Instead he heard a bird in flight, feathers riffling through the air.
Something struck him in the back, a blow like a fist, piercing his body, tearing into him like a hot poker jammed hard into his ribs. His breath went out in a frosty gust and had trouble sucking in again.
Even as he realized what it was—even as he knew for a certainty that it was a human agency and not a phantom that was intent on destroying him—he could feel his knees buckle and a terrifying sense of doom sweeping through him.
He’d been shot by an arrow. His fingers could just reach it, the shaft round and smooth. And he’d be found here, in Frith’s Wood, with all the village knowing he couldn’t stay away.
He mustn’t die here!
But he knew he was going to. It was his punishment.
He sank to his knees and then fell forward, blacking out before the pain touched him.
6
Inspector Smith, dining with Rutledge at The Three Feathers in Hertford after the court had adjourned, said,
“While you were waiting for the verdict, we caught your assassin.” His voice was smug, as if he enjoyed showing this man from London that provincial policemen were every bit as good as those at the Yard.
Rutledge, looking up quickly from cutting his cheese, said, “Who is it? Anyone I know?”
“Hardly an acquaintance—a local boy. He came forward of his own accord, I’d no more than got my question out before he was telling me he’d done it.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“Just that he thought it was a good day to go out shooting.”
“Why did you question him in the first place? Has he shot at people before this?” And where, Rutledge added to himself, had a boy found those cartridge casings, to hang them so conveniently at the scene?
Smith, not liking the direction Rutledge’s questions were taking, frowned. “We went to him because he’s generally roaming about the countryside in fair weather. He’s particularly fond of the Massingham grounds—they include the pasture you described. Mrs. Massingham is kind to Tommy, and he sometimes takes advantage of that to go hunting.”
“With a revolver?” Rutledge asked, eyebrows raised.
Smith shook his head. “Slingshot. He couldn’t tell me where he’d got the weapon. Not very bright, is Tommy Crowell. Never a troublemaker before this, you understand, but there’s a first time for everything, and he’s old enough to get into mischief you’d forgive a younger boy.
My guess is, he found the weapon somewhere—in a house or barn—and simply helped himself to it, without a thought of asking permission. He’s always had a weak grasp of private ownership. Not thievery so much as just
‘borrowing for a bit,’ as he’d put it.”
“There can’t be that many loaded revolvers lying about in Hertford!” Rutledge persisted. “Does your Mrs. Massingham have one?”
Smith was on the defensive now. “Her husband was a cavalry officer. He kept his weapons locked away. To my knowledge, she hasn’t touched them since he was killed in the Boer War. She said as much.”
“Which means,” Hamish responded in the back of Rutledge’s mind, “that she wouldna’ know if one was missing.”
And Smith, in awe of the Massinghams, most certainly wouldn’t have questioned her word.
“I’d like to see this Tommy Crowell for myself.” Rutledge folded his serviette and nodded to the woman who had served their meal. She turned to bring him the reckoning. “Where does he live? Or have you taken him into custody?”
“Now?” Smith asked, gulping the last of his tea. “There’s no need—”
“But there is,” Rutledge told him, already scanning the charges. “I’m leaving for London early tomorrow. No, don’t bother, I’ve taken care of it.”
Smith almost ran at his heels on their way to the door.
“The boy can’t pay for the damages to your windscreen,” he said, huffing with the effort. “I’ve already spoken with his mother. There’s no money—”
“I’m not interested in money,” Rutledge answered as he reached his motorcar in the yard behind The Three Feathers. “Where is he now? Have you charged him?”
“I wasn’t intending—I was going to hold him overnight to put the fear of God into him, in the hope he’d show me where he tossed that revolver. But his mother begged me—”
“Then take me to where they live!”
Smith cranked the motorcar for Rutledge and then climbed into the passenger’s seat. “A mile from the Massingham estate, there’s a lane that turns down to the east. Follow that another mile or so, and I’ll tell you where to stop.”
Rutledge drove out of Hertford, back the way he’d come, and found the lane with no difficulty. It was rutted, and the motorcar bounced unpleasantly for some distance before the row of cottages came into view, smoke from their chimneys wreathing the roofs in the cold night air.
Smith indicated the third house on the left, and Rutledge came to a halt. “Let me speak to the mother. You’ll terrify her, Scotland Yard invading her sitting room.”
He got out and knocked at the door. A worn woman of perhaps forty answered, and then stared in alarm over his shoulder at the tall man behind Smith, dressed in a London-made coat and hat. “You’re not going back on your word?” she began accusingly. “I promised I’d keep him to home.”
“There’s nothing to worry you, Mrs. Crowell. I’d just like to speak with Tommy for a bit. This is Mr. Rutledge.
It was his car that was damaged, but he hasn’t come about repayment.”
They stepped under the low lintel and into a small, cluttered room. It was apparent that Mrs. Crowell took in laundry. There were baskets of neatly folded clothes and bed linens set in every available space, and the odors of hot irons and strong soap permeated the house.
Apprehensive, her eyes on Rutledge, she called Tommy from his room under the eaves. He came clattering down the steps, a big, rawboned child of about sixteen, his face changing from open curiosity to frowning uncertainty as he saw his mother’s guests.
Stopping short, he looked from his mother to Inspector Smith, his expression shifting with every thought that passed through his head.
Before Smith could speak, Rutledge stepped forward and held out his hand. “Hallo, Tommy. My name’s Rutledge. I’m from London. You’re quite a good shot, you know. Hit the windscreen dead center!”
Tommy Crowell burst into shy smiles at the praise as he shook Rutledge’s hand. “Thank you, sir. I’ve had a good deal of practice.”
“Ever thought about the Army?” Men hardly more than a year or so older than Tommy had served under him, as Hamish was reminding him.
Mrs. Crowell began to protest, but Rutledge sent her a warning glance.
“The Army?” Tommy hesitated. “Ma wouldn’t allow it.”
“What do you prefer, when you’re hunting? Shotgun?
Revolver?”
A wariness crossed the boy’s face. Rutledge noted it, and added, “I’m a better shot with a revolver myself.” And as the words came out of his mouth, he saw himself standing over the body of Corporal Hamish MacLeod, and drawing his service revolver to deliver the coup de grâce, looking down into the pain-ridden eyes begging for release. The cottage room suddenly seemed small, airless, sending an instant of panic through him.
“Fiona...” Rutledge could hear the name as clearly as he had that night on the Somme, as the improvised firing squad stood there watching.
A hand touched his arm, and Rutledge nearly leapt out of his skin.
It was Smith, and for an instant he couldn’t remember where he was, or why.
“I’m sorry?” he said, swallowing hard. He’d missed the boy’s answer.
Tommy said, repeating his answer nervously, “I’ve never fired a real weapon.” He turned to his mother, and she nodded. “I’m better at this.” He reached on a shelf by the mantel and took down a slingshot. It was strong and well made. And someone had carved and stained it to look like horn. He held it out with a mixture of pride and anxiety. “You won’t take it, will you? Ma won’t let me use it anymore, but I like to look at it.”