Rutledge said, 'And you came here, after you'd served your sentence, to watch over Emma.'
'I didn't know she was alive. Mrs. Ellison had written to me in prison, to say that Emma and Beatrice had died in a fire in London. One day I came here, just to walk in the churchyard and stand at their graves. But there weren't any. And when the rector saw me and came over to speak to me, I asked him if he knew where Emma Mason was buried, here or in London. He said I must be mistaken, she wasn't dead, she was living here with her grandmother. I nearly broke down, but when he asked my name, I said it was Frank Keating. The next day I took every penny I could scrape together and bought The Oaks. It was languishing, but I was good with my hands, I could fix it to suit me. I couldn't tell the girl she was mine. I'd have ruined her chances. But I could see her, speak to her from time to time. And I didn't think Mrs. Ellison would have any reason to recognize me, if I stayed out of the village as much as possible. I could still look out for Emma.'
He turned to Mrs. Channing and then to Rutledge, his eyes pleading but his words harsh. 'If you tell anyone- anyone!-I was her father, I'll kill you too!'
He had dropped his guard. Only for an instant, but it was enough.
Rutledge shouted a warning, far too late for Keating to recover.
Mrs. Ellison twisted herself out of his grip, dodged the knife, and with the full force of her body, pushed Frank Keating down the cellar stairs.
Rutledge heard himself swear. Shoving Mrs. Ellison to one side, he went leaping down the steps to bend over the injured man.
'Find Dr. Middleton!' he shouted at Meredith Chan- ning. 'Bring him here.'
Keating lay at the foot of the stairs, bleeding from one ear, his body crumpled and one leg thrust out at an awkward angle.
He looked up at Rutledge, his eyes trying to focus. 'Never mind me. Stop her!'
Rutledge dared not leave him. He knelt beside Keating and said, 'Help is coming. Don't move. Where can she go?'
Mrs. Channing came back shortly afterward with Dr. Middleton. 'Grace Letteridge told me where to find him,' she said. 'Now go do your work and leave Mr. Keating to the doctor and to me.' When Rutledge came back up the stairs, he found Grace Letteridge in the Ellison kitchen. She was shaking, her arms wrapped around her body.
'I was certain he'd kill her,' she said. 'Not the other way round. I was in the passage just now, listening. I couldn't stay there on the street, not knowing what was happening.'
'Which way did Mrs. Ellison go?'
'She ran straight into me, pushing me out of her way, and went out the door. Inspector-I think she's taken your motorcar. I heard the motor turn over.'
He went outside and looked. Somehow Mary Ellison had managed to crank the car and back it out of the narrow space between houses.
'Where would she go?' he demanded, turning to Grace Letteridge.
'I don't know.'
He remembered Mrs. Channing's motorcar at The Oaks, and started out at a dead run.
The motorcar had been moved to the side of the inn, out of the way of custom stopping there. He cranked it, stepped inside, and gunned the engine. It roared in his ears.
Had she gone north-or south? As he sat there, looking out across the fields, he could see lanterns bobbing in a line, the search party returning empty-handed from Frith's Wood.
She'd have avoided them, he thought, and turned south.
He followed suit, running fast, his headlamps piercing the darkness. It was some time before he caught up with his own motorcar.
He could see it in the distance, tail lamps small red dots just vanishing around a bend in the road.
If he could catch up with her here in these rolling, barren fields, it would be better than trying to stop her in a town, where she could lose him in a tangle of streets.
Where was she going? What earthly reason did she have for fleeing? She might have stayed and faced Keating down.
But then Keating had opened the cupboard in the cellar. There would be no facing that down.
Hamish said into the wind, 'She doesna' want to die in Dudlington. Or on the hangman's rope.'
Somewhere anonymous, where she wasn't a Harkness, wasn't guilty of murder. A nameless woman taken from a canal or a river, buried in a pauper's grave. The vanished Mary Ellison would be whispered about, speculation would be rife, but after a few months her name would pass into obscurity, untarnished.
The certainty grew as he followed her. Mary Ellison was choosing her own end.
Her husband had failed her somehow; and then her daughter, running away in defiance, had failed to reach the heights of fame through her art. Instead she'd married a man who was to become a common felon. Rutledge didn't know what Emma's sin had been, but he thought perhaps the fact that she was so beautiful had something to do with it. Mary Ellison had watched men making fools of themselves over the girl, and in the end, she had blamed Emma. No Harkness would wish to be a public spectacle. It was somehow-unsuitable.
Then without warning, his motorcar's headlamps swept the sky ahead of him, leaping upward and then dipping in a wild arc.
His first thought was that he hadn't anticipated her decision to crash the motorcar. They weren't seven miles from Dudlington, her body would still be taken back for burial And then the delayed echo of the shot reached him. Rutledge pressed down on the accelerator, sending Mrs. Channing's motorcar speeding around the bend, only his driving skill keeping the tires on the road.
It was nearly too late by the time he glimpsed the other car skewed across the roadway in front of him, directly in his path, seemingly unavoidable.
His hand went out for the brake, pulling hard on it, putting his vehicle into a gravel-spewing skid.
Hamish was shouting at him, and he was fighting the wheel, wondering if both of them were dead men.
When the motorcar rocked to a hard stop, he was no more than two feet from his own bonnet. And through the windscreen he could see the driver slumped over the wheel, her head cradled in her arms, as if she had decided to stop and rest.
He was out and running, without thinking. When he opened the driver's door, Mary Ellison fell into his arms. Catching her, he laid her gently on the grass at the verge, then went back to look for his rug to cover her.
In the dark there was no way of telling where she'd been hit. Blood seemed to be everywhere, and he wasn't sure whether she had struck her head against the windscreen or if the wheel had caught her across the chest. He brushed back her hair and found the thin line of a cut there, blood welling out of it and into her face. It wasn't deep enough, he thought, to account for a gunshot wound. There was a long gash on her chin, half hidden by the collar of her nightdress, and it was bleeding freely as well.
Working frantically, he could see her staring at him, her eyes wide in her face. 'I don't want to lie in Dudlington. There's an unused grave in London,' she managed to say.
'Be still, don't talk.'
She made an effort to bring her hand to her chest. 'It hurts.'
And he realized that most of the blood came from there, not the cut on her forehead or the scrape on her chin. This time the shooter hadn't missed. Rutledge tried to stuff his handkerchief into the wound, binding it tight with the belt from her nightdress, but he wasn't a doctor, there was no way to save her.
'Not in Dudlington,' she repeated, trying to catch his hand and make him promise.
'What had your husband done?' he asked. 'Why did you kill him?'
'He'd developed a taste for gambling. He was on the verge of losing all we had.'
'And Emma? What had she done, to deserve to die?'
'She found her mother, when she went looking for that cursed bow and quiver.' The face that had showed no emotion until now began to crumple. 'I couldn't let my granddaughter go back to London to live with a common criminal. Even if he was her father. And after-after she'd found Beatrice, there was no turning back. It broke my heart'
Her breathing changed, and he could feel her body struggling to draw in air, her lungs fighting the injury.
'If I tell you something, will you bury me in London?' she asked rapidly, trying to hold on to consciousness.
'I can't promise-'
