Watchers of Time (38 page)

“Not yet. Do you have another torch, Vicar?”

“Yes—there’s one in the kitchen.” He went to fetch it.

“Brave man,” Rutledge commented, “to tackle these grounds alone, and in the middle of the night!”

“He was terrified for his life, if you ask me,” Blevins said sourly. “I would have been, the surviving clergyman in the village.”

“Sims hadn’t been told about the escape. And Walsh would have no reason to kill Sims.”

“So you say. Who knows what he’s capable of?”

Sims returned with the torch, and Rutledge followed Blevins out of the vicarage, down the drive, and up the hill to the church. They walked in silence, their path just visible in the light of the half moon, but it was sinking fast.

The churchyard was empty, the white stones ghostly in the pale light, their shapes stark against the dark shadows of hummocky grass.

“If there was anyone here, he’s gone now,” Blevins said softly.

They walked on toward the north porch door. It screeched like the imps of hell as Blevins pushed it open, and he swore from the start it gave him.

Hamish said, “At least yon Strong Man canna’ slip away fra’ ye!”

“Walsh? Are you here?” the Inspector called. “The church is surrounded, man, you haven’t a chance of getting out of here! Might as well surrender now, and save yourself a rough time of it if you try to run!”

Blevins’s voice echoed in the stillness, bouncing from the rafters and around the stone walls, giving it a strangely unnatural sound.

There was no answer.

“Walsh? You didn’t hurt the constable. You can go back quietly to the station, and nothing will happen to you. Do you hear me? But if we have to winkle you out of this church, and you do any damage here, I’ll have your hide for garters. Big as you are, I’m not afraid of you!”

Nothing but his own words came back at him.

The moonlight seeping through the stained glass of the windows cast awkward patterns around the pews, gray here, black there, and the shape of a poppyhead outlined against a pane.

Rutledge thought,
He’ll be impossible to find before
daylight, if he’s here.

Blevins turned on the torch, blinding them and spoiling their night vision. Flashing it around the stone floor, across the backs of the pews, toward the choir screen in sweeps that raked the great nave with crossbars of light, he covered as much of the darkness as possible.

Rutledge said, “He has the advantage now. We’ll have to guard the doors until morning.”

“No, I intend to finish this now. You go toward the tower. I’ll move toward the choir.” He turned among the pews, his heels scraping on the stone flags. A man determined to get what he wanted.

Rutledge went on toward the tower, letting his eyes readjust to the darkness, using the great window there as his mark. Hamish, whose hearing had always been keen on night watches, said, “There isna’ anyone here—”

Blevins blundered into something. He grunted heavily and then called, “I’m all right.”

Rutledge made his way along one wall, reached the tower, and started into the opening.

His foot caught something on the floor, and the rattle of chain startled him. Leaping back out of reach, he knelt and began to sweep the floor with his hands. Nothing. Neither flesh nor cold iron. He moved six inches forward and repeated his sweep.

His fingers touched iron this time, and fumbled across thick links of chain.

“Blevins,” he called, not raising his voice. “I’ve found something. Bring your torch.”

Blevins turned and came toward Rutledge, the silvery light shining on his face.

“Down here, man!” Rutledge snarled. “Not into my eyes!”

The torch reached Rutledge’s knees and moved ahead.

On the stone floor lay a chisel, a great hammer, and the chains that had been around Walsh’s wrists and ankles.

But there was no sign of Blevins’s prisoner.

CHAPTER 20

RUTLEDGE DROVE EAST ON THE MAIN road out of Osterley, a ruddy-faced, yawning farmer beside him in the motorcar.

In the rear seat, Hamish stirred uneasily, and Rutledge felt every shift and movement as if it were real.

Blevins had acted swiftly, sending constables and any able-bodied man they could rouse to knock on doors, recruiting more men as the search for the Strong Man widened.

One party went out into the marshes to look for missing boats. The greengrocer and the barman at The Pelican accompanied Dr. Stephenson in his motorcar driving out on the western road toward Wells Next The Sea and Hunstanton.

Six men set out on the road toward East Sherham, while others fanned out through Osterley, looking behind fences, opening the doors of sheds, waking householders to ask if they’d heard anything, seen anyone. Bobbing lanterns marked their progress through the darkness like a great Chinese dragon, and wives watched from windows, shushing children who were unsettled by the night’s noises.

The road east toward Cley was the least likely direction to search, but it had to be covered. There was nothing here but the North Sea and a dead end—a man on the run would quickly find himself in a box, with nowhere to turn but south. Still, several roads that led down toward Norwich branched off from the Cley Road, and these were Rutledge’s goals.

The farmer, a man of few words, roused himself to remark, “ ’Course
he
might be clever enough to come this way, on purpose to throw the hunt off.”

Driving slowly, his headlamps scouring the road ahead while the farmer watched the verges, Rutledge could feel nothing—no sense of a fugitive hiding in the edges of the marsh or ducking behind trees and garden gates. He’d mastered that instinct during the War, where German snipers were skilled at picking off the unwary, and machine gunners hidden in cleverly disguised trenches and shell holes and uprooted trees waited for the onslaught of troops, holding fire until the unsuspecting were well within range. Hamish, behind him, seemed to keep watch as well, softly noting a high growth of shrub or a clump of wind-twisted trees that provided a likely covert for the human fox they were hunting.

The one factor on their side, Rutledge found himself thinking, was that Walsh was too big to hide himself in smaller and harder-to-see coverts. But in the dark, out in the marshes with their sluices and dikes, shadows could play deadly tricks. . . .

The farmer cleared his throat. “Ain’t likely, is it, that we’re going to find him in the dark? It’ud take an army searching in daylight—”

He broke off as a dog turned out of a field and trotted down the road, caught brilliantly in the headlamps. “That’s old Tom Randal’s dog—blessed beast got out again. I never saw such a one for wandering off every chance that comes. You’d think he’d be grateful for a good home!”

They were nearly past the dog when the farmer sat up and added, “On second thoughts, mayhap we should look in on Randal. Can you turn this thing around?”

Rutledge saw a drive ahead next to a high wall. He reversed into it and went back down the dark, empty road, the way he’d come. The dog had already disappeared into a patch of thick reeds and grasses.

“Just there!” the farmer finally said, pointing to a turning. A small cottage was set back from the road on the inland side, half lost among trees and a wild tangle of shrubbery. “Not much now, but once it was a pretty enough place. My wife treasured the plant cuttings Mrs. Randal offered her. She’s gone now, Mrs. Randal, some six or seven years back. Tom’s let her gardens run to seed.”

Rutledge drew up in the rutted, overgrown drive. The house was dark, hunching in on itself, vines running up the porch and struggling to hide the windows on the first floor.

Hamish said, “If ye believed in witches—”

Rutledge smothered a chuckle. The house needed only a cauldron smoking in the yard.

They walked to the door and with his fist the farmer pounded on the panels as hard as he could. “Deaf as a post,” he explained. “When he wants to be. My wife always claimed he’d rather be left alone.”

After a time, someone threw up the sash of the window just above the porch. It squealed with a shriek like a night bird’s. As Rutledge winced, a gray head appeared in the opening and called down, “Who’s there?”

“It’s Sam Hadley, Tom. We need to talk to you. Come down to the door.”

“It’s past midnight,” Randal growled. “Go home to bed!”

Rutledge called, “It’s a police matter, Mr. Randal. Please come down.”

“Police?” There was a pause and then mumbled curses. The window went down with a bang, and after a long wait, the door opened.

The tall, thin man in a heavy robe tied at the waist like a sack peered out at them. He turned to Hadley and said, “That’s not Blevins!” It was accusing, as if he’d been lied to. “
Nor
one of his constables!”

“Inspector Rutledge, from Scotland Yard in London, Mr. Randal. A man suspected of murder escaped from custody tonight in Osterley, a man named Walsh. We’re searching for him.”

Randal watched his lips closely as he spoke, then looked up at his eyes. “Walsh. That the one killed the priest?”

“He could be dangerous. He’s larger than most, with wide shoulders and noticeable strength.” He went on to describe the fugitive. This time, as Randal listened, he forgot to watch Rutledge’s lips.

“Nobody’s been here. I’d have known—”

“That yellow dog of yours is out in the fields,” Hadley said. “I saw him myself. We thought we ought to come and find out if you’re all right.” He had pitched his voice between a shout and a yell.

“Dog’s out, you say?” Randal frowned. “I penned him up before I went to bed! We’d better have a look at the outbuildings, then. Wait here.” He closed the door, and came back shortly with heavy shoes on his feet and a heavy staff in his hands, solid oak and thick enough to kill a man. “That a torch you have, Hadley?”

Hadley flicked it on and they made their way toward the back of the house, where a barn and several sheds showed signs of age, but were in better condition than the front garden. Randal, Rutledge thought, had his priorities right.

The sheds were empty. Hadley shone his light around each in turn, while Randal peered intently at the contents— farm tools, old gear and wheels, tubs and barrows, often rusted and broken. From time to time he poked the heavy staff viciously into the shadows behind them. “No. Nothing taken,” he said as they finished the outbuildings and turned toward the barn. “And not likely to be,” he muttered. “Damn fool waste of time.”

But it was a different story in the barn. The stalls where Randal’s horses were stabled lay on the far end, past the heavy wagon and the plows. There were four stalls, two of them occupied with great gray horses, staring back at the light with luminous eyes and pricked ears. The warmth of their bodies and their breath filled the night air, a homey scent of horse and straw and barn dust, and the heavier odor of manure and urine.

“God damn it to hell!” Randal swore. “Where’s Honey?”

He broke into a shambling run to throw open a stall door and lean to look inside. Hadley, right behind him, shone his light into the dark rectangle. But the horse that occupied the space was not there. Trampled straw reflected the yellow beam, and a clump of droppings.

Randal, beside himself, cried, “She’s my best mare—if he’s
hurt
her—”

Rutledge looked at the size of the other horses. Norfolk bred, they were very large, heavy-boned, and tall.

Hamish spoke, startling him. “One of those would bear Walsh’s weight.”

Randal was nearly dancing with anger now, clutching his staff in a white-knuckled grip, pounding it against the flagstone floor with every other word as he demanded to know what had become of his mare. A string of profanity indicated what he was prepared to do with the thief when he caught up with him.

Rutledge said, “Was—er—Honey the same size as these two?”

“Of course she is! That’s her son, the darker one. And t’other is her daughter.”

They hurried out of the barn, and searched the yard. But there was no sign of the horse, and it was too dark to be sure whether there were other footprints in the dust besides theirs.

“Where would she go, if she got loose?” Rutledge asked.

“She wouldn’t leave the barn.” Randal spoke with ill-concealed impatience, as if Rutledge were daft. “She’d never leave the barn, unless someone came in and took her.”

“The dog,” Rutledge said. “Do you think he could track her?”

“That old fool? He’s not worth a farthing! I keep him for his bark, not his common sense!”

Randal was staring around the yard, fuming, as if expecting Honey to come toward them, head down sheepishly, to snuffle his robe for apples.

But the mare was gone, and Rutledge thought the odds were very good that Walsh had taken her. The farm wasn’t, as the crow flew, all that far from Osterley and Holy Trinity.

He turned to Hadley. “Where would he go? If he’d taken the horse?”

Hadley shrugged heavy shoulders. “Through the meadow there, and the trees beyond. After that, who knows? He could travel some distance without being seen, if he kept his wits about him and didn’t stir up dogs.”