A Fatal Lie

by Charles Todd

“Stop—it’s Rutledge. I’ve come to help you.”

  But she had already stopped flailing at him, her body going limp in his hands, her head lolling, her eyes closed. He hardly recognized her through the mask of blood that had dried across her face.

  She had fainted. Whether from pain or shock or exhaustion, he couldn’t tell.

  He got her clear of the log, gathered her up in his arms, and started walking.

  The driest place was still the powder barn. It was not particularly secure, but the rain was too heavy now to search for a better place or take her all the way back to the motorcar. He carried her inside and laid her against the back wall. Then he began to run his hands up and down her arms and legs. She whimpered when he touched her right ankle, and he could see that it was swelling. And again, when he touched her right arm. He thought it might well be broken.

  There was a cut on her head, still bleeding a little, and her hair, which had come down, was singed at the tips, where the fire had caught it.

  If there were internal injuries, he had no way of finding them. That she managed to reach the ruins in this condition was astonishing. The sheer will to survive must have driven her.

  Rocking back on his heels, he looked down at her. The anger and resentment were gone from her face, but he knew it was the fact that she was unconscious that had erased them. They were still here, waiting for her to wake up. He had no illusions.

  Was this Alasdair Dale’s handiwork? And what about Ruth Milford? Was she still in danger? He needed to reach The Pit and The Pony, to warn her. But there was Susan, hurt and vulnerable. He couldn’t leave her yet, not knowing if she was still being hunted.

  Hamish spoke then. “He willna’ touch the wife. No’ today. It would be far too suspicious. He will wait. He’s no’ a fool.”

  There was truth to that. But Rutledge stood looking out at the rain, and argued with himself.

  There was a sound behind him, and he turned quickly, thinking Susan was awake. He realized instead that she had curled herself into a knot, and was shivering. She was wearing only a thin jacket over a shirt and trousers. Her heavier coat lay in the ruins of the Sunbeam, half burned. She must have had to pull it off to free herself from the fiery wreckage.

  He took off his own coat and spread it over her, but the shivering didn’t stop. She was in shock.

  Finally, he lifted her and pulled her into his lap, spreading the coat over both of them. But he kept his face toward the ruined opening. He had nothing with which to defend himself. He wondered if Dale was armed. Many officers had kept their sidearms, himself included, and even brought back German pistols as souvenirs.

  After a time, the shivering stopped. He put her back against the wall, spread the coat over her again, then took a chance. The rain had let up only a little, but he ran for his motorcar, to fetch the rug he kept there. On the way back, he searched in places protected from the rain for bits of wood and dry grass, to start a small fire, making a bundle with the rug. It was a risk, the smoke would rise in the damp air, and give them away.

  As Rutledge pulled the rug over Susan, Hamish said, “Take her to the pub.”

  But there was no doctor in Crowley, and no Constable. And he wanted to question her as soon as she was awake again. Then he would have a better picture of what had happened to her, and who was responsible.

  Ignoring his wet coat and shirt, clinging heavily to his shoulders, he laid the wood out, put the grasses on top, and took out the lighter he’d carried since his first week in the trenches.

  One of his men had made it out of a rifle casing and parts from another lighter. He’d used it to fire fuses in tunnels under enemy lines, and to light the candles in his officer’s dugout to read maps in the black of night.

  The grasses burned quickly, but the dry wood caught as well, and the fire began to burn, taking some of the dampness away but not warming much of their surroundings. The smoke made him cough.

  He looked at his watch. It was noon, but the day was dark, grim. As grim as he himself felt. The rain made a soft patter on what was left of the roof, and he had to fight his own drowsiness as what little heat there was began to reach him. It had been a long night, and he hadn’t stopped with the dawn.

  He had drifted into a light doze in spite of his efforts to stay awake when she spoke just behind him.

  Coming alert with the ease of long practice, he turned and said, “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. No.”

  “I need to know.”

  “My ankle hurts. And this arm. I’ve never felt such pain. It must be broken.”

  “Internal injuries?”

  She started to shake her head, then stopped abruptly, putting up a hand. “Oh. No wonder it aches.” She looked at the dried blood on her fingers, and then tried to sit up, crying out as she did. “My ribs—”

  “What happened? I found the Sunbeam. It was still burning when I got there.”

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  “I didn’t. I had to track you here. What happened?”

  “He must have known I was coming. I thought at first it was your doing. Suddenly my headlamp picked out something in the road. And I realized very quickly that here was a child’s chair right in front of me. It looked—I thought she was sitting in it—and I was traveling at a great rate of speed. I was going to crash right into it. And so I didn’t see the rope stretched across the road. I remember flying through the air and hitting the ground with such force I lost my grip on the handlebars and was thrown off. That’s when I lost consciousness.”

  “The fire?”

  “I don’t know—petrol must have leaked onto the hot motor—or perhaps he burned it. I was barely conscious, and he kicked me in the ribs to see if I was alive. I managed not to cry out, and he left. I thought it was a trick, then I saw the flames, there must have been petrol everywhere, and my coat was burning, my hair—” She shivered again. “I don’t know how I got the coat off, and tossed it back into the flames. And then I began to crawl.”

  “Was the chair still in the road? I didn’t see it when I arrived on the scene.”

  “I don’t know. All I could think of was getting away from the fire into the dark. I believed I’d be safe in the dark. I crawled, but it was too hard, and I somehow got to my feet and began to stagger off. When I came to—when I came to that road, I just—just followed it. But he must have come back to be sure I was dead, because he followed me, I could hear him calling. I found the fallen tree and got under it. I couldn’t go on. I was having trouble breathing, my foot and my arm were on fire. I knew if I collapsed, he’d find me and kill me. The next thing I knew, you were touching me, trying to pull me out of the hole I’d made.”

  She lay back. “I’m so thirsty. And cold. I can’t seem to get warm.”

  “Why were you on the road to Crowley?”

  “I wasn’t. I was going to Ludlow. I took this road because I knew—” She broke off. He thought she was going to say she knew it better because she had been there before. She had already avoided telling him that she recognized the Little Bog track.

  “Why were you going to Ludlow? Do you have friends there?”

  She didn’t answer him.

  Then she said, “I expect I should thank you. For this.” She nodded toward the fire, then fingered his coat. “But then why should I be grateful?”

  “You weren’t as kind to me.”

  “No.”

  Folding up the rug he’d brought for her, he said, “You need a doctor. Can you walk, leaning on my arm? I can’t bring the motorcar to you.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  But she did, and still refused it. Getting to her feet was hard. Throwing his coat back at him, she used the wall and struggled painfully to her feet. She stood there for a moment, catching her breath. Her ankle had stiffened while she slept. Then holding her arm with one hand, she hobbled painfully toward the opening.

  Rutledge let her go, following at a little distance as she made her way to the
clearing where the mine buildings stood.

  “Wait here.” He left her then and went to bring the motorcar around.

  When he got to where he’d left it, he saw that someone had been there before him. He’d left a stalk of dried wildflower where someone coming too close to the shed’s opening would step on it.

  He stared at it for a moment, thinking hard.

  And then he spent a good quarter of an hour going over the motorcar. But as far as he could see, nothing had been tampered with. Under the bonnet. Under the chassis. The petrol tank in the rear.

  He would know, once he began to drive it, he thought grimly.

  Getting in, he carefully moved it out of the shed.

  She was still there, waiting, as he came down the road. He’d half expected her to set out on her own, but of course there was nowhere to go. No Sunbeam, and she was barely able to walk.

  Susan had difficulty climbing into the motorcar. With her ankle and the arm, she struggled, face gray with pain. But she got into the passenger’s seat, and then leaned back, careful of her ribs.

  He started down the road. They were still in the village ruins when he turned to her and said, “How did you come to know Alasdair Dale?”

  19

  He didn’t think she was going to answer him. She sat there in her seat, upright, braced against the jerky movements as the tires bumped and dipped over the ruts in the road.

  “Then tell me why you took Tildy from her parents?”

  She never looked at him. Her gaze was on the road ahead, her profile cold with whatever it was she was thinking.

  Without consulting her, he took her to Church Stretton, where he could find a doctor and ask a Constable to keep an eye on her.

  He found a Dr. Matthews by the simple expedient of searching for a name plate on a surgery door.

  An older man with sharp blue eyes, Matthews took his patient back to the examining room, leaving Rutledge in the small outer room. There was no one else waiting, and he paced the floor, too tired to sit and find himself dropping into a light sleep.

  It was nearly half an hour later when Dr. Matthews came back to him.

  “You say this woman was in a road accident?”

  “Her Sunbeam went off the road. I found her not very long afterward, but was unable to move her straightaway.”

  “Hmmm. I believe that right arm to be broken, a clean break. Painful, but it should heal with time. There is heavy bruising in the ankle, and she must stay off it for several weeks. I found a mark on her ribs where she indicated she had been kicked by someone. Painful bruising there but no indication that the ribs are broken. The cut on her head explains some of the vertigo she is experiencing. I don’t particularly care for that. She should have rest.”

  But it was Susan Milford that Matthews was referring to, and Rutledge wasn’t certain she would listen to his advice.

  “Aye, but she doesna’ have yon machine now. She canna’ do as she likes.”

  The Scot’s voice was loud in the room, but Dr. Matthews appeared not to notice.

  Rutledge said, “You must persuade her to take care of herself. I have no authority over her.”

  “The Good Samaritan who brought her here. Yes, I know. She told me, however, that she was afraid of you and didn’t wish to be forced to leave here with you.” He regarded Rutledge for a moment. “Did you cause her accident?”

  He silently swore. “I did not.” He reached into his pocket and took out his identification. “I’m looking into a death that occurred in Wales, but my search for the killer has brought me to Shropshire. She has no reason to be afraid of me, unless she had something to do with that death. I think it best if you keep her under observation for twenty-four hours. For her own sake. Can you do that?”

  “Not against her will.”

  “Then give her something to make her sleep.”

  “Not with that head injury.”

  Rutledge said, “Are you certain she’s not lying about the extent of her injuries?”

  After a pause, Matthews said, “I can’t be.” Then in a different tone of voice he said, “Is she a murderer? Was she trying to escape from you when this happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Rutledge said truthfully. “I won’t know for twenty-four hours. If she presents a problem, call in the police and have them take her into custody.”

  “I don’t want this responsibility,” Matthews told him bluntly. “I have my family to consider—my other patients.”

  “And I can’t trust her. She will have to stay here. In gaol or in your surgery.”

  He left without seeing Susan Milford. He thought that best.

  But there were the questions she’d never answered.

  The day had come down again, heavier rain now and lowering clouds. He set out for Crowley, stopping only briefly at the scene of the fire, using what little daylight there was to inspect the wreckage.

  The place had been well chosen. There were trees on either side of the road just here, and he found rope burns on two of them, where the impact with the Sunbeam had cut deep into bark before the rope itself had broken. Someone had taken away whatever rope was left.

  At least that part of Susan Milford’s story was true. She was lucky, he thought, that the rope hadn’t been set high enough to decapitate her. Instead the plan was for the accident itself to kill her, the Sunbeam tossed into the air and coming down with her still in the saddle. Instead, by some miracle, she had been thrown clear in time.

  If there had been anything of use in the sidecar, it had burned, along with the valise, where only the handle and the hinges were left.

  He walked a little way down the road, but if a chair had been placed there, there was no sign of it. Even if someone hadn’t thought to sweep a foot across where it had been set, erasing any imprints, the rain had taken care of it.

  “Or it wasna’ there ata’,” Hamish said.

  But Rutledge believed her. It was the chair that had made her miss seeing the rope. The question was, why a child’s chair? Had that been intentional—or simply chosen because a driver would do his or her best to avoid hitting it?

  The other question was, how had Dale known she was following him? Had he seen her somewhere? On the Welsh Bridge, or by the Abbey? In a straight run of the road, where he could see her in the distance, keeping pace, never falling too far behind or gaining too quickly?

  Or had the chair and the rope been intended for Rutledge? And caught Susan Milford by sheer coincidence? Had Dale stopped in Shrewsbury, and seen Rutledge’s motorcar passing through? If he had taken another road south, missing the lorry wreck, he could have been well ahead, with time to lay his trap. But how had he come by a child’s chair? Had he bought it in Shrewsbury or even Church Stretton?

  Rutledge got back in the motorcar.

  The worry now was Ruth Milford—

  And where was Dale?

  This was perfect country to hide in. Little Bog wasn’t the only choice. There was the Long Mynd, the valley between two ridges, running not that far from here. Or the Stiperstones.

  He drove on, and came to Crowley late in the day.

  There were outbuildings behind the pub, including a stable where horses had been kept, and several sheds, all of them more or less in disrepair. How long had it been since travelers had put their horses or pack animals in the barn for the night, on their way to the mines or passing through on the Shrewsbury road?

  Pushing and shoving, he got the barn door open, screaming of rusty hinges. It was damp inside, redolent of old, rotting hay. Looking up through the rafters, he could see the clouds hanging low. Debating whether to close the door again, he decided it was best to have ready access to his motorcar.

  Then, knowing what his welcome would be, he took a deep breath and walked around to the yard door.

  Somewhere in the distance he could hear crows calling, raucous voices echoing a little against the hill on which the pub sat.

  The public room was empty, as it so often was these days. He steppe
d inside and closed the door behind him.

  Nothing was out of place. No tables overturned, no signs of a struggle. He went to the window and looked down on the cottages. Only a few lights in the Milford house, as well as those neighboring it. A quiet evening.

  He drew a breath in relief.

  It would be the supper hour soon. If all was well, Will would be coming in to cook. He was too tired for confrontations now. Ruth had told him not to come back. And yet he had, to protect her.

  Rutledge went up the stairs to the room he’d used before, sat down, and waited in the dark.

  The aroma of food cooking in the kitchen reached him, floating upward. His feet were cold resting on the floor. But he sat there, patiently. It was apparent that no one had seen him arrive, or noticed the motorcar in the barn. He could hear voices but not quite make out what was being said. Still, the tenor was uneasy, as if those gathered there had very little to say to each other.

  At length he heard the Blakes calling good night, and the yard door opening and closing. Will left soon after.

  But Ruth was unaccounted for. He didn’t think she’d left with the others.

  Time passed, and he was on the point of going down when he heard a chair scraping across the floor just beyond the foot of the steps.

  And someone moved to the stairs and began to come up them.

  A woman’s tread, he thought, lighter than a man’s. In no hurry . . .

  Was Ruth staying in the pub, not in her house?

  But which room was she using? His? He hadn’t turned on the lamp, but it hadn’t appeared to be occupied. He moved silently, out of her sight if she came in.

  She passed by his door. Her steps were slowing. And then he heard her go into the room next to his. It didn’t take her long to get ready for bed. She moved around for a bit, then there was silence.

  And then, in the dark, he heard her crying.

  As if she’d kept up a front all day, and finally, here, alone, she could let herself feel something.

  After a time, even the weeping stopped.

  She was asleep.

  Rutledge settled down to keep watch, sitting in the only chair.