The Confession - Charles Todd [98]
Morrison called anxiously, “Anything?”
“Nothing.”
“Perhaps he decided to go back to the church ruins. It was closer. And he was used to it.”
“I was just there. So was Jessup. But not the Major.”
He moved on, using his sense of direction to guide him toward the road he couldn’t see, keeping the water on his right.
He’d gone perhaps three hundred yards into the grass when he realized that the track no longer led anywhere. Stopping, he looked about.
“I’ve been following a false trail,” he said aloud, irritated. “There must be another way in.”
Hamish answered him. “Nearer to the drive?”
“Yes, very likely.”
Morrison called, “What have you found? Who are you talking to?”
Rutledge shook his head and began to make his way back, trying to follow the bent grass stems that had marked his progress. A hare broke cover just in front of him, tearing off in a zigzag before darting into a thicker clump of reeds and disappearing.
He changed his mind after some ten yards, and cut toward the water, where he thought it might be less confining. Once more he had to force his way through, but he did find that a muddy water line where the river lapped into the weeds provided damp but easier going. It turned out to be better than the original track he’d taken. Once back at the lawns, he could start again.
Coming to a thin stream, drainage that fed into the river, he saw that just beyond was a larger inlet where the river had eroded the land. Swearing, he realized that to ford it, he would have to wade. There was nothing for it but to strike out inland once more. He quickly discovered that he would be wiser to follow the inlet a short distance or fight his way through a thicker stand of reeds.
The print of a boot in the soft earth warned him that he wasn’t the first to come this way recently. It was very like the one he’d seen on the floor of the garden room, but not sharp enough to be definitive.
Casting about for more, he found the Major some ten paces farther on.
Russell was lying on his side, curled into a fetal position, as if he had been in great pain, and Rutledge could see the spread of a bloodstain on the back of his coat.
He shouted to Morrison and bent over the body. It was cold to the touch as he reached out to roll the Major onto his back. And then Russell groaned, without opening his eyes.
“My God, is he alive?” Morrison asked, starting toward Rutledge.
“Go to one of the sheds. Find something we can use to bring him out. He’s bleeding and in a bad way. Be quick about it!”
Rutledge was already ripping open the man’s shirt to get a better look at his wound. And it was a gunshot wound to the chest. High enough not to kill straightaway, to the side where the ribs might not have protected the lung. There was a chance. Slim, but they had to hurry.
There was no doctor in Furnham, and Rutledge doubted that Tilbury could deal with such a wound. London, then. If Russell could be kept alive that long. And that appeared to be very doubtful.
Morrison came finally with a heavy horse blanket, struggling through the marsh grass, losing his way once but grimly persevering. His face was flushed and set from the effort. They got Russell onto it and managed between them to carry him as far as the lawns.
Bent over, his hands on his knees as he fought for breath, Morrison said, “We’ll never make it to your motorcar. Just the two of us?”
“We have to try,” Rutledge said bleakly, and they lifted the corners of the blanket again. The overgrown lawn was easier, but the drive was daunting.
Russell wasn’t a light man. They were both breathing hard and sweating heavily by the time they reached the gates, their coats left where they dropped them, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow. The grass and thick undergrowth of the drive seemed to be diabolically intent on making every step twice as difficult as it should have been.
Collecting himself, Morrison said, “We’ve probably