by Charles Todd
The question was, how well had Nancy Brothers looked in the ruins?
They were on his way, and it would take no more than ten minutes to be sure. He drove there, got out, and made his way through the tumble of stones in the thick grass, a snare for unwary feet. He had to keep his mind on what he was doing, but he reached a slight depression where two of the larger stones formed a sort of wedge. He hadn’t come this far in his earlier exploration, and it was a place he would have chosen if sleeping rough. Well protected without being a trap. The nights were warm enough, and the weather had been dry. Russell had been lucky on that score. Squatting, he looked at the flattened stems. And watched an ant busily dragging away a tiny crumb of bread. Just outside he saw the pit of a plum, where it had been cast aside.
Satisfied, he rose and scanned the terrain. Then he walked back the way he’d come, to the road.
He found Jessup leaning against the wing of his motorcar, arms crossed.
“What’s so interesting about yon ruin?” he asked, his voice neutral.
“A habit of mine, looking at ruins,” Rutledge said easily. “My godfather happens to be an architect.”
“Is he, now?” Jessup asked, insolently measuring Rutledge with his eyes.
“When did the church burn?”
“When it was struck by lightning.”
“How old was it?”
“Old enough for the timbers to be dry.”
And that, Rutledge thought, must be true.
He walked past Jessup and bent down to turn the crank.
“On your way back to London, are you?”
“Not until I find the man who killed Ben Willet and tossed his body into the Thames.” He straightened and went around to open the driver’s door.
“He was killed in London. Not here. You should be looking there.”
Rutledge corrected him. “He was put into the river in London. But is that where he was killed?”
“Ben hasn’t been in Furnham since the war. You can ask his sister.”
“Perhaps he tried to come and was waylaid. When was the last time you were in London?”
Jessup’s eyes narrowed. “None of your business.”
“I can make it my business,” Rutledge told him, his voice harsh now. “And before you make a decision to take me on, speak to Sandy Barber. He’ll tell you it isn’t worth your while.”
He got into the motorcar, and Jessup put his hand on the other door, then thought better of it. He stepped away, and Rutledge drove on.
“A dangerous man,” Hamish said, echoing Morrison. “He likes playing the bully.”
“Because no one ever had the courage to face him down.”
At the Rectory, Rutledge stopped and pounded on the door. There was no answer. The door was unlocked and he looked inside, but there was no sign of a struggle, and the remains of breakfast for one still sat on a table in the corner facing the back garden.
Where, then, was the rector? Called to a sickbed? And what had become of Russell? Frowning, he stood outside for a moment. It would be hard to explain another disappearance in Furnham. Whatever the police had concluded in 1914.
Hamish said, “Were ye’ o’er hasty last night? Did he come later than expected?”
It was possible. Possible too that after his own breakfast, Morrison had taken one to the house for Russell, since it was too far for Nancy Brothers to venture.
He had just reached the Furnham road when he saw the rector bicycling furiously toward him from the direction of River’s Edge. Morrison hailed him frantically, and Rutledge waited at the crossroads for him to come within speaking distance of the motorcar.
“I can’t find the Major,” he called. “Do you have him in custody? Or has he gone away? Back to London?”
“I haven’t arrested him. Or anyone else. When did you see him last?” Rutledge waited, giving the rector time to catch his breath and interested to see how he would explain himself without admitting to speaking to Russell in the church last night. But Morrison answered without prevaricating, indicating no confession had taken place after all.
“He came to the church last evening, quite catching me by surprise, and we talked. Why didn’t you tell me he was in Furnham?” Without waiting for an answer, Morrison went on. “He was in a shocking state, and I didn’t know who he was at first-the scratches on his face, all the blood on his clothing-he looked like a scarecrow. But he explained about the motorcycle and why the police were hunting for him. He also told me about the clinic. To tell you the truth, I can’t see that it’s doing him any good.”
“Where did he go when he left the church?”
“I took him to the Rectory. He needed a bath, a shave, and a night’s sleep. But he couldn’t sleep. After pacing for an hour or more, he came to my room and asked if I’d bring him some food this morning to the house. I didn’t think it was a very good idea for him to leave in the middle of the night, and I told him so. He promised to reconsider. But five minutes later, I heard the door open and close. I got up and looked out the window, and he had set out on foot-to River’s Edge, or so I thought. But he’s not there. And I’m worried.”
“What time of night was it when he left?”
“I don’t know. A little after one o’clock, I suspect?”
But Rutledge had waited until well after two.
“How long would it take Russell to reach the house, if he took a shortcut through the marshes?”
“I’m not sure. At a guess, no more than half an hour? I’m really not very familiar with the marshes. Walking around in all that tall grass makes me claustrophobic. Forty-five minutes if he went by the road. What ought we to do?”
“Leave your bicycle here. I’ll drive.”
Morrison hesitated, then set the bicycle by the side of the road before joining Rutledge in the motorcar.
“Which door did you try?”
“He told me to come around to the terrace overlooking the water. He’d be waiting for me there. But he wasn’t. The door was ajar, I thought he was inside, that tired as he was, he might still be asleep. I called several times, and then went to look for him. I disliked walking in unannounced, I can tell you. Still, I searched, and there was no indication that he’d slept in a bed. I left as quickly as I could, to find you.”
They drove in silence until they had reached the gates. Rutledge said, “We’ll leave the motorcar outside.”
It was easy to see that Morrison had been here this morning. A new path had been beaten through the undergrowth. But then the rector hadn’t been concerned with being seen.
Rutledge led the way, and when they reached the terrace, he pointed to the edge of the lawns. “If you’ve searched the house, then we should begin with any shortcut the Major could have taken.”
“That looks promising. See over to the left of that stunted tree? I should think you could make your way in just there.”
They walked to the stunted tree. “Ah-someone has been through here, and fairly recently. Those broken stems haven’t withered in the morning sun.” Rutledge touched one of them.
“Haven’t they? No, you’re right. Although I should think it was a dog that came through, not a man.”
“Let’s see how far in it goes.”
“Perhaps I should wait out here. In the event you can’t find your way out again.”
Rutledge stepped into the thick grasses that quickly yielded to reeds. He was a tall man, but the fronds moving in the light breeze were chest-high in places, and several times brushed his face. For a while he believed he was following where someone had walked before him, and then twice lost the trail and had to cast about to find it again.
Morrison called anxiously, “Anything?”
“Nothing.”
“Perhaps he decided to go back to the church ruins. It was closer. And he was used to it.”
“I was just there. So was Jessup. But not the Major.”
He moved on, using his sense of direction to guide him toward the road he couldn’t see, keeping
the water on his right.
He’d gone perhaps three hundred yards into the grass when he realized that the track no longer led anywhere. Stopping, he looked about.
“I’ve been following a false trail,” he said aloud, irritated. “There must be another way in.”
Hamish answered him. “Nearer to the drive?”
“Yes, very likely.”
Morrison called, “What have you found? Who are you talking to?”
Rutledge shook his head and began to make his way back, trying to follow the bent grass stems that had marked his progress. A hare broke cover just in front of him, tearing off in a zigzag before darting into a thicker clump of reeds and disappearing.
He changed his mind after some ten yards, and cut toward the water, where he thought it might be less confining. Once more he had to force his way through, but he did find that a muddy water line where the river lapped into the weeds provided damp but easier going. It turned out to be better than the original track he’d taken. Once back at the lawns, he could start again.
Coming to a thin stream, drainage that fed into the river, he saw that just beyond was a larger inlet where the river had eroded the land. Swearing, he realized that to ford it, he would have to wade. There was nothing for it but to strike out inland once more. He quickly discovered that he would be wiser to follow the inlet a short distance or fight his way through a thicker stand of reeds.
The print of a boot in the soft earth warned him that he wasn’t the first to come this way recently. It was very like the one he’d seen on the floor of the garden room, but not sharp enough to be definitive.
Casting about for more, he found the Major some ten paces farther on.
Russell was lying on his side, curled into a fetal position, as if he had been in great pain, and Rutledge could see the spread of a bloodstain on the back of his coat.
He shouted to Morrison and bent over the body. It was cold to the touch as he reached out to roll the Major onto his back. And then Russell groaned, without opening his eyes.
“My God, is he alive?” Morrison asked, starting toward Rutledge.
“Go to one of the sheds. Find something we can use to bring him out. He’s bleeding and in a bad way. Be quick about it!”
Rutledge was already ripping open the man’s shirt to get a better look at his wound. And it was a gunshot wound to the chest. High enough not to kill straightaway, to the side where the ribs might not have protected the lung. There was a chance. Slim, but they had to hurry.
There was no doctor in Furnham, and Rutledge doubted that Tilbury could deal with such a wound. London, then. If Russell could be kept alive that long. And that appeared to be very doubtful.
Morrison came finally with a heavy horse blanket, struggling through the marsh grass, losing his way once but grimly persevering. His face was flushed and set from the effort. They got Russell onto it and managed between them to carry him as far as the lawns.
Bent over, his hands on his knees as he fought for breath, Morrison said, “We’ll never make it to your motorcar. Just the two of us?”
“We have to try,” Rutledge said bleakly, and they lifted the corners of the blanket again. The overgrown lawn was easier, but the drive was daunting.
Russell wasn’t a light man. They were both breathing hard and sweating heavily by the time they reached the gates, their coats left where they dropped them, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow. The grass and thick undergrowth of the drive seemed to be diabolically intent on making every step twice as difficult as it should have been.
Collecting himself, Morrison said, “We’ve probably killed him. I’m afraid to look.”
“Out there where I found him, he’d have died regardless. This is the only chance he has.” Rutledge hesitated, conscious of Hamish’s firm grip on the rear seat, and then he said, “In the back with him. Are you coming? I can’t make good time without you.”
“Yes, of course.”
It took precious minutes and an energy they no longer possessed, but in the end Russell was settled in the motorcar, supported by Morrison.
Rutledge ran back to retrieve their coats and then they set out for London.
M iraculously, Russell was still alive-and still unconscious-by the time they had reached the nearest hospital of any size on the outskirts of the city.
Hamish was saying, “Ye ken, the first time he wasna’ hurt. This time…”
His voice faded as Rutledge sprinted into Casualty and brought nurses and a wheeled examining table back with him.
As the medical staff took over, Morrison sank into the nearest chair. “My God,” he said. “I don’t know when I’ve been so completely exhausted. Do you think he’ll pull through? Or at least wake up long enough to be questioned?”
Rutledge, pacing the floor, said, “I’d give much to find out who shot the man.”
“Don’t ask me,” Morrison said. “You’re the policeman.”
“He’s been lying there for hours. Possibly since the middle of the night. Or else someone came to the house this morning. From the look of the wound, my guess is last night. The blood in his clothing had dried a little.”
“I didn’t hear a shot fired.”
“You wouldn’t, indoors, if the wind was the other way.” Nor had he, Rutledge thought, which meant that it must have been fired after he’d left River’s Edge.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right-” Morrison broke off as a doctor came through the door where Russell had been taken, glanced around, and then spoke to Rutledge.
“You’re the man who brought in the gunshot victim?”
“Inspector Rutledge. Scotland Yard. Yes.”
“Dr. Wade. It’s not as bad as it could have been. Dehydration. Loss of blood. Damage to the ribs, the left lung nicked. Somehow the bullet missed the major arteries, and he’s got a fair chance of surviving. What happened?” He looked the two men up and down. Rutledge realized that he and Morrison were in a sorry state.
“We don’t know yet. We found him in the marshes up the River Hawking. I’d like to speak to him. Is he awake?”
“We’ve already given him a sedative to help with the pain. I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t find the bullet?”
“No, it went straight through. But judging from the wound, my guess is that it was a. 45 caliber. An inch either way, and he’d be dead. What’s more, he was shot in the back. Cowardly thing to do.”
Rutledge said, “It was dark. And a warm night. He was wearing his coat, unbuttoned-it was that way when I found him. In the high grass he’d have made a very poor target at any distance. How long ago? Could you tell us roughly when he was shot?”
“From the clotting around the wound, I’d guess around three in the morning. Give or take an hour. He was cut and scraped as well. An earlier accident, was it? Or a drunken brawl?”
“He ran a Triumph into a ditch.”
“Yes, that fits.”
“Major Russell also suffered a head wound in the war. He’s sometimes confused.”
“I noticed that as well. He’s lived a charmed life, the Major has. I don’t think he’ll be riding his Triumph again anytime soon. With that head wound, he really shouldn’t be riding one at all.”
Rutledge indicated Morrison. “This man is the Major’s priest. I should like to leave him here, in the event that Russell comes to his senses and can describe his attacker. Will you see to it that Mr. Morrison is allowed to stay with him at all times?”
Morrison was on his feet, about to protest. “I’m needed-Mrs. Barber-”
“In good time,” Rutledge finished for him. “I have to leave, but I’ll be back by late afternoon.” He turned back to Dr. Wade. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“Sorry, no. Not at this time. It’s a watching brief at the moment, with surgery a possibility if those ribs press into the lung or there’s more internal bleeding. He’s lost enough blood that I’d rather not risk costing him more. We’ll see.”
Rutledge thanked him
and left. Morrison, resigned, walked with him to the door.
“Should I ask for a constable to come in and sit with Russell? Or bring in a sister to hear whatever he has to say?”
“He’s not confessing, Rector. Either he can identify his assailant or he can’t. If he dies, we’re back to where we began. If he names someone and then dies, you’re a reliable witness.”
“Yes, I see. I must admit,” he said wryly, “I’m still a little shaken. Seminary doesn’t prepare one for police duties.”
Rutledge smiled. He cranked the motorcar and got in as Morrison hurried back into Casualty to begin his watch.
But he sat there for fully five minutes after the rector had closed the door behind him.
There hadn’t been time to go back into the house and look at the contents of the gun case.
There was also the fact that Jessup had been waiting for him at the ruins of the old church. Had he discovered that Russell had been hiding there? And had he come to gloat, because he knew that Russell was now lying in the marsh near River’s Edge? It would fit. But why should he wish to shoot Russell?
It was Hamish who answered that. “Ye ken, in the dark, he thought the Major was you.”
Rutledge let out the clutch and drove on to his flat to change his torn and bloody clothes.
He went to The Marlborough Hotel and put in a call to the Yard, asking for Sergeant Gibson.
Gibson was not at present in the building, he was told.
So much for the information that Rutledge needed.
He rang off, left the hotel, and drove back through London to the hospital where he’d taken Major Russell.
When he found his way to the ward where the patient had been transferred, he saw Morrison sitting next to the Major’s bed. Rutledge thought the rector was asleep in his chair, but as he came down the aisle, Morrison looked up. He waited until Rutledge was standing by his side to say quietly, “He was awake. Briefly. I don’t think he knew where he was or why.”
“It could be that he will recall more details later. How is he?”
“The doctors are worried about infection. Where he was lying was not helpful on that score. Damp, marshy land, and God knows what festering in it. Otherwise the wound appears to be clean enough. And they don’t believe there’s as much internal bleeding as they feared in the beginning. He has a fair chance of making it.”
