appeared to be a park. He thought it might have been a small manor house at one time, or perhaps a rectory.
Leaving his motorcar by the steps, he went inside.
The nurses were nuns in white habits, and he wondered if this had originally been a lying-in hospital for difficult maternity cases. There was a small casualty ward in the back.
The sister in charge came to meet him, prepared to make a decision on where he was to be sent, but he said, after she asked what his problem might be, “I’m here in regard to the accident case just brought to you. A man on a motorcycle.”
“Are you a relative?” she asked, pursing her lips, as if about to tell him he couldn’t go into the ward itself.
“Scotland Yard,” he told her. “I was looking for this man to help us with our inquiries.”
“Indeed. Well, then, you’re out of luck.”
Chapter 14
“He’s dead?” Rutledge asked, unprepared for this news.
“No, he is not. But he ought to be. He may yet be. Bruises and scrapes all over him. But somehow he just missed breaking his head or another bone. And he left, refusing further treatment or a few hours of observation. He said his wife would be worried about him if he didn’t come home before midnight.”
But Major Russell had no wife that Rutledge knew of.
“Was he able to give you his name or tell you where he lived?”
“Not at first, but then he did tell the sister in charge that he was Mr. Fowler, Justin Fowler. From London. Later on he asked if he could take an omnibus from here to London, most particularly one that would stop somewhere near Kensington Palace.”
Damn the man! “And did he find an omnibus that would carry him to Kensington?”
“He must have done. He asked one of the orderlies which to watch for, and I was looking out the window when he left.”
“Thank you, Sister.”
“If you please, tell him he must rest. In the event there are more serious injuries than we knew of. Even a concussion. It was very foolish to go rushing off like that.”
“I will warn him,” Rutledge answered, and took his leave, his mind already dealing with the problem of Major Russell’s intentions.
For Kensington Palace was within walking distance of Chelsea, where Cynthia Farraday lived. It was also where he could find another omnibus to carry him to Victoria Station and a train to Tilbury.
Hamish said, “He’ll go for the lass. And then to Tilbury, and on to River’s Edge.”
Rutledge was already turning the crank on the motorcar. “We’ll try Chelsea first. Just in case.” As he made his way out of the village and found the London road again, he added, “He still has a head start. But the omnibus will be slow. At least we have a fairly good idea where to look. And if he isn’t in Chelsea, there’s the house in London, and after that, Essex. He knows Matron will send someone to the house, but he may think there’s time enough to clean himself up and change his clothes.”
London traffic was unexpectedly heavy for this time of night. Lorries filled with produce, motorcars, barrows, and carts vied with omnibuses and even a few larger horse-drawn vehicles, and while there were not that many of them all told, he found it difficult to make good time. The only consolation was that a lumbering omnibus would find it even harder to overtake them.
A summer’s dawn was breaking in the east when he finally reached Kensington.
A wagon laden with early cabbages was stopped stock-still in the middle of the road while the driver haggled with a woman shopkeeper over the price of his wares. Impatient, Rutledge left his motorcar in the queue and went forward to speak to the pair.
They turned as one, glaring at him as he said, “How much are your cabbages?”
The driver looked him up and down as the woman said, “Here, I was first!” Ignoring her, the man gave Rutledge a price.
It was outrageous, but without comment, Rutledge paid him for ten, handed them to the woman, and then pointed to the high seat of the cart. “Drive on. You’ve made your first sale of the day.”
Grinning, the man clambered up with alacrity and lifted his reins, calling to the horses.
But the woman said, “Here, I wished to choose my own.”
He gave her his best smile. “Madam, you have ten fine cabbages that didn’t cost you a farthing. Be grateful.”
And he walked back to his own vehicle before she could think of a response.
The rest of the way to Chelsea was uneventful, but Rutledge fretted over the delay as he threaded his way through the streets where milk vans stopped and started with no regard to others. He had a very bad feeling about what he’d find at Cynthia Farraday’s house and hoped that her maid would have the good sense not to open the door to a bruised and bleeding stranger.
But when he pulled up in front of Miss Farraday’s house and walked quickly to the door, he found it off the latch. Opening it only a little, he stood there for several precious seconds, listening for any sounds of argument or trouble, any intimation as to where he was needed.
The house was quiet.
He pushed the door wider, prepared for an attack if Russell had seen his motorcar on the street. But none came, and he stepped inside.
The ticking of the long clock in another room could be heard clearly.
The house was unnaturally quiet.
Rutledge began to make his way from room to room on the ground floor, listening to the quality of the silence as he went. Each one was empty, and nowhere was there any sign of a struggle.
A door closing behind him creaked, and he stood still, waiting. But no one came or called out.
Worried now, he went quickly down to the servants’ hall and found no one there. Miss Farraday’s cook should have been feeding the banked fire in the cooker and preparing for breakfast. And the door to the back stairs was firmly shut. Returning to the hall, he cast caution to the winds and took the main stairs two at a time. In the passage at the top, he paused. There were several doors, all of them closed, and no way to judge which one was the master bedroom. He went to the one at the top of the stairs and opened it.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. What he found was a tidy and very feminine bedroom done up in peach and pale green, with windows overlooking the back garden. A great maple shielded them, the leaves moving gently in the early morning breeze.
Nothing was out of place, neither the chair nor the octagonal Turkish carpet in the center of the room. A large wardrobe stood against one wall, and a door beside it led to what must be a dressing room.
He started across the room to open it, and as he did, he heard a sound just behind him. Prepared for anything, he spun around. But it was only the bedroom door swinging shut.
In the quiet room it sounded as loud as a gunshot.
From the wardrobe came a whimper, cut short.
He turned toward it and reached out for the handles of the two doors.
This time Hamish warned him with a soft “ ’Ware!” just as Rutledge’s fingers touched the gilt knobs.
He stepped back at once, and in that same instant, one of the doors was flung wide from inside and a figure hurled itself at him. He recognized Cynthia Farraday just as he caught sight of the sharp, pointed scissors in her right hand.
He was only just able to dodge the blades as they slashed viciously within inches of his eyes, and he caught her hand before she could try again.
“Steady!” he said as she cried out and began to pummel him with her other hand. And then she blinked as she recognized him and broke away.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her voice overloud from anxiety.
“The outer door was open. I thought I ought to find out why.”
