Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [124]
The sheds were empty. Hadley shone his light around each in turn, while Randal peered intently at the contents— farm tools, old gear and wheels, tubs and barrows, often rusted and broken. From time to time he poked the heavy staff viciously into the shadows behind them. “No. Nothing taken,” he said as they finished the outbuildings and turned toward the barn. “And not likely to be,” he muttered. “Damn fool waste of time.”
But it was a different story in the barn. The stalls where Randal’s horses were stabled lay on the far end, past the heavy wagon and the plows. There were four stalls, two of them occupied with great gray horses, staring back at the light with luminous eyes and pricked ears. The warmth of their bodies and their breath filled the night air, a homey scent of horse and straw and barn dust, and the heavier odor of manure and urine.
“God damn it to hell!” Randal swore. “Where’s Honey?”
He broke into a shambling run to throw open a stall door and lean to look inside. Hadley, right behind him, shone his light into the dark rectangle. But the horse that occupied the space was not there. Trampled straw reflected the yellow beam, and a clump of droppings.
Randal, beside himself, cried, “She’s my best mare—if he’s hurt her—”
Rutledge looked at the size of the other horses. Norfolk bred, they were very large, heavy-boned, and tall.
Hamish spoke, startling him. “One of those would bear Walsh’s weight.”
Randal was nearly dancing with anger now, clutching his staff in a white-knuckled grip, pounding it against the flagstone floor with every other word as he demanded to know what had become of his mare. A string of profanity indicated what he was prepared to do with the thief when he caught up with him.
Rutledge said, “Was—er—Honey the same size as these two?”
“Of course she is! That’s her son, the darker one. And t’other is her daughter.”
They hurried out of the barn, and searched the yard. But there was no sign of the horse, and it was too dark to be sure whether there were other footprints in the dust besides theirs.
“Where would she go, if she got loose?” Rutledge asked.
“She wouldn’t leave the barn.” Randal spoke with ill-concealed impatience, as if Rutledge were daft. “She’d never leave the barn, unless someone came in and took her.”
“The dog,” Rutledge said. “Do you think he could track her?”
“That old fool? He’s not worth a farthing! I keep him for his bark, not his common sense!”
Randal was staring around the yard, fuming, as if expecting Honey to come toward them, head down sheepishly, to snuffle his robe for apples.
But the mare was gone, and Rutledge thought the odds were very good that Walsh had taken her. The farm wasn’t, as the crow flew, all that far from Osterley and Holy Trinity.
He turned to Hadley. “Where would he go? If he’d taken the horse?”
Hadley shrugged heavy shoulders. “Through the meadow there, and the trees beyond. After that, who knows? He could travel some distance without being seen, if he kept his wits about him and didn’t stir up dogs.”
“We’ll have to come back in the morning. We can’t follow him now. Not across the fields on foot.”
But Randal was adamant that they go after the fugitive immediately. “Honey’s got a soft mouth, but he won’t know that, will he? Bastard’ll ride her until she drops, most like. I want her back, and I won’t wait for morning!”
By Rutledge’s reckoning, Walsh had a head start of at least two hours. The first part of it on foot, as Hamish was pointing out, but with the horse under him now, he could have covered miles in any direction. South to Norwich?
It was possible. . . . But Rutledge had the feeling that Walsh wouldn’t box himself in for long—he’d leave East Anglia as swiftly as possible, and lose himself in the crowded Midlands or the outskirts of London, Liverpool, Manchester.
When Rutledge explained this to Randal, the farmer swore again, went stumping back into the barn, and began to saddle one of the remaining horses. Rutledge tried to persuade him to wait until dawn, but Tom Randal had made up his mind.