The Confession - Charles Todd [64]
Leaving his motorcar by the steps, he went inside.
The nurses were nuns in white habits, and he wondered if this had originally been a lying-in hospital for difficult maternity cases. There was a small casualty ward in the back.
The sister in charge came to meet him, prepared to make a decision on where he was to be sent, but he said, after she asked what his problem might be, “I’m here in regard to the accident case just brought to you. A man on a motorcycle.”
“Are you a relative?” she asked, pursing her lips, as if about to tell him he couldn’t go into the ward itself.
“Scotland Yard,” he told her. “I was looking for this man to help us with our inquiries.”
“Indeed. Well, then, you’re out of luck.”
Chapter 14
“He’s dead?” Rutledge asked, unprepared for this news.
“No, he is not. But he ought to be. He may yet be. Bruises and scrapes all over him. But somehow he just missed breaking his head or another bone. And he left, refusing further treatment or a few hours of observation. He said his wife would be worried about him if he didn’t come home before midnight.”
But Major Russell had no wife that Rutledge knew of.
“Was he able to give you his name or tell you where he lived?”
“Not at first, but then he did tell the sister in charge that he was Mr. Fowler, Justin Fowler. From London. Later on he asked if he could take an omnibus from here to London, most particularly one that would stop somewhere near Kensington Palace.”
Damn the man! “And did he find an omnibus that would carry him to Kensington?”
“He must have done. He asked one of the orderlies which to watch for, and I was looking out the window when he left.”
“Thank you, Sister.”
“If you please, tell him he must rest. In the event there are more serious injuries than we knew of. Even a concussion. It was very foolish to go rushing off like that.”
“I will warn him,” Rutledge answered, and took his leave, his mind already dealing with the problem of Major Russell’s intentions.
For Kensington Palace was within walking distance of Chelsea, where Cynthia Farraday lived. It was also where he could find another omnibus to carry him to Victoria Station and a train to Tilbury.
Hamish said, “He’ll go for the lass. And then to Tilbury, and on to River’s Edge.”
Rutledge was already turning the crank on the motorcar. “We’ll try Chelsea first. Just in case.” As he made his way out of the village and found the London road again, he added, “He still has a head start. But the omnibus will be slow. At least we have a fairly good idea where to look. And if he isn’t in Chelsea, there’s the house in London, and after that, Essex. He knows Matron will send someone to the house, but he may think there’s time enough to clean himself up and change his clothes.”
London traffic was unexpectedly heavy for this time of night. Lorries filled with produce, motorcars, barrows, and carts vied with omnibuses and even a few larger horse-drawn vehicles, and while there were not that many of them all told, he found it difficult to make good time. The only consolation was that a lumbering omnibus would find it even harder to overtake them.
A summer’s dawn was breaking in the east when he finally reached Kensington.
A wagon laden with early cabbages was stopped stock-still in the middle of the road while the driver haggled with a woman shopkeeper over the price of his wares. Impatient, Rutledge left his motorcar in the queue and went forward to speak to the pair.
They turned as one, glaring at him as he said, “How much are your cabbages?”
The driver looked him up and down as the woman said, “Here, I was first!” Ignoring her, the man gave Rutledge a price.
It was outrageous, but without comment, Rutledge paid him for ten, handed them to the woman, and then pointed to the high seat of the cart. “Drive on. You’ve made your first sale of the day.”
Grinning, the man clambered up with alacrity and lifted his reins, calling to the horses.
But the woman said, “Here, I wished to choose