feet on the steps…
Rutledge stood where he was, letting it reach him. Go past him It went into the child’s room, out of his line of vision, and was there for some minutes. Rutledge could hear the clothes chest open and after a time close. And then it was coming toward him again, something white grasped in front of it. Without seeing Rutledge in the deep shadows, it made for the head of the stairs.
And then Rutledge acted, moving from the balls of his feet, taking full advantage of the element of surprise, catching his quarry from behind, pinning the arms hard to the sides before he realized that it wasn’t a man he held in his grip but a woman.
Dear God!
“I’ll see you dead before I let you finish this.” Her voice was husky, low. And breaking free while he was still absorbing the unexpected shock, his grip loosened, she lifted her arm.
He saw the flash of a knife and spun away.
She came after him, raising it again. Determined. He caught her wrist, and the thinness told him who it was.
“Mrs. Holden? It’s Rutledge!” He spoke quietly, the words no more than a hiss. But she gasped, and said, “Oh, no!” in horror.
He moved closer to her, whispering, “What are you doing here?”
“He told me there was proof at The Reivers. He said he was coming to find it. I thought he meant the christening gown- But he had promised Oliver and the Chief Constable to have a drink with them first. So I came ahead, to stop him.”
She pressed something into his hands. He felt the cold steel of a dagger and the warmth of the hilt where her fingers had been. “It’s sharp,” she warned. “I was going to kill him with it. You must take it. You must kill him for me! If you won’t, I shall!”
“Mrs. Holden, you must go. Please! How in the name of God did you get in here without a key?”
“But I’ve had a key. Fiona gave me one after her aunt died. A precaution, if anything went wrong and I needed to reach Ian.”
“Then give it to me and go. I’ll see it’s returned tomorrow!”
“Will you kill him?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“Not if I can help it.”
“You have the dirk. It was my father’s! If you won’t do it for me, do it for Fiona!”
And then she was gone, moving down the steps with the same silent care she’d used coming up them.
His heart still racing, Rutledge took a long breath. Then he listened. Somewhere a door opened and closed quietly. The only sign of it was the brief rush of cold, damp air. She was gone.
He went back into the bedroom. Something brushed past his leg, and this time he knew it was the cat. He bent to touch her, and she wrapped herself around his calf. He pushed her away then, afraid that the loud rumble of her purr would mask the other sounds he was waiting to hear. She went off, and he heard the small plunk! as her body leapt onto the bed.
There was a soft cry It came from the bar, and he stood where he was, tense and poised to move fast.
A decoy? To draw out anyone hidden in the darkness? Hamish was warning him to stay where he was Or had Holden run into his wife in the street?
There was nothing Rutledge could do but find out.
He went to the stairwell and listened, but heard nothing.
He began to move down, one step at a time. Swift-but sure.
At the bottom, he paused again. The cat had come down after him, and he tried to see if she had heard something he hadn’t. But she sat down on her haunches when he stopped. Her eyes were on his face.
He had left all the doors open behind him when he had come up the stairs. Now that served him well.
Moving quietly, he worked his way back to the bar.
And stumbled over something on the floor, nearly pitching forward, catching himself in time on the edge of the bar.
Reaching down, Rutledge groped at his feet, and touched hair. A woman’s soft hair. There was a white patch beside her. The christening gown He found her throat and searched for a pulse.
There was none.
Gentle God! Holden had killed his wife Anger swept him, following on the heels of shock.
He remembered what Holden had told him in the rain the previous night: that there was nowhere Rutledge could consider himself safe. It was true.
Rutledge got slowly to his feet, every nerve ending alive. Eyes sweeping the black shadows. All his training in France rushing back He was here-but where? Rutledge could feel him like a second skin.
The cat’s sharp hiss warned him. There was a blindingly bright flash, a deafening report, and he was already dropping. Not fast enough this time. Something spun him half around, slamming into his chest.
He had been hit He knew the drill. It had happened before. Shock. Numbness. And then the pain.
Almost in the same instant, he acted, instinct already guiding hand and brain, throwing the dirk-aiming for the place he’d seen the flash of powder.
The Scots under his command had taught him well. The harsh intake of breath told him he’d hit his mark. Something fell heavily, taking a bar stool over with it. The clatter was appalling. And then silence.
Rutledge moved toward it, his own breathing uneven. Whoever it was still had a pistol He reached out, felt heavy, immovable flesh, and instinctively flinched.
There was no sound except for his own breathing Fumbling, he turned on his torch and looked down into the dead face of Alexander Holden. The knife, protruding from his throat, had severed the artery. There was a great deal of blood. Staining the scrubbed floor. Rutledge stared at it. Black and red, where the torch picked it out.
He realized he was no longer thinking clearly.
Rutledge told himself, Fiona will have to explain-or they’ll find my notebook-London knows about Holden too He remembered the torch in his hand, staring down at it, then turning it off. Why did he have to kill her-why couldn’t Madelyn Holden have lived I wanted to save her. Most of all I wanted to save Fiona His breathing was harsh now, and his chest felt like fire. I’m bleeding, he told himself. And there’s nowhere to go for help.
He didn’t want to think about Fiona. She belonged to Hamish. She always would…
He found a chair and half fell, half slumped in it.
Hamish had been yelling at him, roaring in his ear. Or was it the sound of his own blood?
He couldn’t tell.
From somewhere he could hear the sounds of the pipes. They were faint, and then stronger. Coming toward him.
Rutledge knew what they were playing. He’d heard it too many times not to recognize it at once.
It was “The Flowers of the Forest.” The lament for the dead. He had heard it played for every dead Scot under his command. He’d heard the pipes skirling into battle, he’d heard them grieve. This was a dirge for the dying.
He was dying.
Hamish was like a trumpet in his head. “You will no’ die. Do you hear me? You willna’ die! ”
“You’re already dead, Corporal. You can’t stop me.” Rutledge was finding it hard to concentrate.
“You willna’ die! I willna’ let you die!”
The sound of the pipes had begun to fade. Rutledge thought, The funeral is over-they’ve buried Hamish. Hamish is dead, and I’m to blame-I’ve killed him. But where had this chair come from? They didn’t have chairs at the Front The fire in his chest was smothering him.
He could feel Hamish taking hold of him.
It was what Rutledge had feared for such a long time that now he was grateful for the dark so that he didn’t have to look up and see the dreaded face bending over him. He said to Hamish, “It’s too late. I’m dead. You can’t touch me now. I’m free of you-”
“YOU SHALL NOT DIE!”
