A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [143]
Rising, he went down the stairs and started through the door. One of the drivers was leaving, his lorry backing out of the yard and moving off down the road. Rutledge watched him go, then set out on foot for the White Horse. All was well there, lamps lit in the cottages belonging to Miller, Quincy, and Mrs. Cathcart, and a thin trail of wood smoke rose from her chimney. Singleton’s cottage was dark. Then Slater came up from the village and went in his door.
The White Horse offered ambient light, and Rutledge walked its lines, as he had done with his father. Then he turned and went back to the muzzle, standing there watching the sky.
He thought it was nearly simultaneous, the flickering of fire he could see in Willingham’s windows and Brady’s. Then Partridge’s were suddenly bright, with Singleton’s not far behind. They were burning—
Rutledge raced down the hill, shouting for Slater and Quincy, but he knew it was useless. The five of them could do nothing to stop the cottages from burning.
He cursed himself for not bringing his motorcar, then remembered that Partridge’s was in the shed next to the house.
Slater finally came to his door to see what the commotion was about, and Rutledge pointed. The smith turned to stare, then wheeled back to Rutledge.
Rutledge shouted, “Partridge’s motorcar. Go for help, fast as you can.”
Quincy had heard the shouting and came out to look. Then he was back inside, his door shut.
Hamish said, “He’ll protect the birds.”
Mrs. Cathcart answered his knock and was frightened when she saw the smoke and flames. Miller came out just then and swore as he realized that his house was in danger.
Rutledge knocked on Singleton’s door, and waited, then opened it and went inside.
It was burning as well, but there was no sign of the ex-soldier.
Where had he gone?
Partridge’s motorcar kicked over on the third try, and Slater was backing out, on his way to Uffington. Rutledge took Mrs. Cathcart with him, and called to Miller to come down as well, but he stubbornly stayed where he was. Quincy was occupied in the room where he kept his collection, and Rutledge pushed Mrs. Cathcart through the door, saying, “Help him.”
It would keep her busy.
That done, he began to run toward the inn, thinking about his own motorcar standing there in the yard. Singleton was no fool. Under the cover of the fire he must have slipped away, and his best chance of putting some distance between himself and any pursuit was to go fast and far.
The motorcar was still in the yard when Rutledge, his heart hammering and his lungs burning, reached the inn. He wouldn’t have put it past Singleton to take it. Another of the lorries was pulling out, and he shouted to the driver to wait. He was ignored. There was still one of the lorries left and he dashed inside, calling to Smith. But he stopped short in the bar.
Two lorry drivers were still there—and only one vehicle remained in the yard.
He said, forcing the words out, harsh and curt, “There’s a fire at the cottages. Take your lorry to Uffington, pick as many men as you can and bring them back to help.”
The drivers were on their feet, heading for the door, and then he heard shouting.
Rutledge said to Smith, “Have you seen Singleton?”
Smith shook his head. “I’ll fetch something to drink. They’ll be needing it. Is it bad, over there?”
“The fire may spread to the occupied cottages. Tell Mrs. Smith that she may need to make up beds for tonight.”
And then he was gone, cranking his motorcar with such energy that the motor almost missed fire, then caught. His headlamps found the road as the lorry drivers demanded to know what had happened to the other vehicle. He didn’t have time to tell them.
The lorry had headed west, away from the cottages, and he followed. Singleton was having trouble keeping it on the road at speed. By the time Rutledge caught him up, he could see the rear wheels swaying as Singleton took the curves.
Rutledge swore.