Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [128]
But there was little chance of her overtaking Walsh. She’d exhaust herself first, and go home. Still, it was his duty to stop her, bring her back to Osterley, and ask Mrs. Barnett to keep an eye on her.
Time was running out, and time just now was very precious.
“It’s a gamble, either way,” Hamish agreed. “If she runs afoul of Walsh, there’s trouble. For her and for you. If Blevins canna’ stop the Strong Man, and Walsh kills again while you’re distracted by this woman, it’s on your head.”
It was a gamble.
Rutledge made his choice. The most certain outcome of a night of turmoil was losing Walsh. Once the man was safely out of East Anglia, he had every prospect of staying free. He must have laid plans—
Striding through the darkness back to his own car, Rutledge’s mind outpaced his feet. What would he himself do, in the Strong Man’s shoes? How would he use this one carefully crafted opportunity?
Hamish answered, “Aye, it was well done, his escape. I canna’ believe he’d leave the rest to chance.”
“No.”
Walsh had apparently been a friendly and popular showman, whatever darker shades of his nature lurked beneath the smiling surface. The success of his act had depended on pleasing the public. “Step up, ladies, and test the Strong Man for yourselves. . . . See, here’s a bench, and all you have to do is seat yourselves at either end. . . . Don’t be afraid, you’re as safe as a babe in arms, I won’t drop you. . . . Who’ll wager a bob to see if the Strong Man can pull this carriage as well as any horse. . . . All right, lads, who among you wants to lift the Strong Man’s Iron Hammer. . . .”
There must be colleagues he could turn to, someone who would offer him temporary shelter, money to move on—and silence. It was, by necessity, a closed fraternity, this showman’s world. People who traveled from place to place to earn their living put down no roots, and counted on the goodwill of their own in place of family. Many of them had had scrapes with the law, and they’d believe Walsh when he claimed he was innocent. The police were a common enemy.
A closed fraternity also meant that not even the redoubtable Sergeant Gibson at the Yard had a ghost of a chance to trace him once Walsh disappeared into it. Big as he was, he could still vanish. The key was to stop him before he reached that safety.
Rutledge bent to turn the crank and then got behind the wheel of his motorcar. But if the object of this exercise was to block Walsh’s escape, the question became How? Cutting across country as he was, he could be anywhere.
Hamish said, “What precipitated his escape?”
“At a guess, he chose tonight because Franklin was on duty—young enough and naive enough to be gulled. Innocent or guilty, men of Walsh’s ilk don’t rely on justice to set them free. Blevins and his people made no secret of the fact that they were eager to see Walsh hang. Or— perhaps he wanted to find out for himself that Iris Kenneth was alive.”
“No man would choose to die by the rope,” Hamish reminded him.
Rutledge turned west. It was instinct and not reason that guided him now. Somewhere before Hunstanton on the north coast, Walsh must pick up the road to King’s Lynn. Key to the rest of England.
Inland from the coast road were a hundred hills and meadows that would provide better cover. But on the other side of the coin, estates like Lord Sedgwick’s and villages like East Sherham would block Walsh’s path, forcing him slightly north . . . toward the road.
Hamish was swift to remind Rutledge that he was counting on unadulterated luck.
Yet Rutledge had the strongest feeling that if he drove as far west as the turning for Burnham Market, and then began to follow the tangle of roads that led back to the east from there, he might just have that stroke of luck. . . .
The sky was lighter now; he could no longer see his face reflected in the dark windscreen. And—thank God—never Hamish’s.
He scanned the horizons, eyes only half on the road.
A horseman silhouetted against the horizon wouldn’t attract much attention. But Walsh would