The Confession - Charles Todd [63]
Her eyes filled with tears, and she reached for her handkerchief. He gave her time to collect herself, then asked, “Was he still alive when the ambulance got to him?”
“Oh, yes. They couldn’t understand how he missed being killed.”
“Do you know where the ambulance men took him?”
But she was still locked in the horror of all she’d witnessed. “They were so long in arriving. I thought they would never come. There was a young couple who appeared from somewhere and sat with me. They wanted to put him in their motorcar, but I was afraid to try to move him. He was in pain, moaning. I couldn’t even offer him a little water. I felt so useless, and then the ambulance was there, and it was all right.”
“Do you know where I can find him?” he asked again.
“I believe he was taken to St. Anne’s. It’s about seven miles down the road. I was too distressed to ask. And so relieved to have help for him finally.” She took a deep breath, struggling against the tide of memory.
“Do you have any idea of the extent of his injuries?”
“I asked the ambulance men to tell me what was wrong. So that I could reassure whoever came looking for him. They couldn’t be certain, they told me. The cut on his forehead was bleeding profusely, and it was possible that he had sustained internal injuries, even broken ribs. Then they were shutting the doors and driving away. I just stood there, watching them go, too dazed to think what to do next.”
“Is there anyone here who could take a message to Oxfordshire?”
“Is that where the cyclist is from? There’s the man who sees to my gardens for me. He won’t mind going, he has friends in Oxford. A head gardener at one of the colleges and his family. I’ll give him the day off tomorrow.”
“I have the name of the Triumph’s owner. He will be glad to come and take it away.” He took out his notebook and wrote the direction, tearing away the sheet and passing it to her.
“But Scotland Yard—what had he done? This man—were you following him? Is that why you know all this?” She indicated the sheet of paper in her hand.
“I was following him to London,” Rutledge replied. That was true as far as it went. “Are you all right? Is there someone who could come and sit with you?”
“I’m just a little shaken still, but I’ll be fine,” she said, collecting herself. “It was just—seeing him fly through the air like that. It happened so quickly, I couldn’t even cry out. And then the Triumph following, as if it were intent on crushing him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite so horrible.”
He sat there for a few minutes more, talking to her until she was calmer, and then said, “I must go.”
“Would you mind terribly? Would you send word to me so that I’ll know if he lived or not? It would be kind. I really don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering.”
“I’ll see to it. The doctors may not know anything at first. They’ll have to examine the man and determine the extent of his injuries. You won’t hear straightaway. But that will be good news, actually.”
“Yes, I understand. I won’t worry. But it would be comforting to think I could put that terrible picture out of my mind, no harm done.”
He left then, still concerned for her, and went back to look at the Triumph.
And then he started his motorcar and drove directly to St. Anne’s.
It was unexpectedly difficult to find. A small hospital in one of the larger villages that had all but been swallowed up by London’s growth, it was tucked away out of sight. He had turned around at the outskirts and driven through the village a second time, when he saw the Catholic Church down a side street. A signboard identified it as St. Anne’s, and just beyond it was a square building that was set back from the road in what appeared