replied briskly. 'What did you see when you went into the wood?' 'I saw nothing but trees, and I didn't much like that. I was about to leave when the dog started rooting around, and it was then I saw a foot showing from behind a bush. Went around to the other side of the bush, and there was the constable, facedown in the leaves, white as a sheet, and cold into the bargain.'
'Had he been moved, do you think? From where he'd been shot?'
'I didn't notice. But there were scuff marks, as if he'd dragged himself a bit.'
Signs lost, Rutledge thought to himself, when the men came in to rescue Hensley. 'Did you point these marks out to anyone else?'
'No, why should I have done? He'd lain there for two hours or more, it was natural he'd tried to help himself.'
'You work with cattle. Could you have lifted Hensley and carried him some distance?'
'Look here! I never touched him.'
'I'm sure you didn't. My question was, could you have carried him to safety, out of the woods, if you'd had to?'
'I very much doubt it. Not with that arrow in his back. It was obscene, him lying there, cold as a fish, and an arrow jutting from him, for all the world as if Red Indians had been at him. I'd not have touched him, without the doctor asking me to try. Besides, once I'd told the doctor to come right away, I fetched a hurdle from the barn and took it back with me. And some others heard me shouting and came to help.'
He slapped the flank of a cow, moving her over a little, and added, 'Bad enough when Dr. Middleton had us hold Hensley firmly while he broke the shaft well above the wound. You'd have thought he'd done it all his life, he was so clever at it. Hensley never moved.' His voice was admiring. 'Not something you see every day. Not even in the war.'
'How do you explain someone using a bow and arrow in Frith's Wood?'
'I don't. That wood is not like any other I've ever seen. If I were a drinking man, I'd swear the place is full of God knows what, and Hensley was a fool to tempt whatever it is lives in there.'
'Was he looking for Emma Mason's grave?'
A change in expression crossed Baylor's face. 'The whispers say she's buried in there. I was in France, I don't know the truth of it. But in my view, there's no one who'd have gone in there to dig a grave, in the first place. There's no telling what might have come to light.'
'Hensley went there. At least once.'
'The constable comes from London. What does he know about Frith's Wood? I saw you going in there, walking about. What did you think of it?'
Hamish said, 'It's a challenge.'
Rutledge was on the point of quoting Hamlet, that there were more things in between heaven and earth than were dreamt of in most philosophies. Instead he replied, 'I don't know that I'd like living so near to it. As you do.'
'The cows won't go near it, even when they're in the pastures closest to it. Not for shade in summer or protection from the weather when it rains. But I'm safe enough here.' He turned and looked in the direction of his house, even though he couldn't see it from inside the barn.
'Why do you think the dog barked?'
'He heard the constable groaning, very likely. He's trained to work the animals, he'd have paid heed to it.'
Rutledge thanked him and left.
Hamish said, 'A stiff man. And honest enough. But with something worrying him, all the same.'
'The half brother, perhaps,' Rutledge answered.
He stopped at the kitchen door and knocked, but no one came to the door or to any of the windows overlooking the back garden and the sheds.
He made himself a note to ask about the elusive half brother. If Mrs. Melford wouldn't tell him, Dr. Middleton might. Walking back to Holly Street, Rutledge decided to stop in the shops on Whitby Lane and found himself in the greengrocer's, stepping over a basket of apples from the south. He remembered the wizened, sour ones that were good only for jelly in the Lake District, where the growing season was so much shorter.
The sign over the door had read FREEBOLD AND SON, and Rutledge nodded to the man standing behind the cabbages. 'Mr. Freebold? Or son?'
'Son. My father and grandfather, God rest them, have gone on to their just rewards,' he responded affably. 'How may I serve you, sir?'
Turning his back on the two or three women in the shop, Rutledge introduced himself and said, 'I'm interested in Frith's Wood. Everyone tells me it isn't a safe place to go. And yet Constable Hensley appears to have gone there, of his own free will. I'm trying to find someone in Dudling- ton who might have seen him walk that way.'
'I've not heard of anyone,' Freebold answered, glancing over Rutledge's shoulder at the women in his shop. Apparently they had shaken their heads, for Freebold turned back to Rutledge and said, 'Someone did say early on that he was seen leaving for Letherington that day.'
'On his bicycle?'
'Yes, he was a great one for the bicycle.' Freebold patted his own girth and added, 'My days on two wheels are long vanished, right enough.'
Behind him, Rutledge could hear one of the women titter.
'Then what became of the bicycle, do you think? I'm told no one found it there in the wood.'
'Which isn't to say he didn't come home and go out again. He wasn't what you'd call overworked here in Dudlington. He'd take an hour or so and pay a visit to The Three Horses in Letherington, if he found that Inspector Cain wasn't about. He was something fond of The Three Horses.'
'Why not stop at The Oaks?'
'I expect Constable Hensley and Frank Keating didn't see eye to eye,' Freebold answered with some reluctance. 'You'd best ask Keating about that.'
Rutledge thanked him and left.
Half an hour later, he was walking into The Three Horses, in Letherington. It was a sizeable village, with two churches to Dudlington's one, and three pubs. The Three Horses was the oldest, with a smoky interior and old oak walls set with horse-racing memorabilia.
The owner, it transpired, had once been a jockey.
'Rode three winners,' he said to Rutledge, pride in his eyes. 'Derby winners at that! Josh Morgan is the name.' He was a small, wiry man with a large head and lively gray eyes.
Rutledge asked for a pint and, when it was brought, engaged Morgan in conversation about his winners and then asked, 'I understand Constable Hensley came here when he was in Letherington.'
'Oh, yes, we were blessed often enough with his company. A quiet man, except when he got to talking about London. Then he could go on for an hour without repeating himself!'
'Much of a ladies' man?'
'He would chat up whoever was in the saloon, but it was more in aid of his own view of himself. He never gave them-or me-any trouble, I will say that for Constable Hensley.'
'You've heard about the arrow in his back?'
'Inspector Cain was telling us what happened. I'm glad to hear the constable survived. Nasty piece of business! But then I'm told Frith's Wood isn't a place to meddle with. I've never been there, you understand. I'm not what you might call superstitious, except perhaps on race day, but I believe in leaving well enough alone.'
'Had he been in Letherington that day? I hear he sometimes stops in at The Three Horses when he knows Inspector Cain isn't likely to find him taking his time getting back to Dudlington.'
'He didn't show himself here,' Morgan answered, shaking his head. 'And that would be unlike him. Always one for the road, he'd say. Not a drinking man, mind you,' he added hastily. 'But he'd have a pint, sometimes two, before heading back. Ale was his choice. The darker the better. And he could carry what he drank. No harm done.'
'What did he talk about, as a rule?'
'Racing. He was a football man as well, and he hated Manchester with a passion. Nearly came to blows over
