His quarry must have heard it as well, and this time the figure ahead of him slipped out of the porch and disappeared.
Rutledge continued until he'd reached the porch himself. He kept one hand on the wall as it jutted out to form the porch, guided himself to the opening into the porch, and with one hand out before him, made certain that the small space was empty.
He stepped out of it, again using its shape to judge where he was going, and moved on toward the apse.
But he sensed now that there was no one ahead of him. While he had been investigating the porch, the fox had eluded the hounds, slipping around the apse and up the far side.
Rutledge rounded the church himself, and moved quickly up the north side and on toward the gate in the churchyard wall.
He had left it half open, but it was standing wide now.
Stepping through it, he closed it and crossed the rectory lawn again, fairly certain that he had lost whoever it was. But where had he gone? Up the Hastings Road or down it? There was no way of guessing which he'd chosen. And his head start had allowed him to vanish up a side street or into the shadows of a doorway.
Why was he out in the night? His movements had been furtive, and that boded trouble.
Rutledge turned back toward The Fishermen's Arms, trying to recall any detail about the figure that would help identify him. Tallish, he was sure of that, and quick as a cat on his feet, because he had either known the churchyard well or had eyes better adjusted to the night.
And then in the distance behind him, he heard a motor turn over. He whirled but could see nothing, not even the flash of headlamps. No vehicle came his way, and after a moment, he was fairly certain that it had disappeared in the direction of Hastings.
There was no way he could catch it up. By the time he had reached his own motorcar, this one would have too great a head start, disappearing into the busy streets of the town.
Rutledge went to find Constable Walker. Wearing shirt and trousers, his mouth wide in a yawn, he came to the stairs in the police station as Rutledge called his name. "I'm up here. What's happened? I was just dozing off."
"Someone was in the churchyard." Rutledge gave him a swift account of what he'd seen, and by that time, Walker was wide awake.
"I'll just fetch my tunic," he said, and disappeared. A lamp was turned up, and when Walker came back to the stairs and started down them, he had his torch in his hand. Rutledge was already out the station door, ahead of him.
They searched the churchyard carefully, and even went into the church. There their torch beams were lost in the high ceiling arching over head, and the pews were dark shapes that cast long shadows, the spaces between them stretches of pitch blackness. Their footsteps echoed on the bare paving stones as they moved forward in concert. The pulpit looked like the prow of a ghost ship, and the choir stalls could have concealed half a dozen bodies. But there was no sign the intruder had ever been inside. Even the choir loft was empty.
What's more, there was no body tumbled into the high grass or hidden behind a buttress or a gravestone.
It took them a good forty-five minutes to be sure. As they were on their way back to the High Street, Walker said, "He saw you. That probably saved someone's life. But what's this, if Carl Hopkins is in gaol in Hastings?"
"We don't know why he was here." He looked up at the rectory as they passed. "That light in the rectory stairwell. It's been burning for some time. Is that usual?"
"No, it's not." Walker turned to Rutledge, alarm on the pale oval that was all Rutledge could see of his face. "You don't suppose it's Rector he's after? My God!"
They reached the gate between the churchyard and the rectory in long strides, going through it to the house door.
Walker was there first, his fist pounding on the wood panels.
Rutledge, staring up at the long window, watched the stairs, but no one came. He said, "Try the latch."
The door was unlocked. Rutledge swore. Mr. Ottley had far too much trust in the sanctity of his office-or too much faith in the goodness in human beings.
They went in. Rutledge took the stairs two at a time, calling Ottley's name while Walker went through the ground floor, searching each room. He was soon at the bottom of the staircase calling, "Any luck? He's not down here."
"Nor in his bedroom. Or in the other rooms. I'm going to the attics."
But in spite of his torch, that took longer than he'd anticipated. He came back to where Walker was waiting. "He's not here. Where would he be at this hour?"
"At Mr. Roper's? Jimmy's father. He's taken the loss of his boy hard."
To save time they went back to the hotel for Rutledge's motorcar and drove out to the Roper farm.
The house was dark, not even a light in an upstairs room.
"Do we knock at the door?" Walker asked in a low voice, staring up at the bedroom windows.
"If Ottley were here, there would be a light showing. No, let's not frighten the old man. The rector must have gone elsewhere."
He backed carefully down the drive until they had reached the lane.
"I don't know where else to look," Walker said. "Unless we start a search of the village. Is he dead, do you think?"
Rutledge said, "Why would someone kill the rector?"
"I don't know. That motorcar-you said it was driving toward Hastings. Do you suppose the rector was in it? That he was destined for those net shops? Or the cliffs?"
"It doesn't make sense." Rutledge turned back toward Eastfield.
"Mrs. Farrell-Smith saw that motorcar just outside the rectory gates. She saw Inspector Mickelson talking to the driver, and then leaving with him. The rector could know something about that," Walker argued.
"If he had, he'd have told you."
"There's that," Walker agreed. The rectory was just coming into view. Walker, peering through the windscreen, said, "Who is that?"
Rutledge could see the man some twenty yards from the rectory gate. He pointed the motorcar's bonnet in that direction so that the headlamps pinned the man in their great twin beams.
Walker exclaimed, "Look, it's Rector! Is he all right?"
Rutledge slowed as they reached the man standing staring into the light, as if mesmerized by it.
"I was just looking for you," he said as he recognized Rutledge and the constable in the vehicle. "But they told me at The Fishermen's Arms that you'd gone out. I've remembered something. I think it may be important."
17
R utledge said sharply, "You shouldn't be walking out alone at this hour of the night."
Mr. Ottley said, "I can't neglect my duties, Inspector. Not if there were six murderers in Eastfield. God walks with me."
Exasperated, Rutledge felt like telling the man that God helps those who help themselves. He bit his tongue instead.
Beside him, Constable Walker said, "I'll walk you up the path to your door, Rector, and Mr. Rutledge here will drive his motorcar back to The Arms. Then he'll join us. I'd give much for a cup of tea."
"Yes, I could do with one myself." He waited for Walker to join him, and Rutledge watched the two men safely inside the house before driving on.
Ten minutes later, he was standing in the rectory study. There were not many feminine touches here, and he remembered that the rector had been a widower for many years. What softness there was, he put down to the good offices of Mrs. Newcomb. There was even a slender vase of roses just opening out of the bud, and the silver tea service shone.
The rector poured and Constable Walker passed the first cup to Rutledge. They had chosen to sit in the half circle of chairs facing the cold hearth, but the brass fan that concealed the grate was polished to a high sheen.