A dozen more steps, and he was at the head of the bell, where massive beams held it in place at the top of the tower.
The clock was hung on the outer side of the window arch facing toward the village.
And over his head, a single ladder disappeared into the spire. Shining his light up into the darkness, he could see the wooden skeleton of the tower, the framework on which it had been built, like an octagon that narrowed more with each foot of height. How old was that ladder? It might still hold a boy’s weight, but what about a man’s?
Rutledge thought, I don’t need to climb farther—
But he knew he did. Coming down was something else, and he wasn’t prepared to think about that yet.
The ladder was steadier than he’d expected, and with a sigh of relief, he started up it.
When he came to the first window, he realized that it looked toward the village, while its brother on the far side overlooked the fields.
But the next pair of windows, facing north and south, gave him a bird’s-eye view of Frith’s Wood, and he could see more detail from here than he’d anticipated. With his arms wrapped tightly about the side rails of the ladder, he brought up the field glasses. Through them, he could have roughly followed movement across the breadth of the wood, and even down into the thickets of undergrowth. Especially at this time of year, when the trees were bare and even the briars and weeds mere stalks and thorny strands.
It was interesting to see just how closely he could bring it in. Far better than from the rectory attic, surely.
Who would have the courage to come here, just on the off chance of seeing where Hensley had gone?
Letting the glasses hang from their leather strap around his neck, he began to back down the ladder. It was just light enough to see where he was going without the aid of his torch, but the tolerances were much tighter at this height, and he was beginning to feel the pressure of claustrophobia sealing him in. A nail sticking out farther than most of its neighbors plucked at his coat, yanking at him. It was easy enough to free himself, but the sense of losing his balance was strong.
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he went down the ladder another few rungs.
God, but it was dangerous! And just behind him, making it impossible to look down, was Hamish—
He continued his descent and finally arrived at the lower pair of windows. He stopped for a moment to look at the village, a toy city for a child. Like seeing it from an air-plane, he thought, picking out the narrow canyons that were the streets, and the chimney pots of houses he recognized. The nearer ones showed him their back gardens, where sheds held tools and other gear, and lines for drying clothes ran helter-skelter across the space available, to give them as much length as possible.
A child’s bicycle lay against the back steps in one, and in another a man was just visible bringing up a giant cab-bage from the coal cellar where it had been stored. A wagon moved into view, leaving one of the shops. The rectory’s slate roof was mossy, and he could see into the rector’s bedroom, glimpsing the foot of the bed and the edge of a door through the open drapes.
He was staring at the Baylor house, beyond the rectory, when he saw that someone was at a window on the top floor, apparently staring directly back at him.
It was a shock, because inside this tight cocoon of wood, he’d felt invisible. The question was, could the figure at the window actually see him, or was he only gazing out at the church?
Rutledge brought up the field glasses, but it was impossible to pick out details through the windowpane. A dark, irregular shape, but certainly human. He’d have missed it altogether if the figure hadn’t moved and drawn his attention. And yet he seemed to feel the intensity of the watcher’s scrutiny.
Curiosity, or something more sinister?
On the other side of the coin, the sun had just come out from behind the clouds, reaching through the narrow opening beside him and touching the ladder on which he stood, highlighting his right shoulder. He was pinned there, vulnerable, with the long descent blocked by Hamish just below him. Caught like a bird in a sack.
But that was nonsense. Any threat to him would come from outside Dudlington, not from a house whose owner he knew.
He tried to shake off the sense of urgency pressing him now and concentrated instead on the placement of each foot, feeling his way downward. There was a sense of relief when he finally reached the mouth of the bell and the real stairs.
However rudimentary they had seemed before, they felt sturdier and safer than that abominable ladder. He reached out to touch the bell for a moment, his hand against the icy cold metal. And from this angle, he noticed for the first time the mechanism that connected the bell to the clock.
“Hark!” Hamish warned, from somewhere below him, and he saw the gears begin to move.
The clock was about to strike, and he was standing there beside the bell.
Wasting no time, he went as fast as he dared down the next set of stairs, reached the last flight, the one of stone, and was halfway down it when the great bronze tongue over his head tolled the hour, the wash of sound enveloping him.
On solid ground at last, he went straight to the sanctuary and found a pane of clear glass facing the direction of the Baylor house.
But if there had been someone in the upstairs window, he was gone now. All Rutledge could see was the movement of clouds reflected in the dark glass, like the shadow of leaves stirring in the wind. He was beginning to think he’d let his imagination run away with him up in that spire.
Hamish taunted, “Aye, you’ve lost your nerve. It wasna’ a stalker standing there, only a man looking out his ain window.”
“To hell with my nerve. What I want to know now is whether someone’s accustomed to standing there. And did he see what happened in Frith’s Wood last Friday, or at any other time? If there was someone looking at me through the spire’s opening, had he seen anyone else up there in the past few weeks.”
“There’s verra’ little warmth at the top of yon house in winter,” Hamish countered derisively. “And only two people, ye ken, with no’ much time to stand about watching ithers. It’s no’ likely they’ll ha’ seen anything. Unless they were verra’ lucky.”
“Then it’s time to find out how good their luck is.”
19
When Rutledge used the brass knocker on the door, there was no answer. He walked around the side of the house to the kitchen garden.
The door there was ajar, and he stepped in, calling,
“Baylor? Are you there?”
He could hear voices somewhere inside, and he walked down the passage to the kitchen. It was empty too. Although it was tidy, the room was masculine in tone— shades rather than curtains at the windows, and an oil cloth covering the table. The only feminine concession was a frilled but worn cushion on one of the chairs, as if this was where a woman had once sat.
The door on the far side led to the rest of the house, and he walked quietly down a second passage. He’d just reached a room with an open door when Baylor came out and nearly collided with him.
“What the hell!” he exclaimed, startled to find someone in his house.
“I’ve knocked on the front door and called from the kitchen—perhaps it’s time to think of answering. You must have heard me.”
“Damn you, you’ve no right to come in like this.” Baylor was furious, his face red.
“I came to ask if I could look out your upper windows toward Frith’s Wood. Surely there’s no harm in that. It’s probably the best observation post in Dudlington.”