“A nurse? From Barton’s?” He sounded skeptical. Of course-I wasn’t in uniform.
“No, Owlhurst. Please, we mustn’t waste time.”
He walked nearer, and I could see he was a farmer, broad shouldered and strong enough to help me lift a wounded man.
“Is that one dead?” he asked.
“Sadly. Yes. We must leave him for now. But there are two others.” I gestured in the direction of Jonathan and Peregrine.
The dog, disturbed by the scent of so much blood, was frisking around, whining now.
The farmer called him off and waited while I got back behind the wheel. As he glimpsed Constable Mason in the rear, he said in a shocked voice, “There’s another policeman!”
I didn’t answer him. Driving the vehicle gingerly forward again, I came to where Jonathan was lying, Peregrine just beyond him. The farmer followed on foot.
Peregrine was conscious, though in great pain, trying to raise himself and look the stranger over.
“It’s all right,” I said, getting out once more. “Can you stand? Between us we ought to be able to help you.”
He managed it after a fashion, with support. I thought the shot had struck his collarbone or his shoulder, for there was no touching him on that side. He wasn’t coughing, which was a good sign. Still, his face was a ghostly white in the light of the headlamps as we got him to his feet and he walked the short distance to the motorcar, clinging to my good arm. The pain must have been excruciating, each step jarring the wound. Putting him into the rear seat beside Constable Mason was difficult, but Peregrine accepted the situation in grim silence, his jaw set. For the first time I could see a resemblance to Arthur in his last hours, that same will reflected in his brother’s taut face, paring all emotion down to one intense resolve.
Mason was awake again, trying to make sense of what was happening and who we were. I told him I would explain when there was time.
Jonathan was another matter. There would be no help from him. I quickly shoved his revolver into his greatcoat pocket, out of sight, and explained to the farmer what he must do. I heard something behind me and whirled in time to see Constable Mason nearly tumble out of the motorcar, catch himself, and while he was still doubled over, vomit violently before shambling unsteadily toward us, his sense of duty stronger than his dizziness. With his help we settled Jonathan’s limp body into the front seat and shut the door. Constable Mason leaned heavily against the wing, breathing hard from the exertion. I felt like joining him there, every muscle in my body complaining from the effort I’d made. Thank God, my arm had healed sufficiently.
As I got in beside Jonathan, I studied his face. I didn’t like the look of him, but all I could do was to make certain the scarf was still pressed in place. I thought the bleeding had stabilized, but that could be bad news, not good.
Constable Mason roused himself and joined Peregrine in the rear seat, inadvertently jarring him as he tried clumsily to climb inside.
I heard Peregrine swear fiercely under his breath. He’d said very little since I’d found him. I think he knew there would be no escape now and was resigning himself to his fate.
Turning to the farmer, I said, “Please. You must follow me in my motorcar-out there on the road. We must go to Owlhurst.”
For an instant I thought he was about to refuse me. Then he said, “Who shot these men?”
I told him truthfully, “I don’t know.”
He nodded, whistling up the dog, and went striding across the trampled field toward the road.
It was a bumpy ride, making a looping circle across the field and back to the verge where this motorcar had run off into the underbrush. I could hear Constable Mason breathing hard, and Peregrine grunting through clenched teeth.
On the road the farmer was straightening up Melinda’s vehicle and making room for me to pass. The dog’s head was turned toward us, ears pricked, as if making certain we were coming.
“Sorry,” I said, “I’m so sorry,” as we bounced hard back onto the road. And then I was gunning the motor, overtaking Melinda Crawford’s motorcar, heading to Owlhurst. In a matter of minutes we were flying past the brightly lit asylum, almost blindingly bright in the moonless night, and then it was gone, and I was gritting my teeth as I tried to avoid the worst of the dips and ridges of the unmade surface. I couldn’t help remembering how close I’d come to tumbling out of the dogcart when the wheels went off the road, wondering if any of my passengers would make it back alive if I overturned us. But time was critical, and casting a glance whenever I dared at Jonathan’s gray face, I made the best time I could.
Twice behind me, I heard Constable Mason retching as he leaned out his window.
Peregrine asked at one point about Jonathan. “Is he still alive?”
And all I could do was nod my head.
Behind us, the Crawford motorcar kept pace with the farmer at the wheel, its headlamps lighting up our interior, sending shadows dancing around us. Jonathan’s breathing was suspiciously quieter. I sent up a silent prayer that we wouldn’t encounter anything out here-a wandering dog, a man walking home from a pub, someone on a horse, a lorry. It was a narrow road, with little space to overtake.
Constable Mason said, “I’ve the devil of a headache.” And then to me, “I don’t remember you driving us.”
I said nothing, concentrating as we came flying into Owlhurst. It was a quiet time of night, the road blessedly empty, and I kept up my speed as we reached the cricket pitch. And then we were coming up on The Bells. By the garden gate was the Graham dogcart, and two men were just coming out of the pub door, staring at us as we passed. I almost didn’t make the turning at the church, slowing in the nick of time, and then there was the doctor’s surgery just ahead, and I felt like crying with relief.
I came to as gentle a stop as possible, and was out my door, running toward the house, calling for Dr. Philips.
He must have been just finishing his dinner, a serviette still in his hand, surprise on his face as he recognized me and then he saw the Crawford motorcar pulling in just behind the Grahams’.
“What in the name of God-has there been an accident?”
“I have three badly wounded people with me-gunshots.” I listed their symptoms quickly, striving to leave nothing out. “The worst case is Jonathan Graham. I’m so afraid he’s bleeding internally.”
Even as I was describing the situation, we were walking quickly toward the vehicle. The farmer seemed to know Dr. Philips, for I saw him nod as he and his dog approached.
We took Jonathan in first, and Dr. Philips was already at work on him as the farmer-I’d finally asked him his name, and he’d told me it was Bateman-helped first Constable Mason and then Peregrine into the surgery.
Mr. Bateman said, as we settled Mason with a pillow and a basin for the nausea, “Will someone please tell me what’s happening? Two army officers, two policemen-”
“Let’s make certain they survive,” I said, cutting him off. “Then we’ll worry about what happened.”
We dealt with Peregrine next, and as I closed his room door, I could see that Mr. Bateman was going to cling to me like a leech until he got his answers. Something had to be done about that.
I looked at him, really saw him for the first time. A worried man, blood on his hands and the sleeves of his coat and in a smear across his face. I was suddenly reminded of Peregrine’s hands in the offal at the butcher’s shop in Rochester.
We wouldn’t have made it to Owlhurst without Mr. Bateman. But I didn’t want to begin explanations until I was certain myself what had happened on the road. Still, there was one more service he could provide, if he was willing. By that time I hoped I’d be able to question Peregrine or Jonathan.
“Would you mind terribly going to fetch Lieutenant Graham’s mother? Don’t frighten her, but his condition is-rather critical. And it might be as well to summon the rector. In the event…” I let my voice trail off.