But then Hensley’s eyelids opened, and he said, as if realizing his own mistake, “I’ll worry about it when I’m better. I can’t now. You can see that. Tell Inspector Kelmore I’m not fit enough for questions yet.”
Matron was coming with a little tray of medicines and a cup of water. Hensley saw her, and his face cleared.
“Thank God!”
Matron nodded to Rutledge as she reached the bed.
“You promised me only five minutes.”
“Yes, I was just going. Tell me, do you know what became of the arrow that was taken from Hensley’s back?”
“You must ask the surgical sister about that.”
But the surgical sister, when Rutledge had run her to earth, said, “They’d removed the shaft before he was brought here. You must ask Dr. Middleton what became of it. As for the tip, it was an ordinary metal one. Chief Inspector Kelmore took it, but I doubt it did him much good.
We had rather butchered it, extracting it from the rib.
Constable Hensley was very lucky. His injury might have been far worse. If the arrow had got past the ribs, he’d be a dead man.”
***
Rutledge went in search of Chief Inspector Kelmore and found him in his office, a stuffy little room reeking of pipe smoke. Kelmore was a graying man in his late forties, with yellowed teeth and ears too large for his head.
The Chief Inspector shook hands with Rutledge and said, “I was just leaving. The wife’s ill, and I’m taking the rest of the day off. They’ve sent you here about Hensley, have they? Lucky he wasn’t killed, according to the surgeon.” He began to dig through the contents of his desk drawer, then reached instead for a box sitting on the floor.
“Here’s what’s left of the arrow. I expect that’s what you came for.” He passed the broken shaft with its mangled metal tip to Rutledge. “Nothing unusual about it, except where it was found, in a constable’s back.”
Rutledge studied the wooden shaft, then the tip. “I should think it would have depended on the distance the arrow flew as to how deep it might have gone.”
“Yes, that was my view as well. Hence the luck I spoke of. I daresay whoever loosed this arrow is afraid to come forward and admit to his carelessness.” He held out his hand for the tip.
“And that’s what you put it down to? Carelessness?”
Rutledge asked, returning it.
“What else should I read into it? As you’ll see for yourself, Dudlington is hardly a hotbed of murderers. I can’t think why someone would have wished Hensley ill. Seems to be a decent enough chap, had no complaints against him. Nor has Inspector Cain, who oversees Dudlington, along with two other hamlets, Fairfield and Letherington.
Letherington, to the north of Dudlington, is the largest of the three. Fairfield is a little more to the east.” He pointed to a county map on the wall.
“I’ll call on Cain tomorrow. Was there any indication in that wood—what’s it called? Frith’s Wood—how Hensley had been carried or dragged there?”
“I don’t think they looked. Does he claim he wasn’t in the wood when he was shot? That’s odd.”
“He says he remembers riding his bicycle on the main road, and the next thing he knew he was on his way to hospital. He doesn’t know how he got to the wood. Or when he was shot.”
“They do say that sudden and severe injury can shock the mind, and events just before it happened are lost. His memory might return as he heals. I’m not sure why the Yard was brought into this business before we’d had a chance to look into it ourselves. But there you are. No of-fense intended.”
“None taken. I expect London was concerned because Hensley came from there. And it was possible that someone he’d helped convict had a long memory.”
“That’s always possible, of course. Yes, I can see where it might have caused concern.” Kelmore stored the arrow away again and rose to his feet. “I’ll speak to Hensley myself tomorrow. I must go. The doctor is coming to my wife, again, and I must be there. If there’s anything you need, let me know. If you can’t find me, leave your message with Sergeant Thompson. He’ll see that I get it.”
He was ushering Rutledge out of the tiny office and into the drab corridor. “How are you getting to Dudlington? It’s isolated, you know. No bus service.”
“I have my own motorcar.”
“What luck! You can drive me home. It’s on your way out of town.”
8
It was nearly dusk when Rutledge came to the turning for Dudlington, and if he hadn’t been on the lookout for it, he’d have missed it.
An inn, standing alone on a rise, was all that could be seen in a wide landscape of fields running from his left down the slope of the land toward a little stream only visible because of the straggling line of trees that followed it.
In the distance he could just see a low line of roofs that indicated barns.
He passed the inn as he turned, and made a note of it.
Then he was in the village some hundred yards beyond.
Holly Street was narrow, with houses on either side set directly on the road. Farther on, Whitby Lane turned off to his left, and when he followed that, he saw that Church Street, coming in on his right, led to the churchyard, with the slender steeple of the church rising over the roofs surrounding it.
No one was about, except a dog trotting down the lane toward his dinner. And there was no sign to indicate where Constable Hensley lived. Rutledge turned the motorcar near the churchyard and went back the way he’d come, toward the inn.
The Oaks stood on higher ground than the village, a large inn for its location, with a pedimented front door that spoke of better days.
He opened the door and found himself in a spacious lobby that had once been the entry to the house. A handsome stair climbed to a landing and turned out of sight.
There was a bell on a table by the door, and he rang it.
After a moment a woman came out of the back, tidying her hair, as if she had just taken off an apron.
“Good afternoon, sir, are you stopping for dinner? We don’t serve for another two hours.”
“I’m looking for a room.”
She was skeptical. “I don’t know that we have one available. I’ll just ask Mr. Keating.”
She left him there in the hall, and soon a balding man of about forty-five came out to speak to him.
“You’re looking for a room, is that it, sir? For the night?”
The inn appeared to be empty, except for the man and the woman.
“For several days. Inspector Rutledge, from London.”
He was curt, tired of delay.
“Ah. You’re looking for Constable Hensley’s house, I take it. Second on the right, Whitby Lane. Not hard to find—follow the main road into the village and you can’t miss it.”
“I’ve no intention of staying the night at Hensley’s house. I’m looking for a room here.”
Keating was silent for a moment. Then he said, “We’ve got a room or two. I keep them for travelers. This is a rather isolated part of the world, as you must have noticed, and we’re accustomed to people late on the road, looking to stop the night. But I’m afraid we’re booked up, just now.”
The words were firm, brooking no argument. But where were the motorcars or carriages by the door to support Keating’s claim?
Rutledge was about to point that out when he recalled what an elderly sergeant had told him years before: “I remember the day when a policeman under the roof frightened away custom. I’d be offered poor service and a cramped little room at the back, beneath the eaves, in the hope I’d go away sooner.”
He didn’t think Keating was prepared to offer him even that. The innkeeper stood there, inflexibility in every line, although the pleasant expression on his face stayed securely in place. Short of calling the man a liar, there was nothing more to be said.