Todd, Charles (15 page)

"As to that, sir, if you're in Somerset, you won't be in London before one o'clock. I was present when Chief Superintendent Bowles told the inspector to make haste back to the Yard. Though he didn't say why, of course."

"I understand. Thank you, Sergeant."

"I do my best, sir." And Gibson was gone.

Hamish said, "Ye canna' reach London before noon."

"I can if I leave now," Rutledge answered.

"It's no' very wise—"

"To hell with wise."

In a hurry now, Rutledge strode out of the sitting room and went in search of Hunter, making arrangements for a packet of sandwiches and a Thermos of tea to be put up at once.

"I'll be away this evening. Hold my room for my return, please."

"I'll be happy to see to it. Er—did you find Mr. Quarles?"

"Yes, thank you," Rutledge answered, and went up the stairs two at a time. He took a clean shirt with him and was down again just as Hunter was bringing the packet of food and the Thermos from the kitchen.

The long May evening stretched ahead, and he made good time as he turned toward London. The soft air and the wafting scents of wild-flowers in the hedgerows accompanied him, and the sunset's afterglow lit the sky behind the motorcar. When darkness finally overtook him, Rutledge was well on his way. But a second night without sleep caught up with him, and just west of London, he veered hard when a dog walked into the road directly in his path.

The motorcar spun out of control, and before Hamish could cry a warning, Rutledge had crossed the verge and run into a field. Strong as he was, he couldn't make the brakes grip in the soft soil, and then suddenly the motorcar slewed in a half circle and came to an abrupt stop as the engine choked.

His chest hit the wheel and knocked the wind out of him, just as his forehead struck the windscreen hard enough to render him unconscious.

It was some time later—he didn't know how long—that he came to his senses, but the blow had been severe enough to muddle his mind. His chest ached, and his head felt as if it were detached from his body.

He managed to get himself out of his seat and into the grass boundary of the field.

There he vomited violently, and the darkness came down again.

The second time he woke, he thought he was back in France. He could hear the guns and the cries of his men, and Hamish was calling to him to get up and lead the way.

"Ye canna' lie here, ye canna' sleep, it's no' safe!"

Rutledge tried to answer him, scrambling to his feet and running forward, though his legs could barely hold him upright. He must have been shot in the chest, it was hard to breathe, and where was his helmet? He'd lost it somewhere. He shouted to his men, but Hamish was still loud in his ear, telling him to beware.

He could see the Germans now, just at that line of trees, and he thought, They hadn't told us it was that far—they lied to us—we'll lose a hundred men before we get there—

Despair swept him, and Hamish's accusing voice was telling him he'd killed the lot of them. And the line of trees wasn't any closer.

The machine gunners had opened up, and he called to his men to take cover, but this was No Man's Land, there was no safety except in the stinking shell holes, down in the muddy water with the ugly dead, their bony fingers reaching up as if begging for help, and their empty eye sockets staring at the living, cursing them for leaving the dead to rot.

Rutledge flung himself into the nearest depression, but his men kept running toward the German line, and he swore at them, his whistle forgotten, his voice ragged with effort.

"Back, damn you, find cover
now.
Do you hear me?"

He dragged himself out of the shell hole and went after them, but they were determined to die, and there was nothing he could do. He watched them fall, one by one, and he tried to lift them and carry them back to his own lines, but his chest was aching and his legs refused to support him. He could hear himself crying at the waste of good men, and swearing at the generals safe in their beds, and pleading with the Germans to stop because they were all dead, all except Hamish, whose voice rose above the sound of the guns—cursing him, reminding him that each soul was on his conscience, because he himself was unscathed.

"Ye let them die, damn you, ye let them die!"

It was what Hamish had shouted to him the last time they'd been ordered over the top, and the young Scots corporal, his face set in anger, had accused him of not caring. "Ye canna' make tired men do any more than they've done. Ye canna' ask them to die for ye, because ye ken they will. I'll no' lead them o'er the top again, I'll die first, mysel', and ye'll rot in hell for no' stopping this carnage."

But Rutledge had cared, that was the problem, he'd cared too much, and in the end, like Hamish, he had broken too. He could hear the big guns firing from behind the lines as the Germans prepared for a counterattack, and firing from his own lines to cover that last sortie over the top. The Hun artillery had their range now, and he struggled to get what was left of his men to safety.

He'd had to shoot Hamish for speaking the truth, and that was the last straw—his mind had shattered. Not from the war, not the fear of death, not even the German guns, but from the deaths he couldn't prevent and the savage wounds, and the bleeding that wouldn't stop, and the men who lived on in his head until he couldn't bear it any longer.

Hamish's voice had stopped, and he knew then that he'd killed the best soldier he had, a good man who was more honest than he was— who was willing to die for principles, while he himself obeyed orders he hated and went on for two more years killing soldiers he'd have died to save.

Someone was grappling with him, and he couldn't find his revolver. His head was aching, blinding him, and his chest felt as if the caisson mules had trampled him, but instinct was still alive. He swung his fist at the man's face, and felt it hit something solid, a shoulder, he thought—

Hamish had come back
—

His breath seemed to stop in his throat. Hamish's shoulder, hard and living, under his fist. If he opened his eyes—

A voice said, "Here, there's no need for that, I've come to help."

And Rutledge opened his eyes and stared in the face of Death. He slumped back, willing to let go, almost glad that it was over, and longing for silence and rest.

The farmer grasped his arm. "Where are you hurt, man, can you tell me?"

Rutledge came back to the present with a shock, blinking his eyes as the light of a lantern sent splinters of pain through his skull.

They were going to truss him up in that contraption, and hang him in the tithe barn—

And then the darkness receded completely, and he said, "I'm sorry—"

The farmer gruffly replied, "There's a bloody great lump on your forehead. It must have addled your brains, man, you were shouting something fierce about the Germans when I came up."

Rutledge shook his head to clear it, and felt sick again. Fighting down the nausea, he said, "Sorry," again, as if it explained everything.

"You need a doctor."

"No. I must get to London." He looked behind the farmer's bulk and saw the motorcar mired in the plowed field. His first thought was for Hamish, and then he realized that Hamish wasn't there. "Oh, damn, the accident. Is it—will it run now?"

"There's nothing wrong with your motorcar that a team can't cure. But I didn't want to leave you until I knew you were all right. There's no one to send back to the house. I saw your headlamps when I went to do the milking. You're not the first to come to grief in the dark on that bend in the road."

Rutledge managed to sit up, his eyes shut against the pain. "There's no bend—a dog darted in front of me, I swerved to miss him."

"A dog? There's no dog, just that bend. You must have fallen asleep and dreamt it."

It was a dog barking that had brought Padgett to the tithe barn... "Yes, I expect I did." He put up a hand and felt the blood drying on his forehead and cheek, crusting on his chin. It was a good thing, he thought wryly, that he'd brought that fresh shirt with him.

He heaved himself to his feet, gripping the farmer's outstretched hand for support until he could trust his legs to hold him upright.

"I'm all right. By the time you get your team here, I'll be able to drive."

"Drive? You need a doctor above all else."

"No, I'm all right," he repeated, though he could hear Hamish telling him that he was far from right. "Please fetch your team. What time is it? Do you know?"

"Past milking time. The cows are already in the barn, waiting."

"Then the sooner you pull me out of here, the sooner they can be milked."

The farmer took a deep breath. "If that's what you're set on, I'll go. I don't have time to stand here and argue."

He tramped off, a square man with heavy shoulders and muddy boots. As the lantern bobbed with each step, Rutledge felt another surge of nausea and turned away.

Without the lantern, he couldn't see the motorcar very well, but as he walked around it, it seemed to be in good condition. The tires were whole, and the engine turned over when he tried it, though it coughed first.

Hamish said, "Ye fell asleep."

"I thought it was your task to keep me awake. We could have been killed."

"It was no' likely, though ye ken your head hit yon windscreen with an almighty crack."

Rutledge put his hand up again to the lump. It seemed to be growing, not receding, though his chest, while it still ached, seemed to feel a little better. He could breathe without the stabbing pain he'd felt earlier. His ribs would have to wait.

"It was pride that made you drive all night. To reach London before yon inspector."

He and Mickelson had had several run-ins, though the chief cause of Mickelson's dislike of Rutledge had to do with an inquiry in Westmorland last December.

"Aye, ye'll no' admit it," Hamish said, when Rutledge didn't reply.

The farmer was back with his horses, and the huge draft animals pulled the motorcar back to the road with ease, the bunched muscles of their haunches rippling in the light of the farmer's lantern.

"Come to the house and rest a bit," the man urged when the motorcar was on solid ground once more. "A cup of tea will see you right."

Rutledge held up the empty Thermos. "I've tea here. But thanks." He offered to pay the man, but the farmer shook his head. "Do the same for someone else in need, and we're square," he said, turning to lead his team back to the barn.

Watching the draft animals move off in the darkness, the lantern shining on the white cuffs of shaggy hair hanging over their hooves, Rutledge was beginning to regret his decision. But he could see false dawn in the east, and he would need to change his clothes and wash his face before finding Penrith.

The drive into London was difficult. His head was thundering, and his chest complained as he moved the wheel or reached for the brakes. But he was in his flat as the sun swept over the horizon. He looked in his mirror with surprise. A purpling lump above his eye and bloody streaks down to his collar—small wonder the farmer was worried about his driving on.

A quick bath was in order, and a change of clothes. He managed both after a fashion, looking down at the bruised half circle on his chest where he'd struck the wheel. His ribs were still tender, and he suspected he'd sustained a mild concussion.

Nausea stood between him and breakfast, and in the end, after two cups of tea, he set out to find Quarles's former partner. There was a clerkjust opening the door at the countinghouse in Leadenhall Street, and Rutledge asked for Penrith.

"Mr. Penrith is no longer with this firm," the clerk said severely, eyeing the bruise on Rutledge's forehead.

Rutledge presented his identification.

The clerk responded with a nod. "You'll find him just down the street, and to your left, the third door."

"Are any of your senior officials here at this hour?"

"No, sir, I'm afraid not. They'll be going directly to a meeting at nine-thirty at the Bank of England."

Rutledge followed instructions but discovered that Mr. Penrith had not so far arrived at his firm at the usual hour this morning. "We expect him at ten o'clock," the clerk told Rutledge after a long look at his identification.

It took some convincing to pry Penrith's direction out of the man.

Armed with that, Rutledge drove on to a tall, gracious house in Belgravia. Black shutters and black railings matched the black door, and two potted evergreens stood guard on either side of the shallow steps.

The pert maid who opened the door informed him that she would ask if Mr. Penrith was at home.

Five minutes later, Rutledge was being shown into a drawing room that would have had Padgett spluttering with indignation. Cream and pale green, it was as French as money could make it.

Penrith joined him shortly, standing in the doorway as if prepared to flee. Or so it appeared for a split second. When he stepped into the room, his expression was one of stoicism. He didn't invite Rutledge to sit down.