time, and then brought him a whisky from the bar.

  “You’ve not had much sleep of late,” she said, handing it to him. “You’ll be grateful for a bit of courage to see you through the night.”

  He knew she was right. But who could have done such a thing? Where was this elusive sergeant, and why had he taken Jem?

  Absorbed in his thoughts, he slowly realized that Mrs. Saunders was talking to him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “My mind was with the searchers.”

  “Not a bit surprising.” She nodded. “I was just saying, it’s a good thing it’s not rain coming down in sheets. If they keep moving, they’ll stay warm enough.”

  “I should have thought to send blankets with them. She’ll be cold. Jem.”

  “It would only slow them down. They’ll tend to her, when she’s found, you needn’t worry about that. Most of them have children of their own.” She chuckled. “I see you know she’s a lass, and not a lad. Rector wasn’t happy about that, but he said it was safer for her. She’s as footloose as her brothers. Gave the Bishop’s man quite a start the other night, coming out of the cemetery. It was late, he’d just come in, and there she was bowling out of the gate on a bicycle, he said. I didn’t know she had one. I expect the Captain gave her one to keep her out of mischief.”

  “It was the Rector’s. The bicycle. She found in the orchard at Four Winds and didn’t tell anyone. Not even her mother. At least I think it’s his. I’ll bring it in for you to have a look.”

  “It’s a wonder she didn’t break her neck on the thing. It’s much too big for her.”

  “It belongs to the rectory, if it was Wright’s. Perhaps you can convince Barnes to ride it.”

  She chuckled. “That one? Not very likely. Besides, he has his own motorcar.”

  Rutledge turned to her. “He what?”

  “He has his own motorcar.”

  “He wasn’t driving it the day he came here.”

  “That’s true. He went to see the Bishop and he brought it back. It’s kept in the shed behind the rectory.”

  His mind was working fast, now, Hamish alive at the back of his mind.

  “What color is it?”

  “A pretty dark green. You can see your face in the paint, it’s that shiny.”

  Barnes? Who once ran a mess hall in a barn in France? Damn the man. Right under his nose.

  “He’s the Bishop’s man. Do you ever remember him calling on the Rector before? Sent down by the Bishop?” he asked her.

  “The Bishop usually sends Mr. Ferris to attend to church matters. An older gentleman, quite nice. But I expect he couldn’t spare him for this long a time.”

  Hellfire and damnation!

  Rutledge was on his feet, heading for the door. “Stay here. If they find her, sound the horn on my motorcar. I’ll be back.”

  She said, “You haven’t finished your whisky.”

  But he was gone without answering. He took his torch from the front seat of his motorcar and set out for the rectory at a run. Rounding the house, he found his way to the shed set well behind the house, beyond the gardens, the clotheslines, and the coop where once there were chickens.

  The hinges on the shed doors were rusty, but he shoved them open and stepped inside, turning on his torch.

  There sat the motorcar, a rich dark green, just as Mrs. Saunders had told him. He stared at it for all of a minute, praying that it was what he had been searching for ever since he’d seen the scratches on Standish’s boot and wing. He walked into the shed, stopped at the bonnet, and shone his light on the gleaming paint of the right and left wings and two undamaged headlamps.

  He went closer, examining the headlamps first. He would have sworn one was newer than the other.

  Turning to the wings, he ran his hand over them. Smooth as glass, the finish as perfect as it had been when the vehicle was on show for prospective buyers.

  Or was it? Was there a slightly different texture in the wings?

  He touched the doors, went back to brush his fingers over the boot, and did the same for the top of the motorcar. Then he went back to the wings.

  He would have wagered that it had been repainted, and very recently. But only the wings, he thought. There was a thickness on both of them that wasn’t quite the same as the layer upon layer of paint that the factory could apply, let dry, buff, and apply again.

  Imagination? Wishful thinking?

  Hardly evidence. Yet.

  He felt the win
gs again, looking for something else this time. Roads in England were abominable—loose chippings, trailing tree branches, and overgrown hedgerows were just a few of the hazards a driver faced. And the tiny pits where the paint had met with chippings were missing.

  He did the same with the headlamps. The struts that held them in place, large as they were, were rough on the left side, new and smooth on the other.

  He’d been right.

  But where had Barnes gone to have this bodywork done? Certainly not to Trotter. The local man had no facilities for repainting a motorcar, even if he could have replaced the headlamp. What’s more, he would know he was aiding a man wanted for murder.

  Brighton, then? London? Back to the factory? Where no one would have heard about motors being run off the road, their drivers killed, and a murderer could make up any story to satisfy curiosity.

  Not even Sergeant Gibson, who appeared to have endless resources when it came to tracking down obscure bits of information, would be able to find out where the work was done without taking endless hours and numbers upon numbers of men knocking on doors, asking questions of mechanics over half of southern England.

  Barnes had taken a grave risk, hiding the motorcar away in the shed under their noses. Taking it out only when he felt it was safe. Rutledge himself had never seen it. It hadn’t been left out front when the man arrived that first day. But Barnes had brought it here at some stage.

  Neither Brewster nor Neville would suspect the Bishop’s man, dark green motorcar or not.

  But where was he, the real Bishop’s representative, who must have been sent to deal with the death of the Rector of St. Simon’s? Was he also dead? Or had Barnes somehow seen to it that word never reached the Bishop that Wright had been killed? Come to that, why had Barnes stayed so long in East Dedham?

  Rutledge had no time to consider that. Jem was still missing, and only Mrs. Saunders was waiting at the pub for any news from the men out searching.

  Shutting the shed door on the motorcar, Rutledge hurried down the sloping lane to The Sailor’s Friend.

  As he was walking, Hamish said, “Ye didna’ recognize the sergeant in yon photograph.”

  It was true. But the sergeant had the shapeless haircut of the ranks, and all that could be determined looking at his features was that he had a high forehead. His eyes were in shadow, and there was nothing that would set him apart from half a hundred other men. Barnes’s hair now gave him the appearance of a gentleman who went regularly to his barber, and his manner was that of an educated man. Even his voice was upper middle class, his way of carrying himself that of a man of means. His clothing fit the image as well. If he wasn’t the Bishop’s representative, how had he come by clerical attire?