by Charles Todd
She sat there stunned, her face pale, and her hands shaking in her lap, the gloves she wore bicycling clenched into fists to stop it.
“You see, your righteous defense of your mother is all very well. But if you killed your father, you are a murderer as surely as any other murderer in the dock. Your excuse may seem important to you, but it never is enough. Death is a very final solution, Miss Parkinson, and no matter how you try to excuse it, if you took a life without provocation, you will hang as surely as the man who killed two people back at the cottages. No better, no worse. The same.”
He suddenly realized that he’d lost track of where he was, where the motorcar was heading. The darkness through which he’d spoken began to recede and nothing was familiar, nothing as it should be. But then he recognized the tower of a distant church and knew he was on the right road.
Miss Parkinson was opening her door. He braked quickly to keep her from falling out into the road.
“I’ll take my chances with the bicycle,” she said, tears on her face. “I should never have trusted you to keep your promise.”
Rutledge said, “You were the first to speak, if you remember. You were the one who said I didn’t understand.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve had enough,” she said, getting out as the motorcar came to a stop.
“Go look at yourself in your mirror, Miss Parkinson. And ask yourself if your mother will be avenged by letting your father be buried in a pauper’s grave. It will be on your soul and not hers, if that’s what you do.”
He brought out her bicycle for her and set it on the road.
She took it, mounted, and pedaled off, her shoulders hunched, her head down.
This time he watched her go, not making any effort to stop her again.
Hamish said, “It wasna’ well done.”
“I think I’ll stay here a while, and see who comes back. Sarah Parkinson or her sister.”
He pulled the motorcar to the verge, staring across the fields at the rooftops of the next village, trying to interest himself in the people there. But all he could think of was what he’d said to the young woman disappearing in the distance.
It was all true. But who was he to judge her? Who was he to set his torment against someone else’s and make comparisons? He’d known Sarah Parkinson for a matter of days. It wasn’t his place. It wasn’t his duty.
He waited some time, thinking she might come back this way. It was useless trying to talk to Sarah when her sister was present and he could see no point in continuing on to Pockets to confront the two together.
Rutledge drove back to the inn, abandoning his decision to drive to London. He couldn’t remember the last meal he’d eaten, but he wasn’t hungry.
Upstairs in his room he stood by his window, looking out at nothing that was visible.
Hamish said, “What if you’re wrong about Singleton?”
“Then I’m wrong. The drawings were not Willingham’s style. I’ll stand by that.”
“Aye. But of the lot, there’s the man with the birds.”
“There is. If I’m wrong about Singleton, then I shall have to look at Quincy more closely. It isn’t his style either.”
“Ye’re no authority on drawing. There’s a darkness in him.”
It was true. He’d grasped his jeweled treasures in desperation, and he kept them with him because they were a talisman, in his eyes. Without hope, men go mad…
Small feathered defenses against the family that didn’t want him and enemies that wanted to see him dead.
Which brought Rutledge back to Parkinson. Two men, Madsen and Deloran, had tried to use his body for their own ends. Parkinson’s two daughters refused to claim it. And until they did, the case couldn’t be closed.
There were heavy clouds in the sky, shortening the day, and as the light faded, Rutledge considered turning on his lamp. And then decided against it.
Three lorry drivers were pulling in as another edged his vehicle back on the road. The men called to their departing colleague and then walked toward the inn, looking for food and something to drink. One of them was the man Rutledge had defeated at darts. Laughing, they made their way through to the bar.
In the distance he thought he saw a flash of lightning, but he could hear no thunder afterward. If there was a storm, it was far to the west still.
Hamish said, “Ye canna’ sit here in the dark and pity yoursel’.”
It wasn’t pity but a need for peace, he thought. In a little while, he would have to decide what to do next.
He hadn’t seen Sarah Parkinson pass along the road again on her way to her house. He thought it odd, by this time, unless she had decided to wait out the storm with her sister.
Rising, he went down the stairs and started through the door. One of the drivers was leaving, his lorry backing out of the yard and moving off down the road. Rutledge watched him go, then set out on foot for the White Horse. All was well there, lamps lit in the cottages belonging to Miller, Quincy, and Mrs. Cathcart, and a thin trail of wood smoke rose from her chimney. Singleton’s cottage was dark. Then Slater came up from the village and went in his door.
The White Horse offered ambient light, and Rutledge walked its lines, as he had done with his father. Then he turned and went back to the muzzle, standing there watching the sky.
He thought it was nearly simultaneous, the flickering of fire he could see in Willingham’s windows and Brady’s. Then Partridge’s were suddenly bright, with Singleton’s not far behind. They were burning—
Rutledge raced down the hill, shouting for Slater and Quincy, but he knew it was useless. The five of them could do nothing to stop the cottages from burning.
He cursed himself for not bringing his motorcar, then remembered that Partridge’s was in the shed next to the house.
Slater finally came to his door to see what the commotion was about, and Rutledge pointed. The smith turned to stare, then wheeled back to Rutledge.
Rutledge shouted, “Partridge’s motorcar. Go for help, fast as you can.”
Quincy had heard the shouting and came out to look. Then he was back inside, his door shut.
Hamish said, “He’ll protect the birds.”
Mrs. Cathcart answered his knock and was frightened when she saw the smoke and flames. Miller came out just then and swore as he realized that his house was in danger.
Rutledge knocked on Singleton’s door, and waited, then opened it and went inside.
It was burning as well, but there was no sign of the ex-soldier.
Where had he gone?
Partridge’s motorcar kicked over on the third try, and Slater was backing out, on his way to Uffington. Rutledge took Mrs. Cathcart with him, and called to Miller to come down as well, but he stubbornly stayed where he was. Quincy was occupied in the room where he kept his collection, and Rutledge pushed Mrs. Cathcart through the door, saying, “Help him.”
It would keep her busy.
That done, he began to run toward the inn, thinking about his own motorcar standing there in the yard. Singleton was no fool. Under the cover of the fire he must have slipped away, and his best chance of putting some distance between himself and any pursuit was to go fast and far.
The motorcar was still in the yard when Rutledge, his heart hammering and his lungs burning, reached the inn. He wouldn’t have put it past Singleton to take it. Another of the lorries was pulling out, and he shouted to the driver to wait. He was ignored. There was still one of the lorries left and he dashed inside, calling to Smith. But he stopped short in the bar.
Two lorry drivers were still there—and only one vehicle remained in the yard.
He said, forcing the words out, harsh and curt, “There’s a fire at the cottages. Take your lorry to Uffington, pick as many men as you can and bring them back to help.”
The drivers were on their feet, heading for the door, and then he heard shouting.
Rutledge said to Smith, “Have you seen Singleton?”
Smith shook his head. “I
’ll fetch something to drink. They’ll be needing it. Is it bad, over there?”
“The fire may spread to the occupied cottages. Tell Mrs. Smith that she may need to make up beds for tonight.”
And then he was gone, cranking his motorcar with such energy that the motor almost missed fire, then caught. His headlamps found the road as the lorry drivers demanded to know what had happened to the other vehicle. He didn’t have time to tell them.
The lorry had headed west, away from the cottages, and he followed. Singleton was having trouble keeping it on the road at speed. By the time Rutledge caught him up, he could see the rear wheels swaying as Singleton took the curves.
Rutledge swore. To stop him meant finding a stretch where he could get ahead and block the road. He ran through the map in his mind, seeing where the bends would slow Singleton down, where he could gain time on the straightaway.
Singleton went through the next village far too fast, scattering people and brushing past a cart stopped at an angle in the road. The cart went winding, and someone cried out in pain.
Rutledge slowed, keeping Singleton in sight but trying not to hit anyone in his path. And they were out into the open again, moving far too fast for safety in the stormy light. Rutledge thought Singleton had a very good idea who was behind him, even if he couldn’t see the motorcar for its bright headlamps.
There was a long straight stretch, enough for Rutledge to gun the motor and make an attempt to pass, but Singleton swung the lorry into his path, and it was all Rutledge could do to keep from plowing headlong into a stone wall where the road angled to the right.
Hamish was shouting now, telling him to watch what he was doing.
“Kill us both, and he’ll go free,” Hamish reminded him.
Rutledge fell back. For the next mile or two there was a double bend, first one way, then a short interval, then the other way.
He wasn’t sure the lorry could make that at speed, but Singleton had got the hang of driving it now and in the dark made the adjustments necessary to keep his lumbering vehicle on the road, though it swayed dangerously, the load it was carrying sometimes shifting with the curves.
The road was straight again, houses and a barn flashing past, a roadside pub and then a long looping bend.
Singleton wasn’t prepared for it. He swung the lorry too hard around the first part of the bend, then overcompensated as he began to slip sideways on the rough surface. Dust flew up from his wheels and he lost speed as he struggled to keep himself upright.
The bend ended in another short, straight stretch, and then a copse of trees loomed ahead at the next bend. And then in the lorry headlamps a single bicyclist stood out with shocking clarity.
He had been lucky this far, Singleton had. The road had been empty and he had had the time and the strength to keep the wheel under control. But his first reaction as he saw the bicycle was to swerve, his tires failed to grip, and the side and rear of the lorry began to slide inexorably toward the oncoming bicycle.
It was like slow motion. Rutledge could see the bicycle, and then as the lorry slowly lost traction, it blotted the rider from view. The scream of the brakes was almost human, and like a juggernaut the lorry moved on, across the road now, blocking it from verge to verge. In the glow of the headlamps the bicycle rose in a gleaming silver arc, rising above the truck like a winged thing, and then the silver faded and it was lost to view.
Rutledge was braking with all the power of his arm, knowing it wasn’t going to be in time, that either the bicycle could catch him or he would slam at speed into the side of the lorry.
He fought the wheel, heard the bicycle crash into something just to the left of him, and saw himself sliding too, this time sideways, and his brakes could do him no good.
Somehow Rutledge managed to gun the motor at the last, forward momentum clashing with his sideways slide.
He wound up in a field by the road, came to a jarring stop, and was out of the motorcar while it was still rocking heavily.
The lorry was crashing into the wood, trees snapping as the weight of the vehicle mowed into them, metal rending with a high-pitched whine that was earsplitting.
He couldn’t see what had become of the rider, and his greatest fear was that whoever it was had been caught beneath the lorry wheels and dragged.
Suddenly everything was quiet.
From the verge of the road he heard a whimper, and went quickly toward it, cursing himself for not bringing his torch. There wasn’t a light for miles, it seemed, except for the lorry’s headlamps and his own.
She was lying in stubble and high grass, and he stumbled over a stone and nearly went headfirst into her.
He and Hamish saw her at the same time.
It was Sarah Parkinson, and she was badly injured. He thanked the gods wherever they were that she was still alive, and knelt beside her. He didn’t know what had happened to Singleton and he didn’t care.
His hand touched blood, wet and warm at the side of her head, and then as he ran his hands down her body, he could feel the odd angle of one arm. Broken, he thought, but the head wound was more serious.
She moaned as he touched her, and he was afraid to move her until he knew the extent of her injuries.
Another motorcar was coming from the east, and Rutledge stood up, not sure that the driver could see the lorry and his motorcar in time to realize what had happened. He moved to Sarah Parkinson’s feet, prepared to wave off the other driver, but the motorcar slowed, then stopped.
“Is anyone hurt?” It was a woman’s voice, frightened but steady. “Hello?”
“Over here,” Rutledge called. “Bring a torch, or fetch mine from my motorcar.”
The driver got out and ran toward Rutledge’s motor, rummaging for the torch. Rutledge had a fleeting thought about Hamish, from long habit.
She came racing back, nearly tripping on the rough ground, torch in hand, flicking it on and shining it inadvertently into his face.
She stopped. “Rutledge? What’s going on?” she demanded, as if he had staged the accident to throw her off stride.
He said, “It’s your sister. I don’t think the lorry struck her, but she’s here on the side of the road, one arm broken and a cut on her head. If there are internal injuries—”
Rebecca was beside him, pushing him away, shining the light on her sister’s face.
“Sarah? For God’s sake—Sarah.”
She began to work quickly, but there were tears spilling down her cheeks now and her voice began to quiver as she talked to her sister.
There was no response.
“I’ve killed her!” Rebecca Parkinson cried. “We had a quarrel, it was my fault—I shouldn’t have let her go alone in the dark—I tried to find her again—”
Her sister moaned, and Rebecca bent over her trying to cradle her head.
“Don’t move her,” Rutledge cautioned. “We don’t know the extent—you must go and find help at once. There’s a village back the way I came, no more than three miles? Four? Go there and ask if there’s a doctor.”
“I won’t leave her. It’s my fault, I tell you.”
He grasped her by the shoulders and shook her. “Hysteria wastes any time she has left. Get in the motorcar and go. There’s a murderer loose here, he was driving that lorry, and you can’t stay here alone. Go.”
She stumbled back to her motorcar and got in, pushing her foot down on the gas pedal with such force that the car leapt ahead as she turned it and he heard a wheel of the bicycle crunch under the tires. But she bumped over it and kept going, disappearing into the darkness with such abandon he wondered if she would make it herself.
He used the light to look for more injuries, and then bound Sarah’s head with his handkerchief to control the bleeding. As he moved her slightly, she cried out. Her arm or her back? He had no way of knowing.
Speaking to her quietly, he tried to reassure her, but she seemed not to know where she was or what was happening.
“A blessing,” Hamish said,
at his shoulder.
Taking off his coat he rolled it and set it under the broken arm, then ran his hands down her legs. He could feel bloody bunches of stocking, blood soaking through her skirts, but there was no indication of a break on either.
She came to for a moment, and he said, “Rebecca is here. She’s gone for help. Hold on. It won’t be long.”
“I hurt. All over.”
He tried to smile. “That’s good. It means you can feel. Stay quiet, I’ll be here.”
From the lorry he could hear the sound of a door creaking open.
Singleton was still alive.
He did nothing. Said nothing. And listened.
After a time a voice from the darkness called, “I can see you, even if you can’t see me. I’ll kill both of you if you try to stop me.”
“You aren’t my case. You’re Hill’s. Go on.” He snapped off his torch.
“You aren’t armed. I am.”
“I said, go on.”
He could hear footsteps crunching in the dirt of the road and then fading as Singleton reached the grass verge.
Hamish said, “He’ll no’ leave witnesses.”
But Rutledge remained silent, listening from where he knelt at Sarah Parkinson’s side.
To Hamish he said, “I’d swear he wasn’t armed.”
“You canna’ chance it. He’s Hill’s case. You said so yourself.”
“Yes.”
He could hear the crank turning, and then the motor came to life. The driver’s door shut. Singleton was backing Rutledge’s car into the road. He could see the sweep of headlamps across the sky.
For an instant Rutledge thought Singleton might try to run them down, but the ground was too rough just where he was kneeling by Sarah, and the risk of doing serious damage to the motorcar was obvious.
And then the moment came where if Singleton was armed, he would fire.
Does he have a service revolver?
Many of the enlisted men had brought them home as souvenirs…
The motorcar idled in the road. Rutledge held his breath, keeping his back to Singleton, making sure that he was between the killer and the girl on the ground at his feet.