Watchers of Time (40 page)

But there was little chance of her overtaking Walsh. She’d exhaust herself first, and go home. Still, it was his duty to stop her, bring her back to Osterley, and ask Mrs. Barnett to keep an eye on her.

Time was running out, and time just now was very precious.

“It’s a gamble, either way,” Hamish agreed. “If she runs afoul of Walsh, there’s trouble. For her and for you. If Blevins canna’ stop the Strong Man, and Walsh kills again while you’re distracted by this woman, it’s on your head.”

It
was
a gamble.

Rutledge made his choice. The most certain outcome of a night of turmoil was losing Walsh. Once the man was safely out of East Anglia, he had every prospect of staying free. He must have laid plans—

Striding through the darkness back to his own car, Rutledge’s mind outpaced his feet.
What would he himself
do, in the Strong Man’s shoes? How would he use this one
carefully crafted opportunity?

Hamish answered, “Aye, it was well done, his escape. I canna’ believe he’d leave the rest to chance.”

“No.”

Walsh had apparently been a friendly and popular showman, whatever darker shades of his nature lurked beneath the smiling surface. The success of his act had depended on pleasing the public. “Step up, ladies, and test the Strong Man for yourselves. . . . See, here’s a bench, and all you have to do is seat yourselves at either end. . . . Don’t be afraid, you’re as safe as a babe in arms, I won’t drop you. . . . Who’ll wager a bob to see if the Strong Man can pull this carriage as well as any horse. . . . All right, lads, who among you wants to lift the Strong Man’s Iron Hammer. . . .”

There must be colleagues he could turn to, someone who would offer him temporary shelter, money to move on—and silence. It was, by necessity, a closed fraternity, this showman’s world. People who traveled from place to place to earn their living put down no roots, and counted on the goodwill of their own in place of family. Many of them had had scrapes with the law, and they’d believe Walsh when he claimed he was innocent. The police were a common enemy.

A closed fraternity also meant that not even the redoubtable Sergeant Gibson at the Yard had a ghost of a chance to trace him once Walsh disappeared into it. Big as he was, he could still vanish. The key was to stop him before he reached that safety.

Rutledge bent to turn the crank and then got behind the wheel of his motorcar. But if the object of this exercise was to block Walsh’s escape, the question became
How?
Cutting across country as he was, he could be anywhere.

Hamish said, “What precipitated his escape?”

“At a guess, he chose tonight because Franklin was on duty—young enough and naive enough to be gulled. Innocent or guilty, men of Walsh’s ilk don’t rely on justice to set them free. Blevins and his people made no secret of the fact that they were eager to see Walsh hang. Or— perhaps he wanted to find out for himself that Iris Kenneth was alive.”

“No man would choose to die by the rope,” Hamish reminded him.

Rutledge turned west. It was instinct and not reason that guided him now. Somewhere before Hunstanton on the north coast, Walsh must pick up the road to King’s Lynn. Key to the rest of England.

Inland from the coast road were a hundred hills and meadows that would provide better cover. But on the other side of the coin, estates like Lord Sedgwick’s and villages like East Sherham would block Walsh’s path, forcing him slightly north . . . toward the road.

Hamish was swift to remind Rutledge that he was counting on unadulterated luck.

Yet Rutledge had the strongest feeling that if he drove as far west as the turning for Burnham Market, and then began to follow the tangle of roads that led back to the east from there, he might just have that stroke of luck. . . .

The sky was lighter now; he could no longer see his face reflected in the dark windscreen. And—thank God—never Hamish’s.

He scanned the horizons, eyes only half on the road.

A horseman silhouetted against the horizon wouldn’t attract much attention. But Walsh would be no ordinary horseman. He was a huge man on a large, heavy mount, blundering through fields and across plowed land, depending on his sense of direction to keep him heading west. He risked stirring up sheep and their guardian dogs—and eventually someone was bound to see him.

The marshes on Rutledge’s right were dark expanses of grass and shadow now, caught for an instant in his headlamps and then gone. A badger ambled along the road, picked out by the light, and scuttled into the underbrush around a small clump of trees. A night bird swooped across his path, and eyes followed his passage, gleaming for the space of a heartbeat, and then vanishing in the grasses. This was no place for a man . . . and Walsh hadn’t been bred to the marshes. They would be a barrier.

He would avoid them.

Another seaside town ghosted into view, straggling along the main road, rising out of the marshes before turning toward the vanished sea.

A uniformed constable stood at the turning, watchful and alert. The message from Blevins, then, had traveled this far west. Rutledge raised a hand, slowing so that the man could see he had no one else in the vehicle. Except Hamish . . .

The constable saluted as Rutledge passed.

The early morning was cool, but he was grateful for the freshness of it, keeping him awake. The tires bumped on the uneven surface of the roadbed and clattered over a small bridge. Buildings loomed and then were gone, trees spread heavy branches over the road, casting deep shadow. From time to time he saw other constables walking the streets or, a straggle of men with them, cutting across country toward outlying farms, poking into hay bales, searching outbuildings, scanning the ground with torches for tracks.

Ahead was the turning Rutledge was watching for. A church marked it, stark against the sky, malevolent and dark and secretive, huddled beside the road.

Hamish said, “Yon church is no’ a comfort in this light. Small wonder that half the world is superstitious! The night changes shapes and conjures specters in the shadows.”

Rutledge thought,
Better them than you . . .
He could drive past the rest of them, secure in the knowledge that they wouldn’t follow—

He headed south now, then turned a little east, passing through village after village, his eyes scanning the fields and peering into the light mist that was rising in the shallow valleys.

A horseman could pass unseen in its folds. He stopped and scanned the white sea. Later, wishing for his field glasses, he studied one valley with care, but there was only a cluster of thornbushes along a stream, in the haze bent like the backs of hiding men. From time to time there were other constables stationed at crossroads, or climbing through the sheep toward an outbuilding on the side of a hill.

Wending his way from road to road, still following his instincts, Rutledge traveled in a zigzag back in the direction of Osterley. Down this road—turning here—only to turn back again—all the while searching, making the connection and deciding as he ran through sleeping villages where that war-honed intuition might carry him next.

It required patience, and a mind focused and determined. Tiring, he stopped once and rubbed his eyes with cold fingers, wishing for a pot of tea and twenty minutes of rest. His nerves, tautly stretched to their limit, kept him awake at the same time they drained his reserves of energy.

And all the while, Hamish doubted Rutledge’s intuition and his decisions.

If Rutledge was wrong—if Walsh
had
gone directly south—then Blevins’s counterparts would be in need of every man available to widen their own search. But
were
they having any better luck?

And when full daylight came, what were Walsh’s chances then? How close would he be to Norwich, if that was his goal?

Thinking of Norwich brought Monsignor Holston to Rutledge’s mind. A priest who searched for shadows outside his window as night drew on, and listened to the creaking of his house, afraid of something he couldn’t identify.

Like Sims . . .

What would Monsignor Holston feel if he knew that the man accused of killing Father James was on his way to Norwich? Fear? Or acceptance—

But there were no horsemen riding out in the dawn in this part of the county, save for a farm boy kicking the sides of a horse twice his size as he made his way across a stream.

By breakfast, Rutledge had circled back as far as the Sherhams—now all too aware that he’d wasted the hours, wasted his energy, and for what? Nothing.

Had Walsh passed him just over the crest of a hill or behind a screen of trees, or lost in the shadows that collected in the mists along small streams bisecting the land?

A bitter thought. And Hamish, as tired and grim as Rutledge was, seconded this honest indictment of his abilities.

“You arena’ the man you once were. You havena’ come to terms with yoursel’, nor wi’ Scotland—”

And yet Rutledge would have sworn, if asked, that he’d been right in his decision to work back from the west.

Another thought struck him—had Walsh already been captured?

No. Rutledge had seen constables still guarding the roads west, and at the junctions running through villages. He’d seen men searching—

And Walsh would have seen them, too. As the day brightened, he might even go to ground.

The intuition he prized so highly was failing him. Rutledge accepted the truth: One man alone in a motorcar bound by the roads had no chance to work a miracle when Walsh had the flexibility of so much space.

And today luck was favoring a fleeing man who must be as weary as his pursuers, and as determined, but with Fortune—or Fate—on his side.

CHAPTER 21

BETWEEN THE SHERHAMS AND OSTERLEY, RUTLEDGE’S fatigue swept over him like a heavy blanket.

It was Hamish who shouted the warning, barely in time to prevent the motorcar from heading straight off the road into a ditch that ran with black water.

Rutledge pulled carefully to the verge and rubbed his face. The autumn dawn had broken, drawing long golden shadows across the road and among the trees, and the flickering of light and dark had mesmerized him before he had even realized it.

He took out his watch and looked at it. Most of Osterley would be at breakfast now, and the searchers straggling in like lost sheep, ready to sleep before going out again.

But it would be useless. Blevins had been stubborn— and wrong.

Walsh wasn’t in Osterley. The man was well away, on the road to Norwich, watching his back and praying that the next dip in the land didn’t bring a police blockade into view, choosing their spot where the twisting road allowed no escape, even for a man on horseback. If he had ridden the mare hard, as her owner, Randal, had feared, he would have made good time. If he’d handled her with some care, she could take him a long way in the morning light. Hunched on the saddle, his head drooping in weariness, his profile would be different. . . .

Rutledge put the car into gear again and drove several yards farther, where he could stop safely and sleep for ten—twenty—minutes. He thought of trying for Osterley and his bed, but the exhaustion went too deep.

Hamish was saying something about duty, but Rutledge didn’t hear him, wasn’t paying any heed. He slumped between the door and the seat, where his head would be cradled, and was already falling heavily into merciful sleep.

A horn blew loudly—once—twice—a third time. Rutledge came up out of waves of blackness, confused and unable for an instant to remember where he was or why.

Another car was coming up behind him, slowing, voices shouting at him.

Fighting off the last dregs of sleep, he sat up and tried to focus on what they were saying.

It was Blevins, who pulled alongside. “For God’s sake, wake up, man! What are you doing out here? Where have you been? I’ve had half of Osterley searching for you!”

Rutledge cleared his throat. “I was driving back to Osterley when I nearly ran off the road. What’s happened? Have you found Walsh?”

“A report came in just half an hour ago, and I wasted fifteen minutes hunting for you. Get in, and I’ll tell you on the road. Constable, take the Inspector’s car, will you, and follow us.”

The constable got out and started toward Rutledge’s motorcar. In an instant of absolute panic, Rutledge found himself saying, “No! I’ll follow you—”

He couldn’t leave Hamish in the rear passenger seat,
with a stranger driving the car—

“Don’t be bloody-minded! Constable, do as I say.”

But Rutledge was wide awake now, well aware that where he himself went, Hamish would follow. Yet in that wild half-world between waking and sleeping, he had responded out of habit—
Hamish
always occupied the rear
seat. . . .

As Blevins took over the wheel, Rutledge turned his own motorcar over to the grinning constable. Coming around the boot, he noted the bicycle lashed to the back of the motorcar Blevins was driving. The Inspector snapped, “Hurry, man!” and barely waited for Rutledge to close his door before the car was off down the road at speed.

“That’s Jeffers, from Hurley. It’s a town southeast of the Sherhams. He was sent to bring me back to where they’ve found a body. Some fool thinks it could be Walsh, but I can’t for the life of me see how he came to be
there
.”