him, wanting to know if he'd heard any news of twins born to a second cousin in Letherington, where he'd claimed to be. He'd wormed out of that one by saying he'd forgotten to ask. Then he'd wondered who had put the old fool up to it.
For more than a week, Hensley resisted the gnawing mystery of the note shoved under his front door. In the middle of Friday night, he'd come wide awake, remembering that he'd left the wood first. What had happened there after he was gone?
Which appeared to him to explain the note-it had been sent to frighten him into staying away. I saw you…
A man with a guilty conscience would take that as a warning and not risk going back.
Hensley, on the other hand, was eaten up by worry. What had the writer found? And why, after all this time, had he been poking around there? What was worse, once he'd got the wood to himself, what had he done?
The constable took every precaution. He rode out of Dudlington, traveled three miles north of the village, and left his bicycle well hidden behind the stone wall that ran along the road, shutting in the stock that in good weather grazed in Long Meadow. Then he walked another mile before turning back to the wood.
He'd been a right fool the last time to leave his bicycle where anyone on the main road could have glimpsed it. He was sure that that was what had betrayed him.
The wood lay on the north side of Dudlington, beyond Church Lane, in a fold of the land where the Dower Fields ended. This time Hensley kept the trees between himself and the village, using it as a shield. Approaching it now, he wondered what it was about this one dark place in a landscape of open fields that seemed so evil.
Why hadn't the Harkness family, who'd owned this land for generations, cut it down centuries ago and set the land to the plow? He'd have had it done in a fortnight, in their shoes.
He'd been hardened in London; he'd seen death in many forms. He was a policeman, for God's sake, hardly likely to be moved by nonsense about old bones. And this was just a stand of trees, the undergrowth just a tangle of briars and vines and fallen boughs.
But then countrymen were a superstitious lot. It was their stories that had set Frith's Wood apart from the beginning. Passed down from father to son, over centuries. 'Don't go in there-the dead walk there. Restless, because they'd had no time to pray before they were cut down. Shun the wood, if you know what's best for you.'
In spite of his bravado, the closer he got to the trees, the harder his heart seemed to pound. Still, the note had been real enough. Ghosts didn't put pen to paper.
But what if he was walking into a clever trap?
He stopped at the edge of the wood.
In for a penny, in for a pound, he told himself, bracingly. And he stepped into the shelter of the trees, grateful for the respite from the cold wind that had pursued him across the bare fields.
He walked slowly, studying the ground as he always did, poking at briars and the dried stalks of shrubs to see if the matted tangle beneath had been disturbed.
He was only some thirty feet into the trees when the hairs on the back of his neck seemed to stand stiffly against his collar.
Stupid sod! he scolded himself. There's nothing here but your own wild fancy. The sooner you do what you came here to do, the sooner you'll be away again.
He walked on, catching himself on the verge of whistling. He was nearly through the wood now, and he'd found nothing suspicious-no one had been digging here or shifting rotted logs-nothing that could explain what had brought someone else here.
Had this been a wild-goose chase? Then what had that damned note been about?
There was a sound behind him, and he whirled, not sure what he was going to see.
Nothing.
Another five yards. Ten… Fifteen.
God, he'd looked back four times already! It was the wind, rubbing dry branches together. Flicking the dry heads of dead wildflowers against one another. He should have thought about the wind.
Another twenty feet. Not much farther, now. But he'd have to go back the way he'd come, back through the whole damned wood.
This time the sound was nearer. He turned quickly, listening for the shuffle of feet in the dead, wet leaves.
Instead he heard a bird in flight, feathers riffling through the air.
Something struck him in the back, a blow like a fist, piercing his body, tearing into him like a hot poker jammed hard into his ribs. His breath went out in a frosty gust and had trouble sucking in again.
Even as he realized what it was-even as he knew for a certainty that it was a human agency and not a phantom that was intent on destroying him-he could feel his knees buckle and a terrifying sense of doom sweeping through him.
He'd been shot by an arrow. His fingers could just reach it, the shaft round and smooth. And he'd be found here, in Frith's Wood, with all the village knowing he couldn't stay away.
He mustn 't die here!
But he knew he was going to. It was his punishment.
He sank to his knees and then fell forward, blacking out before the pain touched him.
6
Inspector Smith, dining with Rutledge at The Three Feathers in Hertford after the court had adjourned, said, 'While you were waiting for the verdict, we caught your assassin.' His voice was smug, as if he enjoyed showing this man from London that provincial policemen were every bit as good as those at the Yard. Rutledge, looking up quickly from cutting his cheese, said, 'Who is it? Anyone I know?' 'Hardly an acquaintance-a local boy. He came forward of his own accord, I'd no more than got my question out before he was telling me he'd done it.' 'Did he tell you why?' 'Just that he thought it was a good day to go out shooting.' 'Why did you question him in the first place? Has he shot at people before this?' And where, Rutledge added to himself, had a boy found those cartridge casings, to hang them so conveniently at the scene? Smith, not liking the direction Rutledge's questions were taking, frowned. 'We went to him because he's generally roaming about the countryside in fair weather. He's particularly fond of the Massingham grounds-they include the pasture you described. Mrs. Massingham is kind to Tommy, and he sometimes takes advantage of that to go hunting.'
'With a revolver?' Rutledge asked, eyebrows raised.
Smith shook his head. 'Slingshot. He couldn't tell me where he'd got the weapon. Not very bright, is Tommy Crowell. Never a troublemaker before this, you understand, but there's a first time for everything, and he's old enough to get into mischief you'd forgive a younger boy. My guess is, he found the weapon somewhere-in a house or barn-and simply helped himself to it, without a thought of asking permission. He's always had a weak grasp of private ownership. Not thievery so much as just 'borrowing for a bit,' as he'd put it.'
'There can't be that many loaded revolvers lying about in Hertford!' Rutledge persisted. 'Does your Mrs. Mass- ingham have one?'
Smith was on the defensive now. 'Her husband was a cavalry officer. He kept his weapons locked away. To my knowledge, she hasn't touched them since he was killed in the Boer War. She said as much.'
'Which means,' Hamish responded in the back of Rut- ledge's mind, 'that she wouldna' know if one was missing.'
And Smith, in awe of the Massinghams, most certainly wouldn't have questioned her word.
'I'd like to see this Tommy Crowell for myself.' Rut- ledge folded his serviette and nodded to the woman who had served their meal. She turned to bring him the reckoning. 'Where does he live? Or have you taken him into custody?'
'Now?' Smith asked, gulping the last of his tea. 'There's no need-'
'But there is,' Rutledge told him, already scanning the charges. 'I'm leaving for London early tomorrow. No, don't bother, I've taken care of it.'
