A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [13]
A night’s sleep he was not to have. There was a constable on his doorstep, standing there with the stoic air of a man prepared to remain at his post until Doomsday, if that was required of him.
When he saw Rutledge step out of his motorcar, he waited until his quarry turned toward him to say, “Evening, sir. Chief Superintendent Bowles’s compliments, sir, and will you come to the Yard at once.”
Rutledge doubted that the chief superintendent had said anything about compliments. But he nodded and replied, “Come in, while I change.”
“I’m to bring you as soon as I find you, begging your pardon, sir.”
“Constable Burns, isn’t it? Well, Constable, I am not appearing at the Yard in evening dress, and there’s an end of it. Another five minutes won’t matter.” He unlocked the door to his flat and added with more humor than he felt, “I won’t tell him if you don’t.”
“No, sir. Yes, sir,” Burns replied woodenly, and followed him into the flat as if expecting him to escape through a back window.
It was, in fact, seven minutes before Rutledge was ready to leave. He felt as if he were moving in treacle, every task seeming to require more effort than he could muster.
Rutledge drove, and Burns sat silently beside him like a waxwork figure. Rutledge found himself thinking that he would be asleep before he reached the Yard. In an effort to keep himself alert, he said, “How long have you been waiting, Constable?”
“Two hours, sir. A little over.”
“At least it was a pleasant night.”
“Yes, sir.”
Was I ever that green? Rutledge found himself wondering. It seemed a long time ago that he’d been a constable. Centuries. Eons. But it hadn’t been ten years.
They arrived at the Yard, and Burns waited while Rutledge saw to the motorcar, then accompanied him inside and to the door of the Chief Superintendent’s office, as if half afraid his quarry would bolt if left alone.
Rutledge knocked, and then entered at Bowles’s curt command.
Burns disappeared down the shadowy passage, duty done.
Rutledge shut the door and faced his superior.
Bowles was in a subdued mood. Instead of what Rutledge expected to hear from him—“It took you long enough to get here!”—the Chief Superintendent said, “I want you to leave tonight for Berkshire, if you will. Your destination is half a dozen houses not far from Uffington. They’re called the Tomlin Cottages. Hardly enough of them to dignify the name hamlet, but there you are. You’ve a watching brief, nothing more.”
“Why not use a local man?” Rutledge asked.
“It’s not something for the local people to worry themselves about. The War Office has misplaced one of its own, and they don’t want him to get the wind up, thinking they’re watching him. But the fact is, they are. Rather an odd sort, I’m told, tends to do things his way, disappears sometimes, and for all I know gets roaring drunk and alarms the neighbors. A routine look-in was unsatisfactory, and in the event he’s got himself into trouble, they want it dealt with quickly and efficiently, to avoid gossip.”
“But the Yard—”
“Isn’t in the business of minding fools. My view as well. But when you’ve been asked nicely, you do as you’re told.” He turned to look out the window. “They were impressed, they said, with the way you handled matters in Warwickshire last June. See that you don’t disappoint them now.” It was grudging, as if the words were forced out of him. Or required of him?
“What excuse do I have for being there?”
“There’s that damned great white horse on the hillside.” Bowles turned back to the room. “Done in chalk. People come to stare at it, and strangers are taken for granted. Not liked, mind you, but for the most part ignored.”
The damned great white horse was a chalk figure from the prehistoric past, and of all the chalk figures, possibly Rutledge’s favorite. He’d been taken to see it as a child and allowed to walk the bounds.
“Who is the man I’m to watch? How will I know him?”
“It