But Morrison saw the motorcar, came to the cottage door, and then frowned when he realized that Jessup was driving.
“What’s happened?” he called. “Where’s Rutledge?” He turned to stare at the van barreling toward them.
Jessup was out the motorcar door, and Rutledge saw that he had the heavy torch that lived under the passenger seat.
Rutledge brought the van to a skidding stop and raced to intercept Jessup. Morrison, looking from one to the other as Rutledge used his shoulder to slam into the older man, took himself inside the Rectory, slamming the door shut.
With a roar of rage, Jessup recovered his balance and ran the short distance to the cottage door, hitting it with his own shoulder and bursting inside. Rutledge and Barber were just behind him, but he’d already cornered Morrison, who was standing with his back to the wall, glaring at Jessup. It was impossible to tell if he was armed or not. Rutledge prayed all three revolvers were still at River’s Edge, safe in the gun case.
“What’s this all about?” he demanded, looking to Rutledge for his answer. “I thought-”
“I’m arresting you for the murders of Justin Fowler’s parents,” Rutledge broke in, putting himself between Jessup and Morrison. “He’s my prisoner,” he said, turning to Jessup, “you can’t touch him.”
And then everything happened at once. Barber yelled something and then there was a deafening explosion almost in Rutledge’s ear. He was momentarily back in the trenches, stunned into memory. Only vaguely aware of Jessup swearing and Barber racing past him, he fought to hold on to the present. Then Morrison fired again, and Barber was stumbling backward, his hands outstretched, as if to ward off a blow.
The third shot, meant for Rutledge, went wild as he shook off the war and grappled with Morrison for the revolver. Morrison fought with all the violence of a cornered animal, growling incoherently as Rutledge reached out for the weapon. It went off again, and Rutledge heard a window breaking, glass raining down on the floor.
And then he had Morrison’s wrist, driving him back against the wall and battering his arm against the low mantel. Morrison cried out in pain but held on to the weapon. It took all the strength he could muster for Rutledge to bring the arm down hard on the oak edge of the mantelpiece, expecting to hear it snap. Instead, Morrison’s fingers flew open as the blow hit a nerve instead, and the revolver went thudding to the floor. Morrison fell back, nursing his arm, and for good measure, Rutledge hit him hard on the edge of his jaw. The rector slid down the wall, unconscious, sprawling there in a heap.
Wheeling to examine the injured, he heard Barber say with an effort, “See to Jessup. I think I’ll make it.” But his face was already pale with the pain, and he was clenching and unclenching a fist.
Jessup was still, and Rutledge bent over him. The shot had struck him in the stomach, but as Rutledge examined him, he said, “It’s bad. I’ve seen worse. We need to get him to hospital as soon as possible.”
He turned to look at Barber’s chest wound, but it was high enough that he said, “You’re right. You’ll live. With care.”
“Damn good thing he was a poor shot. That close? By rights we should all be dead.”
“A knife is his weapon,” Rutledge said grimly, busy doing what he could for both men, using whatever linens he could find in the cottage.
He got Barber into the motorcar, and the man said, “What will we do about the van? And there’s my wife.”
“There’s no time to worry about it. I’ll deal with it later when I come back to Furnham.”
“And Morrison?”
“I’ll leave him here until I can retrieve him. I don’t want him in the motorcar.”
Jessup was a big man, and it was harder to carry him outside, but then he opened his eyes, appeared to know what Rutledge was trying to do, and managed to get himself into the seat, his face pale and clammy from the cost in pain.
Morrison was only just coming to his senses when Rutledge was tying his hands and feet, looping the ropes through the pair of open windows and back again. Standing to one side, he regarded his handiwork. There was no way for the man to free himself without ripping out the heavy boards that separated the two windows. He didn’t think Jessup and Barber together could break them.
He took up the revolver-there was one shot left-and stowed it in the boot of his motorcar.
He drove carefully on the rutted road, avoiding the deeper holes where he could. Listening to the grunts of pain from Jessup and Barber, he could still hear the low growl of warning from Hamish, crowded from his accustomed place.
Rutledge tried to think what he had overlooked, and failed. Shutting out everything except making the best time he could, he concentrated on his driving. His elbow was hurting like the very devil, and every time the wheel shook in his hands over a particularly rough patch, he could feel the knifing pain. But he shut that out as well.
There was a Casualty Ward in Tilbury, accustomed to dealing with men injured on the docks. He walked in and asked a nursing sister for help with two men suffering from gunshot wounds. It was an unpleasant reminder of bringing Russell to a similar ward in London. There would have to be a retraction in the Times about that, Rutledge reminded himself ruefully. The newspaper wouldn’t care for it, but he hoped Fowler would see it, wherever he was hiding.
He got the two fishermen inside, and a doctor arrived to examine both of them. He looked up at Rutledge. “How did this happen?”
“Apprehending a killer. These men were caught in the cross fire.” Wincing, he pulled out his identification and showed it to the doctor.
“You did a fair job of bandaging them. In the war, were you?”
“Yes.”
The doctor nodded. “Field dressing. I recognize it. Sit down, you don’t look very good yourself.”
“I’m all right,” Rutledge protested, but the doctor wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Someone brought him a cup of tea and insisted he drink it. Then the doctor was back. “They will survive. Both men have serious but not life-threatening injuries. We can deal with them. Any next of kin to notify?”
“I’ll see to it. Thank you.”
“Are you hurt?” the doctor said, looking him up and down.
“I’m all right,” Rutledge said again, and the doctor reluctantly let him go.
But he was stopped once more as he was about to leave the ward. A very angry man stood on the threshold, asking for the gunshot victims.
He was Inspector Hayes of the Tilbury Constabulary, and he’d been in the maternity ward with his wife when he heard there had been a shooting.
It took Rutledge another quarter of an hour to pacify him. “It’s Inspector Robinson’s case, in Colchester,” Rutledge said. “If you disagree, take it up with him.”
And as he walked out the door, he was fairly certain that Hayes would indeed contact Robinson.
Once more in his motorcar, he cursed Hayes for wasting precious time. He was fairly sure that Morrison would be unable to escape, but he felt an urgency he couldn’t explain.
He was already into the turning for Furnham and the River Hawking, when he saw the van coming toward him. He didn’t know the driver, but he recognized the van. He’d left it sitting outside the Rectory.
Someone from the village had found it, and he had a sinking feeling that whoever it was had found Morrison as well.
Picking up speed, driving with attention fueled by the certainty that he was too late, he covered the miles as best he could. But he could see even before he’d reached the Rectory that Morrison was free. His bonds lay scattered across the grass, and the cottage was empty when he stepped inside.
Rutledge took the time to search each room as well as the back garden, alert for an ambush at any moment.
Where had Morrison gone? To the village?
No, he couldn’t be sure who beside Jessup and Barber knew the truth. The village was for all intents and purposes a trap.
“In the van,” Hamish said. “As far away as he can go.”
Possible. Very possible. Still, he hadn’t been driving. And Rutledge had a feeling he hadn’t chosen to go that far. Not yet. There was unfinished business to attend to first. He knew Rutledge would be coming back for him, and
