The Confession - Charles Todd [62]
Chapter 13
Rutledge scanned the distance, searching for some sign that he was closing the gap with the Triumph, but it was wishful thinking, and Hamish relentlessly pointed that out.
Whatever he’d set in motion, he had to stop it.
And still there was nothing ahead, no small red light to guide him.
Russell, he thought, was driving recklessly, his anger goading him.
His own concentration was intense, passing through countryside, avoiding a horse cart moving slowly or a gaggle of geese waddling toward a pond, then through one village after the other with lamplight marking the street in tidy squares. Back into the countryside once more, before finding himself in a fair-size town where people were strolling in the warm summer evening. His eyes readjusting as he returned to the pitch-dark of farms and woods once more. Even Hamish was shut out, and the silence was unsettling.
Had Russell turned off? Taken a different route from the one Rutledge had expected him to take? It was becoming more and more likely, and without a moon, it was impossible to push the motorcar any harder on unfamiliar roads.
And then six miles outside London, he caught up with his quarry.
He nearly missed it, all his attention on negotiating an unexpectedly sharp bend in the road.
The Triumph lay in a ditch, front wheel twisted, and it was the brief flash of the headlamps on metal that caught Rutledge’s eye.
Braking hard, slewing the motorcar halfway across the road, nearly sliding into the ditch on the far side himself, he came to a rocking halt, thanking God no one had been coming from the other direction.
He got out quickly and ran to examine the wreckage, shining his torch across it, expecting to find Major Russell there in its beam, dead or dying, entangled in the ruins of the machine. Cursing himself and Russell in the same breath.
George Hiller’s Trusty had suffered from the great flaw of its kind, the front fork spring that could take only so much rough handling before breaking. In France, where the roads were even rougher than here in England, a leather strap had often been added for extra support, allowing the rider to cut cross-country when conditions made it necessary.
But the Major wasn’t there. Not beside the motorcycle. Not under it.
Dropping to one knee, Rutledge shone the torch over the machine and the bruised grass beneath it, trying to comprehend how Russell could have escaped unscathed. It would have taken a miracle, he told himself. And then he saw the blood.
He got to his feet and looked around. There was a house just on the far side of the bend, and a light shone from the front window. Stopping only to move his motorcar to a safer place than the middle of the road, he went quickly to knock on the door.
A tall, slim woman with iron gray hair opened it. He was struck by her eyes, dark and intelligent—and red rimmed with weeping.
“My name is Rutledge. Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard. Did you by any chance see the accident with that motorcycle in the ditch?”
She stared at him for a moment, then said, “You’d better come in.”
He walked into the very handsome parlor and sat down on the dark blue couch that she indicated. “May I ask your name?”
“Marilyn Furman.”
“And did you see the accident?” he asked again.
“I was just coming home, I hadn’t even opened my door when I heard the cyclist coming around the bend at great speed. And then something happened, I don’t know what it was. It was as if the front balked, like a horse at a fence. I heard the rider cry out, and then he was flying over the handlebars. The next thing I knew, he was in the ditch, and the motorcycle was coming straight toward him as it slid in the dust.” She turned away. “It was quite terrible. I heard him cry out a second time. And then nothing. I was afraid to go across to him. I didn’t even want to think about what I might see. But I took my torch and made myself do it, and to my astonishment, he was alive. People from down the road had heard the noise