by Charles Todd
Reaching Teller, he went down on one knee, feeling for a pulse. It was faint, fluttering. Rutledge swore silently. He shoved his handkerchief into the wound in Teller's chest, pressing against the warm flow of blood, willing it to stop. As the handkerchief was soaked, he flung out his other hand, trying to find something else to add to it. And Mary reached for the table's cloth and was down beside him, frantically adding the pressure of her hands to his.
They worked for several minutes, but Walter Teller's breathing slowed, caught, then stopped altogether.
Rutledge rocked back on his heels, easing his shoulders.
"No-don't stop," Mary cried.
"He's dead," Rutledge told her, but she wouldn't hear of it, begging him to find something else she could use, and when he wouldn't, she screamed at him, her voice a shriek that sounded like Jake's, wordless and primeval.
And then over her scream, he heard the faint choking sound that preceded a long indrawn breath, and Teller was breathing again.
Mary collapsed over Teller's body, telling him that she hadn't meant for him to die, begging his forgiveness. Rutledge picked up the revolver and put it in his pocket. He felt drained, but his mind was already setting out what had to be done next. He found sheets in the bedroom and tore them into strips, rough bandaging of a sort. And working swiftly, he moved the woman aside, leaving her huddled in a corner, crying, as he ripped the buttons from Teller's shirt and set about keeping the man alive.
The sun was just showing over the horizon when Mary Brittingham got to her feet. The first rays struck the front of Sunrise Cottage and illuminated the faded red door.
She looked down at Teller, still unconscious but alive.
Turning to Rutledge, she said, "Will you give me the revolver? I'll write anything you wish me to write. But I don't want to hang."
"You've killed two people. It was nearly three. A court will have to set this to rights. I can only do my duty."
"And if you let me be tried, Harry will be branded a bastard. Everyone will know. That's worse. We can end this here, quietly. A lover's quarrel People will wonder at it, then forget us."
"Susannah Teller will want to see you hang if you killed Peter and tried to kill her. I've got to take you to Constable Satterthwaite, and bring a doctor back here with me. It's been a long night. Don't make it any longer."
"All right." She seemed resigned to her fate, her face lined with fatigue and grief and despair. "Will you at least let me make a cup of tea? I don't think I can endure the rest of this without it."
"No. Did you have a coat?"
"I left it in the parlor, I think." She looked down at Walter Teller. "I wish I'd never come. But I didn't want him to go to the gallows in my place. At least cover him with something. A blanket from one of the beds upstairs."
Rutledge stooped to retrieve the bloody cloth from the table to spread it over Teller. And at the same instant, Mary Brittingham made a lunge for the revolver in his pocket.
It was well out of her reach. He had seen to that. But she was driven by something stronger than muscle and bone. Her will carried her across the distance, and her hand gripped the metal just as his clamped down over it.
There was a struggle. She was unbelievably strong, and it took every bit of his own strength to turn the weapon toward the wall as she managed to pull the trigger.
The second shot went into the ceiling before he could force the revolver out of her hands and shove her hard as far away as he could.
She hit the wall with a force that knocked the wind out of her, and for an instant she stared at him with such venom he took a step backward. Before she could recover, he'd emptied the chamber and pocketed the bullets.
Taking her arm, he led her out of the house and to his motorcar. The seats were wet after the rain, but she let him put her into the passenger door. He turned the crank, got behind the wheel, and happened to see a long shaft of sunlight touch the roofline of the house where Mrs. Blaine had lived.
There would be another woman for the hangman now.
Hamish said as Rutledge backed into the road, "There's her motorcar. Down the road. 'Ware."
Rutledge saw it, and pressed hard on the accelerator. It didn't deter her. Just in time, he caught Mary Brittingham's arm as she tried to open the passenger's door and throw herself out of his vehicle as it gained speed.
"Not this time," he said.
Pulling her back, he kept a firm grip on her arm.
"I will succeed," she told him through clenched teeth. "In the end, I will cheat the hangman."
And he had a feeling that she would.
But not on his watch.
Chapter 33
It was a miracle that Teller lived. Dr. Blake, who was brought out to attend him, said as much. "Lost blood, the internal damage. He'll not be up and about for weeks."
"His family is in Essex."
"They could be on the moon for all I care," the doctor snapped. "The hospital here in Thielwald will do very well."
But who, Rutledge thought, would come to sit by his side? Not Susannah. Nor would Amy leave Edwin. Leticia? Perhaps.
He sent telegrams to the Yard and to Inspector Jessup. And five days later he left Lancashire and pointed the bonnet of the motorcar south at last.
There had been a great deal of time on his hands during those five days. He had sat by Walter Teller's bed or walked the streets of Thielwald, and spent an hour or two with Lawrence Cobb one afternoon.
But when he was free to leave at last, he knew what he was going to do.
And despite the fury that was Hamish in his mind, he grimly kept his eyes on the road.
There were times when he thought about Florence Teller.
Driving all night, he came into London in a light rain, mist hanging heavy over the Thames as he turned toward his destination.
Hamish said, "Ye're no' fit to do this."
It was true. He was unshaven, his clothing wrinkled and stained with Walter Teller's blood. Mrs. Greeley had done her best with a damp cloth and an iron, but it was still there. Even if he couldn't see it, he could feel the stiffness along the edges of his cuffs.
But there was no time to worry about that. He was nearly certain he was already too late.
Pulling up in front of the house in Chelsea where Meredith Channing lived, he sat for five minutes in the motorcar, searching for some sign of life. Proof that this hadn't been a wild-goose chase.
And then he got out, feeling the cramps in his muscles, determined to know.
He had knocked at the door before he realized how early it was, how foolishly early.
But to his surprise, Meredith Channing opened the door herself. He only had time to notice that she was dressed for travel before she said, "Ian. What's wrong?"
He could think of nothing to say. And then, "I've just returned from a case in the north," he managed finally.
"I must finish my packing," she said, looking up at him, her eyes filled with an emotion he was too tired to read. "My train leaves in an hour."
"Don't go," was all he said then.
She shut the door without answering him.
As he walked back to the motorcar, he could feel her gaze on him from the window of her parlor.
He didn't turn.
He had said what he'd come to say.
The decision must be hers. a cognizant
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