The Confession

Chapter 13

Rutledge scanned the distance, searching for some sign that he was closing the gap with the Triumph, but it was wishful thinking, and Hamish relentlessly pointed that out.

Whatever he’d set in motion, he had to stop it.

And still there was nothing ahead, no small red light to guide him.

Russell, he thought, was driving recklessly, his anger goading him.

His own concentration was intense, passing through countryside, avoiding a horse cart moving slowly or a gaggle of geese waddling toward a pond, then through one village after the other with lamplight marking the street in tidy squares. Back into the countryside once more, before finding himself in a fair-size town where people were strolling in the warm summer evening. His eyes readjusting as he returned to the pitch-dark of farms and woods once more. Even Hamish was shut out, and the silence was unsettling.

Had Russell turned off? Taken a different route from the one Rutledge had expected him to take? It was becoming more and more likely, and without a moon, it was impossible to push the motorcar any harder on unfamiliar roads.

And then six miles outside London, he caught up with his quarry.

He nearly missed it, all his attention on negotiating an unexpectedly sharp bend in the road.

The Triumph lay in a ditch, front wheel twisted, and it was the brief flash of the headlamps on metal that caught Rutledge’s eye.

Braking hard, slewing the motorcar halfway across the road, nearly sliding into the ditch on the far side himself, he came to a rocking halt, thanking God no one had been coming from the other direction.

He got out quickly and ran to examine the wreckage, shining his torch across it, expecting to find Major Russell there in its beam, dead or dying, entangled in the ruins of the machine. Cursing himself and Russell in the same breath.

George Hiller’s Trusty had suffered from the great flaw of its kind, the front fork spring that could take only so much rough handling before breaking. In France, where the roads were even rougher than here in England, a leather strap had often been added for extra support, allowing the rider to cut cross-country when conditions made it necessary.

But the Major wasn’t there. Not beside the motorcycle. Not under it.

Dropping to one knee, Rutledge shone the torch over the machine and the bruised grass beneath it, trying to comprehend how Russell could have escaped unscathed. It would have taken a miracle, he told himself. And then he saw the blood.

He got to his feet and looked around. There was a house just on the far side of the bend, and a light shone from the front window. Stopping only to move his motorcar to a safer place than the middle of the road, he went quickly to knock on the door.

A tall, slim woman with iron gray hair opened it. He was struck by her eyes, dark and intelligent-and red rimmed with weeping.

“My name is Rutledge. Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard. Did you by any chance see the accident with that motorcycle in the ditch?”

She stared at him for a moment, then said, “You’d better come in.”

He walked into the very handsome parlor and sat down on the dark blue couch that she indicated. “May I ask your name?”

“Marilyn Furman.”

“And did you see the accident?” he asked again.

“I was just coming home, I hadn’t even opened my door when I heard the cyclist coming around the bend at great speed. And then something happened, I don’t know what it was. It was as if the front balked, like a horse at a fence. I heard the rider cry out, and then he was flying over the handlebars. The next thing I knew, he was in the ditch, and the motorcycle was coming straight toward him as it slid in the dust.” She turned away. “It was quite terrible. I heard him cry out a second time. And then nothing. I was afraid to go across to him. I didn’t even want to think about what I might see. But I took my torch and made myself do it, and to my astonishment, he was alive. People from down the road had heard the noise too and came running. I sent them for an ambulance and stayed with him. I couldn’t see his face for the blood. I asked him his name, but he couldn’t tell me.” She turned back to Rutledge. “I thought someone should know it, you see. In the event they came to look for him and saw the wreckage of the Triumph. And the hospital ought to know as well. But he couldn’t tell me.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she reached for her handkerchief. He gave her time to collect herself, then asked, “Was he still alive when the ambulance got to him?”

“Oh, yes. They couldn’t understand how he missed being killed.”

“Do you know where the ambulance men took him?”

But she was still locked in the horror of all she’d witnessed. “They were so long in arriving. I thought they would never come. There was a young couple who appeared from somewhere and sat with me. They wanted to put him in their motorcar, but I was afraid to try to move him. He was in pain, moaning. I couldn’t even offer him a little water. I felt so useless, and then the ambulance was there, and it was all right.”

“Do you know where I can find him?” he asked again.

“I believe he was taken to St. Anne’s. It’s about seven miles down the road. I was too distressed to ask. And so relieved to have help for him finally.” She took a deep breath, struggling against the tide of memory.

“Do you have any idea of the extent of his injuries?”

“I asked the ambulance men to tell me what was wrong. So that I could reassure whoever came looking for him. They couldn’t be certain, they told me. The cut on his forehead was bleeding profusely, and it was possible that he had sustained internal injuries, even broken ribs. Then they were shutting the doors and driving away. I just stood there, watching them go, too dazed to think what to do next.”

“Is there anyone here who could take a message to Oxfordshire?”

“Is that where the cyclist is from? There’s the man who sees to my gardens for me. He won’t mind going, he has friends in Oxford. A head gardener at one of the colleges and his family. I’ll give him the day off tomorrow.”

“I have the name of the Triumph’s owner. He will be glad to come and take it away.” He took out his notebook and wrote the direction, tearing away the sheet and passing it to her.

“But Scotland Yard-what had he done? This man-were you following him? Is that why you know all this?” She indicated the sheet of paper in her hand.

“I was following him to London,” Rutledge replied. That was true as far as it went. “Are you all right? Is there someone who could come and sit with you?”

“I’m just a little shaken still, but I’ll be fine,” she said, collecting herself. “It was just-seeing him fly through the air like that. It happened so quickly, I couldn’t even cry out. And then the Triumph following, as if it were intent on crushing him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite so horrible.”

He sat there for a few minutes more, talking to her until she was calmer, and then said, “I must go.”

“Would you mind terribly? Would you send word to me so that I’ll know if he lived or not? It would be kind. I really don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering.”

“I’ll see to it. The doctors may not know anything at first. They’ll have to examine the man and determine the extent of his injuries. You won’t hear straightaway. But that will be good news, actually.”

“Yes, I understand. I won’t worry. But it would be comforting to think I could put that terrible picture out of my mind, no harm done.”

He left then, still concerned for her, and went back to look at the Triumph.

And then he started his motorcar and drove directly to St. Anne’s.

It was unexpectedly difficult to find. A small hospital in one of the larger villages that had all but been swallowed up by London’s growth, it was tucked away out of sight. He had turned around at the outskirts and driven through the village a second time, when he saw the Catholic Church down a side street. A signboard identified it as St. Anne’s, and just beyond it was a square building that was set back from the road in what appeared to be a park. He thought it might have been a small manor house at one time, or perhaps a rectory.

Leaving his motorcar by the steps, he went inside.

The nurses were nuns in white habits, and he wondered if this had originally been a lying-in hospital for difficult maternity cases. There was a small casualty ward in the back.

The sister in charge came to meet him, prepared to make a decision on where he was to be sent, but he said, after she asked what his problem might be, “I’m here in regard to the accident case just brought to you. A man on a motorcycle.”

“Are you a relative?” she asked, pursing her lips, as if about to tell him he couldn’t go into the ward itself.

“Scotland Yard,” he told her. “I was looking for this man to help us with our inquiries.”

“Indeed. Well, then, you’re out of luck.”