Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [135]
Mrs. Barnett raised her eyebrows in surprise. “But she left last night shortly after you did. Miss Trent. I thought you knew!”
“She hasn’t come back?”
“No. I’d locked the outer door, you see. Until a quarter of an hour ago. Of course I’d have heard the bell, she’d have no other way of getting in. And I’ve been awake since the telephone rang.”
“Never mind, then. Er—do you think I could have a cup of tea before I leave?” He couldn’t worry about May Trent now. . . .
She looked at him, must have seen the weariness eating into the bones of his face. “Must you go out again? Surely Miss Connaught is better off where she is, while they’re still searching!”
“Blevins has called it off. The search. Walsh was found.”
“Well, that’s a great relief, isn’t it? It means we’re all safe. I’ve just put the kettle on. And I think there’s some cold bacon and a little cheese, if you want me to make up a sandwich.”
“Please!”
As Rutledge climbed the stairs, Hamish said, “The woman’s right. Sleep for an hour—there isna’ any need for haste.”
He answered, “She gave someone my name—the farmer or the dairyman—and sent him out to find a telephone. I should have stopped her rather than drive half the night on a fool’s quest. In a way, whatever has happened is my fault.”
When he opened the door of his room it seemed to open its arms to him, welcoming and silent and still dark, with the shades drawn. But he ignored the temptation of the waiting bed and walked across the carpet to run his fingers again over the bristles of his chin. He felt grimy, unkempt. Shaving and a clean shirt would help.
The face staring back at him from his mirror as he worked up a lather in his mug and applied the brush to his cheeks and throat was gaunt, with the dark growth of beard lending it a sinister look. Hamish reminded him that he could pass more easily as a murderer than the dead Walsh.
Rutledge could still see the big hands lying limp, without force, on the grass, and the flaccid muscles that had once given the impression of great power to the Strong Man’s shoulders. In his mind’s eye, as he shaved, he reexamined the wound. An irony—a horseshoe spelling the end of the road for an escaping murderer.
What were the lines he’d found so fascinating as a boy? Something about for want of a shoe, a horse was lost—for want of a horse, a rider was lost—and it went on in that vein until a battle was lost. . . .
Certainly for Blevins, the battle had been lost.
Ten minutes to shave, wash up, and change, and then Rutledge was calling to Mrs. Barnett as he crossed the lobby.
She was just coming through the kitchen doorway, carrying a thermos of tea, a basket of sandwiches, and two cups. She said, “Don’t break the cups, will you? I need them back.”
“I’ll be careful. Why did Miss Trent leave? Orders were for everyone to stay indoors until Walsh was caught.”
Suddenly anxious, Mrs. Barnett asked, “You did say you’d found him, didn’t you? I’m afraid I’m beyond thinking just now.”
“We found him. He’s dead.” It was terse, and he hadn’t meant for the words to sound that way.
“Dead—”
“Why did Miss Trent leave?” he repeated.
“She was rather worried about Peter Henderson—all that searching, people moving about—and if he didn’t know why, it’d be upsetting. I expect Peter could take care of himself; he’s quite at home in the night. I mean, from the War and all that. I’ve seen him wandering about at all hours, just—wandering. Sometimes he stands on the quay and stares up at the hotel. Not in a threatening way, you understand. I think the light comforts him somehow. I don’t know how many times I’ve asked him to come in out of the rain, but he always shook his head and thanked me and walked on. I leave him alone, now. I’m sure he’d hear the search parties long before they saw him!”
Or hear Walsh, blundering through the dark?
Hamish reminded him, “Ye wondered, once, where he slept at night. . . .”
So he had. Rutledge thanked her and went out into the brisk wind that had arisen, thinking he ought to have brought his coat. But he didn’t have the energy to go back for