A Fearsome Doubt - Charles Todd [127]
It took a formidable act of will to accept Dowling’s proposition.
They found the young constable, Weaver, his face shiny with nervous sweat, standing at the gate to the doctor’s surgery, and even as they drew up and the constable stepped into the motorcar, Pugh came running out his door, bag in hand, to join him in the rear seat.
Dr. Pugh was a slim man in his fifties, with a high forehead and an air of competence. “I’ve had to put off the rest of my patients,” he said. “I hope this isn’t a mad scramble for nothing. Weaver says Adams didn’t see the body.”
They drove quickly out of Marling, and at the crossroads—where Harry Bartlett had been killed the night Rutledge was driving Elizabeth Mayhew home from the Hamiltons’ party—he could recall clearly the German’s face in his headlamps, eyes wide and alarmed. Where was Hauser now?
Burke nodded to the two men manning the block across the road, and climbed into the motorcar beside the doctor. Rutledge could feel the springs dip under Burke’s weight, and he felt, too, the claustrophobic sense of humanity crowding in around him, cutting off escape and air, thrusting Hamish into the forefront of his brain.
Burke was saying, “—It’s not likely we’ll find our man at the cottage, sir; by now he’s more than likely well on his way to wherever it is he goes to earth.”
“That’s as may be,” Dowling answered sharply. “But this is the closest we’ve been to him. We’ll make the best of it.”
Silence fell, and the sound of the motor was clear in the fading light, a reminder of speed. But not fast enough to satisfy Rutledge, as Hamish grumbled incessantly from the direction of Sergeant Burke’s lap. Rutledge drove grimly, increasing his speed in spite of the wet and rutted road.
He had passed fields, several farms, and was coming up on the small stand of trees that led to Brereton’s cottage when Dowling said, “We ought to pull up here. No need to spoil whatever prints may be there.”
Rutledge stopped the car, and waited as they all alighted. As the cool air blew through the open vehicle, he could feel relief sweeping over him as if a veil were being lifted. The chiding voice in his head subsided, and he shook himself like a dog, half a shiver, half a shudder.
Getting out to follow the others, he kept his eyes on the road. Among the wagon tracks, droppings, imprints of tires, and the footprints of a man in heavy boots, there was nothing of interest. Their killer would have been too clever to leave his mark in the mud when he could walk on the grassy verge—he’d already shown himself to be careful and elusive . . . adept at escaping detection.
Rutledge caught the other men up as they turned in the gate. The bicycle was gone, and he pointed this out to Inspector Dowling.
“Then he’s well ahead of us, I’m afraid,” Dowling answered with a sigh.
The door was ajar, apparently the way Adams had left it in his haste to report to the police. A neat stack of firewood covered with a tarpaulin stood to the east of the house, and Adams must have looked in to ask for his money after delivering it.
As they began to push the door wider, Lucinda came to greet them, her tail high as she made a sound of welcome. Sergeant Burke scooped her up and held her against his chest as he stepped into the cottage.
The room was not wrecked, as Rutledge had expected, but there were unarguable signs of a struggle—books scattered, a lamp and chairs overturned, a table on end, and what appeared to be blood drying in front of the hearth; Lucinda had stepped in it at some point: her prints led across the patch and back onto the bare floorboards.
There was also a smear of blood on one wall and streaks on an overturned chair, drops scattered here and there as dark spots on polished surfaces and the floor.
Of Brereton, alive or dead, there was no sign.
But most telling was a bottle of wine spilled on the table and running down