Simon glanced at Roger. “Is that true?”
“True enough. I haven’t been there in three years.”
I said, “Still-it’s the only place we haven’t looked. Simon-we ought to hurry.”
Lydia said, “Wait for me!” Leaving the motorcar by the inn, she came quickly over to ours.
Roger, visibly torn between going with us and his concern for his grandmother, said, “I’ll follow as quickly as I can.”
“Search the grounds at Vixen Hill. It’s where the doctor’s body was left,” Simon told him, and then we were away, keeping to a steady pace through the rest of Hartfield, and then driving fast as we reached the heath, holding the heavy motorcar on the track.
I said to Simon, “It’s possible we will find both of them there. If he’s hurt that child-!”
“I don’t know why he took her,” he said grimly. “He has nothing to gain by harming her.”
“Don’t even think it,” Lydia said from the rear seat, her voice frightened.
“Tell us where to find the turning,” I said to her over my shoulder. “I can’t be sure I’ll recognize it in the dark.”
“And I don’t understand why anyone would want to harm Willy. He’s not very bright, and he muddles things. Whoever is doing this must be mad.”
The motorcar rocked, as if shaken by a giant hand, then steadied as we bounced high over a deeper rut. I could see sheep, ghostly white, staring at us as we passed, as if we were the ones who were mad.
“We think it must be Constable Bates.” I explained to her what had happened. “I’d made the mistake of telling him that I was searching for Willy. Constable Bates must have gone to look for him straightaway.”
“But where is Willy now? Surely not the mill-how would Bates get him there?”
Simon told her about the horse. “And I saw him earlier, before all this began, driving the Inspector’s motorcar.”
She leaned forward. “He’s the one who always frightened me. The one with the cold eyes. But he’s a policeman. Why would he murder someone? I know, I know. The court-martial. Still, this man Halloran could be someone else, quietly living in another part of the Forest.”
“There’s that,” Simon agreed, but I could tell he didn’t believe it.
“Has he lived here for very long? Does his family come from here?” I asked.
“I know almost nothing about him. Constable Austin could probably tell you more. I think something was said about Constable Bates coming from Cornwall, but I don’t know if that’s true or not. At a guess, he’s been here two years? I know Constable Freeman died of cancer the first year of the war, and it was hard to find a replacement. Oh-there’s the turning!”
We nearly missed it. Simon stopped as quickly as he could, then reversed. I could see as the headlamps swept it that our way was going to be much rougher here. A horse made sense.
About three miles down the track we were now traveling, I thought I could see the windmill ahead against the night sky, blotting out the stars. The top was misshapen, as if it had rotted through, and the arms were mere skeletons. I pointed it out to Simon.
“That’s it,” Lydia said, from just behind my shoulder. “I don’t think it’s been used since Roger’s grandfather’s day. There’s a new mill on the road to Groombridge.”
Simon switched off the headlamps, pulling over to the edge of the track.
“We ought to walk from here,” he said quietly. “Sounds carry in the night.”
He got out, and I followed him, asking Lydia to wait in the motorcar.
“I’d rather come with you,” she said in a small voice, and I remembered that she had not cared for the heath at night.
“You’ll be all right. Use the horn if anyone comes near you. Anyone. We dare not leave the motorcar empty.”
“Yes, all right,” she said, climbing into the driver’s seat. I saw her rest her hand on the horn.
And then Simon and I were off across the heath. It was rough going, although the stark black shapes of the wind-twisted heather and gorse were easy enough to see. It was the roots sprawling out between them that caught at our feet. Simon had taken my hand to guide me, and together we made fairly good time.
The windmill grew larger. Bare of sails, it looked ominous against the night sky. The black weathered wood looked as if it had come from the gorse under our feet.
“There must be an opening,” I said and nearly went flat on my face as the toe of my shoe snagged a root.
“The other side.”
We reached the mill, and it was easier going, a cleared space around it not yet swallowed up by the heath. There was a window higher up, but I didn’t think anyone was there. Still, we were more easily spotted than someone inside the shadowed interior.
“He’s not here.”
Simon leaned over to whisper against my hair. “Don’t be too sure. There must be another way in.”
Making our way silently around the rough wooden sides, we found a door. It was merely a blacker rectangle, standing half open, as if it had been left that way so long ago that the door had petrified in that position. A torch gave too much light. I reached into my pocket for matches, and pressed several into Simon’s palm.
It was then I heard the whimpering, like a puppy left alone in the dark.
I would have dashed inside without thinking but for Simon’s hand clamping down on my shoulder. I winced and stood still.
We waited, straining to hear the smallest sounds from inside. But there was nothing, not even the scurrying of a rat.
Simon struck a match and held it just inside.
Shadows danced about the walls, but we could see very little. Part of the upper floor had come down, half filling the ground floor.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll go first.” And lighting a second match, he stepped inside as quickly as if he were entering the tent of a suspected tribesman. I tried to see around him, but he was blocking my view. A third match, and then he said, “All clear. Watch out. There are timbers everywhere, and Willy’s body is just beyond the door.”
“And Sophie?”
“She’s on the stone. I think she’s well enough. I could see eyes peering at me.”
He flicked on his torch, the light blinding both of us, and we had to stand still until our eyes adjusted to it. As soon as I could pick out her shape, I walked over to Sophie. She opened her arms to me, and I picked her up.
“I don’t like it,” she said to me in French. “Dark.”
“Yes, darling, we’ll have you out of here quickly. Simon, she’s all right. How is Willy?”
He was bending over the man. “There’s blood on the back of his head. But he’s still breathing.”
“There’s the scarf in the motorcar. I meant it for him. We can bind his head with that. But how do we get him there?”
Simon was rummaging around now and discovered some sacks in a corner, but they were filthy and rotting.
“Lydia can take Sophie, and then I’ll be free to help you.” I stepped outside and called to her.
She refused to come at first, then stepped down from the motorcar and whimpering almost in imitation of Sophie, she made her way through the dark. When she finally reached me, she gripped my arm with anxious fingers. “Why would anyone do this to a child? I find it hard to believe.” Taking Sophie from me, she shivered as she looked down at Willy. “How did anyone manage to bring him here?”
“The station carriage horses, at a guess,” Simon answered her. “Or the motorcar.”
She started back the way she’d come, picking her footing carefully.
I watched until she reached the motorcar, and then went back to Simon. I found that he’d brought Willy around. The man was sitting up, holding his head, moaning.
“Can you walk, if we help you?” Simon asked him.
“Dizzy,” Willy said. “Sick.”
Shining Simon’s torch on the back of Willy’s head, I could see bone shining through the bloody tear in his scalp, pinkish white in the light.
“Gently. His skull may be fractured,” I warned Simon, and then bent to take Willy’s arm. “Will you try?” I asked
