A few paces then I stopped and tried to think as best I could with my thinking equipment in the poor shape it was. Whoever had clobbered and tied me up might want it to be known that I had been temporarily removed from the scene: it was just as possible, for all I knew to the contrary, that he didn't. If he didn't then he couldn't have been able to afford to leave my car where it had been and would have removed it. Where? What simpler and more logical than to hide Caveil's car where he had hidden Cavell? I headed back to the garage.
The car was there. I got in, slumped wearily back on the cushions, sat there for a few minutes, then climbed as wearily out again. If someone thought it would be to his advantage not to have people know I was out of commission, then it might equally well be to my advantage not to have that someone know that I was back in commission again. How this would be to my advantage I couldn't even begin to guess at the moment, my mind was so gummed up by weakness and exhaustion and the beating I had taken that coherent thought was beyond me. All I knew was that I was dimly aware that it might be to my advantage and with the shape I was in and considering the lack of progress I was making I needed every advantage I could get. The car would be a dead giveaway. I started walking.
The driveway led to a road that was no more than a rutted track deep in water and viscous mud. I turned right, for the good enough reason that there was a long steep hill to the left, and after perhaps twenty minutes I came to a secondary road with a signpost reading "Netley Common: 2 miles." Netley Common, I knew, was on the main London-Alfringham road, about ten miles from Alfringham, which meant I'd been taken at least six miles from the A.A. box where I had been laid out. I wondered why, maybe that had been the only deserted house with a cellar within six miles.
It took me over an hour to cover the two miles to Netley, partly because of the shape I was in anyway, partly because I kept hopping into bushes and behind the cover of trees whenever a car or a cyclist came along. Netley Common itself I bypassed by taking to the fields — empty of all signs of life on that teeming and bitter October morning — and finally reached the main road where I sank down, half-kneeling, half-lying, in a ditch behind the screen of some bushes. I felt like a water-logged doll coming apart at the seams. I was so exhausted that even my chest didn't seem to be hurting any more. I was bone-chilled as a mortuary slab and shaking like a marionette in the hands of a frenzied puppeteer, I was growing old.
Twenty minutes later I had grown a great deal older. Traffic in rural Wiltshire is never up to Piccadilly standards at the best of times, but even so it was having an off-day. In that time only three cars and a bus had passed me and as they were all full or nearly so none of them was any use to me. What I wanted was a truck with only one man in it or, failing that, a car with just the driver, although how any man alone in a car would react when he saw the wild dishevelled figure of a lifer on the lam or a refugee from a canvas jacket was anybody's guess.
The next car that came along had two men in it but I didn't hesitate. I recognised the slow-moving, big, black Wolseley for what it was long before I could see the uniforms of the men inside. The car braked smoothly to a stop and a big burly sergeant, relief and concern in his face, was out and helping me to my feet as I stumbled up the bank. He had the arm and the build to carry weight and I let him take most of mine.
"Mr. Cavell?" He peered closely into my face. "It is Mr. Cavell?"
I felt I'd changed a lot in the past few hours but not all that much so I admitted I was.
"Thank God for that. There's been half a dozen police cars and heaven only knows how many of the military out looking for you for the past two hours." He helped me solicitously into the back seat. "Now you just take it easy, sir."
"I'll do just that." I eased my squelching, sodden, mud-stained figure into a corner. "I'm afraid this seat will never be the same again, Sergeant."
"Don't you worry about that, sir — plenty more cars where this one came from," he said cheerfully. He climbed in beside the constable at the wheel and picked up the microphone as the car moved off. "Your wife is waiting at the police station with Inspector Wylie."
"Wait a minute," I said quickly. "No hullaballoo about Cavell returning from the dead, Sergeant. Keep it quiet. I don't want to be taken anywhere I can be recognised. Know of any quiet spot where I could be put up and stay without being seen?"
He twisted and stared at me. He said slowly, "I don't understand."
I made to say that it didn't matter a damn whether he understood or not, but it wouldn't have been fair. Instead I said, "It is important, Sergeant. At least I think so. Any hideaway you know of?"
"Well." He hesitated. "It's difficult, Mr. Cavell—"
"There's my cottage, Sergeant," the driver volunteered.
"You know Jean's away with her mother. Mr. Cavell could have that."
"Is it quiet, has it a phone, and is it near Alfringham?" I asked.
"All three of them, sir."
"Fine. Many thanks. Sergeant, please speak to your inspector. Privately. Ask him to come to this cottage as soon as possible with my wife. With Superintendent Hardanger, if he's available. And have you — the Alfringham police, I mean — a doctor they can rely on? Who doesn't talk out of turn, I mean?"
"We do that." He peered at me. "A doctor?"
I nodded and pulled back my jacket. The rain of that morning had soaked me to the skin and the blood seeping through from the bruises, much diluted, had covered most of the shirt-front in a particularly unpleasant shade of brownish-red. The sergeant took a quick look, turned and said softly to the driver, "Come on, Rollie boy. You've always wanted to make like Moss and now's your chance. But keep your finger off that damned siren."
Then he reached for the microphone and started talking in a low urgent voice.
"I'm not going into any damned hospital and that's final," I said irritably. With a couple of ham sandwiches and half a tumbler of whisky inside me I was feeling much more my old nasty self again. "Sorry, Doc, but there it is."
"I'm sorry too." The doctor bending over me in the bed in that police bungalow was a neat, methodical and precise man with a neat, methodical and precise voice. "I can't make you go, more's the pity. I would if I could, for you're a pretty sick man in urgent need of radiological examination and hospital care. Two of your ribs seem cracked and a third is definitely fractured. How badly and how dangerously I can't say. I don't have X-ray eyes."
"Not to worry," I said reassuringly. "With the way you've strapped me up I can't see any broken ribs sticking into a lung, or out through my skin for that matter of it."
"Unless you yield to an irresistible compulsion to indulge in violent gymnastics," the doctor said dryly, "we need not concern ourselves with the possibility of you stabbing yourself to death. What does concern me is the likelihood of pneumonia — broken bones plus the exhausting, unpleasant and very wet time you've been through provide an ideal breeding ground. Pneumonia together with broken ribs make for a very nasty condition. Cemeteries are full of people who could once have testified to that fact."
"Make me laugh some more," I said sourly.
"Mrs. Cavell." He ignored me and looked at Mary, sitting still and pale on the other side of the bed. "Check respiration, pulse, temperature every hour. Any upward change in those— or difficulty in respiration — and please contact me at once. You have my number. Finally I must warn you and those gentlemen here " — he nodded to Hardanger and Wylie—"that if Mr. Cavell stirs from his bed inside the next seventy-two hours I refuse to regard myself as in any way medically responsible for his well-being."