There was silence for a moment, and then the first voice said, “How is she?”
“Well enough. Considering. She’s still grieving for young Joseph.”
“It will be hard on her, losing his dad. Molly and Ned were close.”
“Whose motorcar is that I see on the street in front of the inn?”
“Belongs to a fellow by the name of Rutledge.”
“Yes, I thought I recognized it. What brings him back so soon?”
“He came for the funeral. He says.”
“Damn. How did he know? It just happened.”
“I told him there was no room to be had. But he insisted.”
“How long does he expect to stay?”
“He didn’t tell me.”
There was a longer silence. “Hell. We can deal with him if we have to.”
“Not in my inn.”
“No.”
And then it appeared that the man in the shadows outside the kitchen must have left, because the squares of light vanished and the garden was quiet enough that Rutledge could hear the crickets.
He was nearly sure the man outside the kitchen door was Barber, from The Rowing Boat.
Hamish said, startling him, “I wouldna’ go wandering in the dark. No’ here.”
But sleep wouldn’t come, and Hamish was fretful in the back of his mind as well. In the end, Rutledge dressed, went quietly down the stairs and out into the night.
The stars were bright in the blackness of the sky, and across the road he could hear the unseen river moving toward the sea. Turning toward his left, he walked to the edge of Furnham and out into the countryside. Ahead he could just see the silhouetted barns that marked the three farms.
He was fairly certain that the airfield hadn’t been built at the middle farm, where Nancy Brothers and her husband lived. And if he were choosing, the land nearest the estuary would offer greater clearance for night fighters taking off in a hurry or crippled aircraft looking for an easy landing. It would also afford a better view of Zeppelins moving toward the mouths of the rivers that would point them directly into the heart of London. France was not so very far away, after all, and there would be no problem with navigation over a short stretch of open sea.
Looking over the low fence designed to keep cattle from roaming, he could see the massive black bulk against the stars that would be the house and barn. Far enough away, he thought, that he could do a little exploring without awakening the owner.
The fence was rusted and broken in places, although grasses and vines had mended the wire in their own fashion, running up the posts and making a heavier barrier than the original one. Finding a short gap some twenty feet farther on, he stepped through the tangle of briars and vines and into the field beyond. He kept walking, minding where he went, and soon enough he could see where the airfield had been laid out, including the rough foundations of the buildings that had been put up in haste. Where the actual flying field had been, the texture of the grass and weeds was different. Moving back to explore the ruins again, he tripped over a low-lying pile of stones and swore as he fought for his balance. In the distance a dog began to bark, and he stood still.
But it wasn’t chained by the farmhouse, as he’d expected. He could hear the barking growing louder as the animal raced toward him.
Rutledge stayed where he was, and when the dog was fifty feet away, he whistled softly and held out one hand palm down. The dog, large and dark, slowed, legs stiff, tail straight, and the ruff on the back of his neck standing up. Rutledge dropped to his haunches and called, “Come on, there’s a good dog,” speaking quietly until it approached. All at once its tail dropped and began to wag, and stretching out its muzzle, the animal sniffed Rutledge’s fingers.
It had been a good two years since the airfield had been shut down, but clearly the dog remembered the men posted here and their friendliness, and soon accepted Rutledge as one of them, letting this newcomer scratch behind its ears.
Together they walked on across the field, and then turned toward the barn. Here Rutledge saw great stacks of wood and brick out behind the building, where the thrifty farmer had retrieved what the Royal Flying Corps had left behind. In another pile were broken propellers, cracked struts, and even torn bits of canvas and metal, where aircraft had crashed or been in a dogfight, and the equally thrifty ground crew had salvaged what they could. He wondered what the farmer intended to do with such bits.
The dog wandered into the farmyard, and Rutledge turned back the way he’d come. Finding the gap in the fence was harder from this side, but after several tries, he came across it.
On the road again, he walked toward the village. He was almost there, the river glinting in the distance, when he heard oars in oarlocks and quiet voices echoing across the water. Then close by, the sound of a boat being dragged up on the rough shale.
He stepped quickly into the shadows of the large plane tree at the bend in the road, well hidden beneath the broad leaves weighing down the branches overhead.
Three men strode up from the water, silent and staying close to one another as they made their way along the side of The Rowing Boat, keeping between the tall shrubs that marked the pub’s boundary line and the darker shadows under the roof ’s overhang. As they reached the High, Rutledge could see that each man carried a haversack slung over his left shoulder, hunching a little under of the weight of it. And under his right arm, each man carried a shotgun, the barrel just catching the starlight and glinting dully.
Smuggling, Rutledge realized, and slid deeper into the shadows until his back touched the smooth bark of the tree. He stood no chance against three shotguns.
The men separated without a word, two hurrying off up the High and the third coming directly toward him.
Chapter 8
There was nothing he could do but stand where he was, his back pressed against the tree trunk, his body braced for whatever he would have to do. There was no time to pull his hat lower to cover the paleness of his face or even to turn away. He carefully ducked his head so that his chin was nearly touching his collar, and waited.
Hamish, his voice a low growl, seemed to be waiting too, just behind his shoulder. But Hamish was not there, and no help if it came down to a fight.
Rutledge watched as the man cut diagonally across the road, grunting as he shifted the haversack a little to ease his shoulder.
Fifty feet. Thirty. Twenty feet and closing.
Near enough now to see him standing there, surely. And the men who had gone the other way were still within hearing. One shout and they’d turn. He could deal with one of them, he even stood a good chance of disarming the man nearest him, given the element of surprise. The other two could bring him down from a distance, and his only hope was to make it out of range before they fired.
Barber had had no qualms about clubbing him to death. These men would shoot first and worry later.
Something in the way the man walked was familiar. Had he seen him before? When he was here with Frances?
Just then, only ten feet away, the man grunted as he shifted the haversack again.
And the haversack was all that stood between them, blocking the man’s view of Rutledge there under the tree. He walked on, whistling under his breath.
It also prevented Rutledge from seeing the man’s face.
He wouldn’t have been able to identify him if his life had depended on it. Not in a courtroom. There was just that instinctive recognition. And it too could be wrong.
A door opened a little farther along on Rutledge’s side of the street and then shut again as quietly as possible. By that time it was too late to move away from the tree to see where the other two men had gone.
Hamish said, his voice seeming loud enough to be heard on the far side of the river, “Ye ken, this is why no one is happy to have Scotland Yard come to ask questions.”
