Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [130]
But there were no horsemen riding out in the dawn in this part of the county, save for a farm boy kicking the sides of a horse twice his size as he made his way across a stream.
By breakfast, Rutledge had circled back as far as the Sherhams—now all too aware that he’d wasted the hours, wasted his energy, and for what? Nothing.
Had Walsh passed him just over the crest of a hill or behind a screen of trees, or lost in the shadows that collected in the mists along small streams bisecting the land?
A bitter thought. And Hamish, as tired and grim as Rutledge was, seconded this honest indictment of his abilities.
“You arena’ the man you once were. You havena’ come to terms with yoursel’, nor wi’ Scotland—”
And yet Rutledge would have sworn, if asked, that he’d been right in his decision to work back from the west.
Another thought struck him—had Walsh already been captured?
No. Rutledge had seen constables still guarding the roads west, and at the junctions running through villages. He’d seen men searching—
And Walsh would have seen them, too. As the day brightened, he might even go to ground.
The intuition he prized so highly was failing him. Rutledge accepted the truth: One man alone in a motorcar bound by the roads had no chance to work a miracle when Walsh had the flexibility of so much space.
And today luck was favoring a fleeing man who must be as weary as his pursuers, and as determined, but with Fortune—or Fate—on his side.
CHAPTER 21
BETWEEN THE SHERHAMS AND OSTERLEY, RUTLEDGE’S fatigue swept over him like a heavy blanket.
It was Hamish who shouted the warning, barely in time to prevent the motorcar from heading straight off the road into a ditch that ran with black water.
Rutledge pulled carefully to the verge and rubbed his face. The autumn dawn had broken, drawing long golden shadows across the road and among the trees, and the flickering of light and dark had mesmerized him before he had even realized it.
He took out his watch and looked at it. Most of Osterley would be at breakfast now, and the searchers straggling in like lost sheep, ready to sleep before going out again.
But it would be useless. Blevins had been stubborn— and wrong.
Walsh wasn’t in Osterley. The man was well away, on the road to Norwich, watching his back and praying that the next dip in the land didn’t bring a police blockade into view, choosing their spot where the twisting road allowed no escape, even for a man on horseback. If he had ridden the mare hard, as her owner, Randal, had feared, he would have made good time. If he’d handled her with some care, she could take him a long way in the morning light. Hunched on the saddle, his head drooping in weariness, his profile would be different. . . .
Rutledge put the car into gear again and drove several yards farther, where he could stop safely and sleep for ten—twenty—minutes. He thought of trying for Osterley and his bed, but the exhaustion went too deep.
Hamish was saying something about duty, but Rutledge didn’t hear him, wasn’t paying any heed. He slumped between the door and the seat, where his head would be cradled, and was already falling heavily into merciful sleep.
A horn blew loudly—once—twice—a third time. Rutledge came up out of waves of blackness, confused and unable for an instant to remember where he was or why.
Another car was coming up behind him, slowing, voices shouting at him.
Fighting off the last dregs of sleep, he sat up and tried to focus on what they were saying.
It was Blevins, who pulled alongside. “For God’s sake, wake up, man! What are you doing out here? Where have you been? I’ve had half of Osterley searching for you!”
Rutledge cleared his throat. “I was driving back to Osterley when I nearly ran off the road. What’s happened? Have you found Walsh?”
“A report came in just half an hour ago, and I wasted fifteen minutes hunting for you. Get in, and I’ll tell you on the road. Constable, take the Inspector’s car, will you, and follow us.”
The constable got out and