responded to Rutledge's questions. He added, 'Inspector Mickelson is still in Dover, but he's expected to return tomorrow at one o'clock. He's taking the morning train.'
Rutledge smiled to himself. Mickelson was Bowles's protege.
'And what about the former partner? Penrith? '
'I was sent around to his house this morning, sir. Mr. Penrith isn't there. His wife's in Scotland, and the valet says he went to visit her. He should be home tonight.'
'Did you tell his valet why you'd come to see Penrith?'
'It seemed best not to say anything, sir,' Gibson answered. He was a good man, with good instincts and the soul of a curmudgeon And if there was gossip to be had at the Yard, Gibson generally knew it.
'Then I'd rather be the one to interview him.'
'As to that, sir, if you're in Somerset, you won't be in London before one o'clock. I was present when Chief Superintendent Bowles told the inspector to make haste back to the Yard. Though he didn't say why, of course.'
'I understand. Thank you, Sergeant.'
'I do my best, sir.' And Gibson was gone.
Hamish said, 'Ye canna' reach London before noon.'
'I can if I leave now,' Rutledge answered.
'It's no' very wise-'
'To hell with wise.'
11
In a hurry now, Rutledge strode out of the sitting room and went in search of Hunter, making arrangements for a packet of sandwiches and a Thermos of tea to be put up at once. 'I'll be away this evening. Hold my room for my return, please.' 'I'll be happy to see to it. Er-did you find Mr. Quarles?' 'Yes, thank you,' Rutledge answered, and went up the stairs two at a time. He took a clean shirt with him and was down again just as Hunter was bringing the packet of food and the Thermos from the kitchen. The long May evening stretched ahead, and he made good time as he turned toward London. The soft air and the wafting scents of wild- flowers in the hedgerows accompanied him, and the sunset's afterglow lit the sky behind the motorcar. When darkness finally overtook him, Rutledge was well on his way. But a second night without sleep caught up with him, and just west of London, he veered hard when a dog walked into the road directly in his path.
The motorcar spun out of control, and before Hamish could cry a warning, Rutledge had crossed the verge and run into a field. Strong as he was, he couldn't make the brakes grip in the soft soil, and then suddenly the motorcar slewed in a half circle and came to an abrupt stop as the engine choked.
His chest hit the wheel and knocked the wind out of him, just as his forehead struck the windscreen hard enough to render him unconscious.
It was some time later-he didn't know how long-that he came to his senses, but the blow had been severe enough to muddle his mind. His chest ached, and his head felt as if it were detached from his body.
He managed to get himself out of his seat and into the grass boundary of the field.
There he vomited violently, and the darkness came down again.
The second time he woke, he thought he was back in France. He could hear the guns and the cries of his men, and Hamish was calling to him to get up and lead the way.
'Ye canna' lie here, ye canna' sleep, it's no' safe!'
Rutledge tried to answer him, scrambling to his feet and running forward, though his legs could barely hold him upright. He must have been shot in the chest, it was hard to breathe, and where was his helmet? He'd lost it somewhere. He shouted to his men, but Hamish was still loud in his ear, telling him to beware.
He could see the Germans now, just at that line of trees, and he thought, They hadn't told us it was that far- they lied to us-we'll lose a hundred men before we get there Despair swept him, and Hamish's accusing voice was telling him he'd killed the lot of them. And the line of trees wasn't any closer.
The machine gunners had opened up, and he called to his men to take cover, but this was No Man's Land, there was no safety except in the stinking shell holes, down in the muddy water with the ugly dead, their bony fingers reaching up as if begging for help, and their empty eye sockets staring at the living, cursing them for leaving the dead to rot.
Rutledge flung himself into the nearest depression, but his men kept running toward the German line, and he swore at them, his whistle forgotten, his voice ragged with effort.
'Back, damn you, find cover now. Do you hear me?'
He dragged himself out of the shell hole and went after them, but they were determined to die, and there was nothing he could do. He watched them fall, one by one, and he tried to lift them and carry them back to his own lines, but his chest was aching and his legs refused to support him. He could hear himself crying at the waste of good men, and swearing at the generals safe in their beds, and pleading with the Germans to stop because they were all dead, all except Hamish, whose voice rose above the sound of the guns-cursing him, reminding him that each soul was on his conscience, because he himself was unscathed.
'Ye let them die, damn you, ye let them die!'
It was what Hamish had shouted to him the last time they'd been ordered over the top, and the young Scots corporal, his face set in anger, had accused him of not caring. 'Ye canna' make tired men do any more than they've done. Ye canna' ask them to die for ye, because ye ken they will. I'll no' lead them o'er the top again, I'll die first, mysel', and ye'll rot in hell for no' stopping this carnage.'
But Rutledge had cared, that was the problem, he'd cared too much, and in the end, like Hamish, he had broken too. He could hear the big guns firing from behind the lines as the Germans prepared for a counterattack, and firing from his own lines to cover that last sortie over the top. The Hun artillery had their range now, and he struggled to get what was left of his men to safety.
He'd had to shoot Hamish for speaking the truth, and that was the last straw-his mind had shattered. Not from the war, not the fear of death, not even the German guns, but from the deaths he couldn't prevent and the savage wounds, and the bleeding that wouldn't stop, and the men who lived on in his head until he couldn't bear it any longer.
Hamish's voice had stopped, and he knew then that he'd killed the best soldier he had, a good man who was more honest than he was- who was willing to die for principles, while he himself obeyed orders he hated and went on for two more years killing soldiers he'd have died to save.
Someone was grappling with him, and he couldn't find his revolver. His head was aching, blinding him, and his chest felt as if the caisson mules had trampled him, but instinct was still alive. He swung his fist at the man's face, and felt it hit something solid, a shoulder, he thought Hamish had come back His breath seemed to stop in his throat. Hamish's shoulder, hard and living, under his fist. If he opened his eyes A voice said, 'Here, there's no need for that, I've come to help.'
And Rutledge opened his eyes and stared in the face of Death. He slumped back, willing to let go, almost glad that it was over, and longing for silence and rest.
The farmer grasped his arm. 'Where are you hurt, man, can you tell me?'
Rutledge came back to the present with a shock, blinking his eyes as the light of a lantern sent splinters of pain through his skull.
They were going to truss him up in that contraption, and hang him in the tithe barn And then the darkness receded completely, and he said, 'I'm sorry-'
The farmer gruffly replied, 'There's a bloody great lump on your forehead. It must have addled your brains, man, you were shouting something fierce about the Germans when I came up.'
Rutledge shook his head to clear it, and felt sick again. Fighting down the nausea, he said, 'Sorry,' again, as if it explained everything.
'You need a doctor.'
'No. I must get to London.' He looked behind the farmer's bulk and saw the motorcar mired in the plowed field. His first thought was for Hamish, and then he realized that Hamish wasn't there. 'Oh, damn, the accident. Is
