A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [146]
Hamish said, “He’ll no’ leave witnesses.”
But Rutledge remained silent, listening from where he knelt at Sarah Parkinson’s side.
To Hamish he said, “I’d swear he wasn’t armed.”
“You canna’ chance it. He’s Hill’s case. You said so yourself.”
“Yes.”
He could hear the crank turning, and then the motor came to life. The driver’s door shut. Singleton was backing Rutledge’s car into the road. He could see the sweep of headlamps across the sky.
For an instant Rutledge thought Singleton might try to run them down, but the ground was too rough just where he was kneeling by Sarah, and the risk of doing serious damage to the motorcar was obvious.
And then the moment came where if Singleton was armed, he would fire.
Does he have a service revolver?
Many of the enlisted men had brought them home as souvenirs…
The motorcar idled in the road. Rutledge held his breath, keeping his back to Singleton, making sure that he was between the killer and the girl on the ground at his feet.
She said, “What’s wrong? I heard a motorcar. Is it Rebecca?”
Rutledge didn’t answer, counting the seconds as he waited.
And then Singleton was driving away, leaving them there in the night.
He could feel the tension in his back. To Sarah he said, “She’ll be here soon.”
It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes later that Rebecca was back, braking hard, calling to her sister. A door opened. A man carrying his medical bag hurried toward them. Rebecca was maneuvering the motorcar until the headlamps shone directly on her sister, giving them light to work.
The doctor was there beside Rutledge. “What’s most urgently needed?”
“The head wound. It’s bleeding heavily.”
Rebecca hadn’t emerged from the car. Rutledge thought he could hear her teeth chattering over the sound of the engine.
“Head wounds generally do. Next?”
“Right arm. Broken, I think. Cuts and bruises. I don’t know about her back. But she can feel pain. All over, she says.”
“A good thing.” He began to work, slowly at first and then with greater assurance as he learned the extent of Sarah Parkinson’s injuries. He did what he could to brace the broken arm, put bandaging over the head wound, and then turned to Rutledge.
“She’ll be all right, but I daresay there’s concussion, and shock is setting in. We need to get her to hospital.”
Rutledge said, “There’s a rug—” But his motorcar was gone. He called to Rebecca Parkinson. “Do you have a rug, there?”
“Yes, I think—”
He could hear her getting out now, coming toward them. “Is she alive?” Her voice was under control, but tense with stress.
“She’s all right,” he told Rebecca and took the rug from her, helping the doctor wrap Sarah in it. Between them the two men carried her to the motorcar and lifted her into the rear seat. It must have hurt like the very devil.
The doctor got in after her and made certain she was comfortable. Then he turned to Rutledge. “Anderson’s the name.”
“Rutledge.” He nodded to Rebecca. “I’ll drive.”
“All right, I’ll direct you. Can we get around that lorry?”
“I think so.”
“That’s the fastest way. What’s become of the driver? Is he dead?”
“He went for help.”
Anderson nodded. “Then we needn’t concern ourselves with him.”
Sarah regained consciousness several times, complaining of feeling cold and hurting. Anderson reassured her, but Rebecca, next to Rutledge, didn’t look back or answer her sister.
They drove into a medium-size town where there was a hospital of sorts near the church. It had, Anderson was telling him, been a lying-in hospital before the war and after that had been turned into a burn treatment center. “But most of the patients have been sent elsewhere now, and the town has taken it over.”
“Where are we?”
“Salverton.”
“I need to find a telephone as soon as possible. The lorry is still blocking the road.”
“Yes, of course. The hotel just down that street should have one. Give me a moment to find someone with a stretcher. Then you can go.”
Rutledge stayed until Sarah Parkinson was in a room on the first floor, nurses working over her with quiet