“Inspector Cain, Letherington. He’ll see I get the message.”
“Thank you, sir, I’ll make sure it’s taken care of straightaway.”
Before he left the hospital, Rutledge spoke to the doctor in charge of Hensley’s care. The man looked drained, as if he hadn’t slept in several days, but he sat down for five minutes to answer questions.
“If we can’t stop the infection, he’s a dead man,” Dr.
Williams told him bluntly. “But Constable Hensley’s strong, he has a sound constitution. That may make all the difference. Everything that can be done has been done, but in medicine there are no certainties.”
“Will you stay in touch?”
“Yes, that’s why I asked Matron to put a call in to you today. He could be unconscious by tomorrow. If it was necessary to speak with him, time was of the essence.
And we ought to ask, are there any relatives who should be notified?”
“He lived alone in Dudlington. I don’t know what family he has. Sergeant Gibson or Chief Superintendent Bowles at the Yard may be able to tell you.”
“I’ve spoken with the Chief Superintendent. He’s rung us several times, in fact. He seems most anxious for his man.”
Hensley had made no mention of that.
“Yes,” Rutledge answered dryly, “he does care about this one.”
30
The drive back to Dudlington was silent for a time, the miles speeding away behind them. Hamish, for reasons of his own, was withdrawn. And Rutledge, watching for the ambush they might have escaped on the drive south, wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Meredith Channing sat quietly beside him, but he saw, when he glanced her way once or twice, that she too was watchful, her eyes never leaving the roadsides. The early winter dusk, bleak and concealing, had enveloped them some miles outside the city of Northampton, and the headlamps threw long beams of light across the drab landscape. He didn’t think they would have much warning, if someone was waiting for them in the night, but then a hidden sniper would have to be certain of his target. It would cut down on his accuracy.
Towns and villages appeared and vanished, their houses and churches and farms noticeably empty of life, here at the dinner hour. A cold wind whipped through the motorcar.
“Is he dying? This Constable Hensley you went to see?”
Mrs. Channing asked after a time, as if needing distraction from her watch.
“The doctors are fighting to save his life. They’re afraid it may be blood poisoning now, not just an infection at the site of the surgery. They don’t offer much hope, but they also tell me he’s strong.”
It was difficult to carry on a normal conversation in the motorcar. But she said, “What a shame! Mr. Keating, at The Oaks, told me what had happened to the constable.”
“It’s far more complicated than Keating realizes. I want Hensley alive to testify in two cases.”
“Yes, well, if wishes were horses...”
They were silent again for several miles.
“I’ll drop you at The Oaks. Keating may not be up. I’ll be sure you’re safely inside before I go on.”
“Thank you.”
They reached the turning to Dudlington sooner than they had expected. The inn was dark, and the headlamps were the only illumination to guide Rutledge as the road began to curve and run down into the village.
He had just made the turn toward Holly Street and the circular drive that led to the front of The Oaks, when something caught his eye.
Hamish shouted, “There. Left!”
A succession of thoughts ran through Rutledge’s mind...
Someone saying that cows were kept in the barns this time of year.
And his own voice making a remark about camouflage.
“Hold on!” He twisted the steering wheel hard, and the tires skidded before leaving the road. In the same moment he cut the headlamps.
Mrs. Channing cried out as the motorcar went careening out into the meadow, bouncing wildly over the uneven ground into darkness, swaying and lurching as it went.
Rutledge fought the wheel and brought the heavy vehicle under control, then to a wrenching halt.
He was out of his door almost before the recoil of the sudden stop had settled, racing back to the cow lying in the grass, for all the world chewing its cud.
She turned her head toward him as he got nearer, her white and black hide giving her the look of a harlequin, half invisible. He could just see the whites of her eyes.
He realized, in that moment, that she was real—and pegged to the ground so that she wouldn’t wander off.
It hadn’t been a trap, with a marksman under the hide, but a ruse, and he had fallen for it.
He swore and went to pull up the pegs. The cow scrambled to her feet and shook herself. Then she turned and began to amble away, as if she knew where to find her barn.
He caught the rope around her neck and soothed her.
Mrs. Channing, opening her door, called, “Inspector?”
Leading the cow with him, he went back to the car. “Are you all right?” he asked. “I’m sorry, there was no time to warn you.”
“A few bruises, nothing serious. What’s this?”
“I expect he felt I’d drive straight over it, thinking he was under the hide and preparing to fire. Thank God I didn’t, I’d have killed Bessy here, and probably myself as well, when the motorcar turned over on me.”
She reached out a gloved hand toward the cow, then thought better of it. “Poor thing, she’s probably frightened to death.”
“Here, let me walk you as far as the inn, then I’ll take her home. Before she wanders out into the road and someone else does hit her.”
“No, I’m all right. I’ll see myself to the inn.”
But he wouldn’t let her. He walked her as far as the stairs and gave her his torch to find her way up them.
Satisfied that she was safe, he turned back to the motorcar, and then untied the cow from the frame.
At first the animal was determined to go her own path, but soon enough she stopped pulling against the rope and followed him meekly down Holly Street. Her hoofs clattered on the cobblestones, and she walked with that swaying motion that made cows seem so slow and bucolic. But he could still see the whites of her eyes, telling him that she was anxious.
He led her down Whitby Lane and then along Church Street, toward the Baylor house.
Leaving her in the yard, he went to bang on the door. In a few minutes, Ted Baylor flung open the door, his braces down and his hair awry, as if he’d been asleep in his chair.
“What is it—” he began, and then over Rutledge’s shoulder he saw the cow.
“My good God! What’s she doing out there!”
“I’d like an answer to that myself. Is she yours?”
Baylor reached behind him for a coat, pulling it on as he closed the door. “Yes, I recognize her. How many others are missing?”
He hurried around the house toward the distant barns.
Rutledge, still leading the cow, fell behind as he matched his pace to hers. But she began to trot as she crossed the yard. Baylor had the great door open, the dark interior yawning behind him, by the time Rutledge got there. He was lighting a lamp and then holding it high as he walked down the barn, looking at the rows of cattle drowsing on their beds of straw. Rutledge followed him. A miasma of fresh straw, steaming animals, and manure filled the air.
“Here,” Baylor said, pointing to a half stall that was empty. “This appears to be the only one, thank God.”
Rutledge brought the cow up and handed him the rope.