His footsteps echoed, the lane was quiet, the shops dark.
Everyone had gone home. Soon Mrs. Melford would be setting her table in the dining room, expecting him to come. And Mrs. Channing was waiting for him as well.
There was a lorry coming up behind him, he could hear the changing of the gears as the corner was turned, and the sound of the motor gaining speed to take the slight rise in the lane.
At first he didn’t make the connection. He assumed that the workmen had finished for the day and were leaving Dudlington. Or heading to The Oaks for a pint before going back to their place of business.
The odd thing was, they’d forgotten to turn on the lorry’s headlamps.
The heavy vehicle was almost on his heels when he realized it wasn’t workmen behind the wheel. Not at that speed—not without lights.
Hamish was shouting something, and Rutledge made a wild dive for the small rose garden in front of Grace Letteridge’s house.
The wing of the lorry struck his leg and clawed at his shoe. He landed hard among the stubby rose canes, one of them stabbing into his shoulder, and his arm hurt as it took his full weight. Then he rolled.
A long, high-pitched screech of metal on stone filled the air, and the lorry’s wing scraped heavily against the wall, knocking it inward on top of Rutledge before veering away.
The heavy stones rained down on Rutledge’s ankles and shins, even as he tried to see who was behind the wheel.
From down the lane there was shouting, two men racing toward the lorry, ordering it to stop. And doors were flung open on either side of the lane, light spilling out onto the cobblestones, silhouetting people attracted by the noise. He heard a woman’s voice crying out, and then the lorry was gone, taking the turn into Holly Street with squealing tires before disappearing up toward The Oaks and the open road.
Rutledge was beginning to feel the battering he’d taken, his ankle throbbing, his arm going numb under him, and something gouging at his stomach, as though trying to tear through his shirt into his flesh.
He lay there for an instant, trying to collect himself, and then Grace Letteridge was standing above him.
“Look what you’ve done!” she was exclaiming. “My roses—”
“The lorry—” he said.
But she was too angry to listen. “It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t been here, poking about! It’s your fault.”
The two workmen went thundering by, their breathing loud and one of them swearing, the same words spilling out over and over again, threatening what he would do when he caught the thief.
Rutledge got slowly to his feet, nearly as angry as Grace Letteridge was. Taking her by the shoulders, he shook her lightly, and said, “Shut up and listen to me. Did you see who was at the wheel?”
Shocked into silence, she glared at him. Finally his words seemed to sink in and she retorted, “No, why should I have?
Look at my poor wall—look what you’ve done to my roses.”
“The wall can be repaired, the roses put back in the ground.” He turned to the faces staring at him from windows and doorways. “Did any of you get a good look at the person driving?”
There were head shakes, denial, and one man said,
“There wasn’t time.”
Dr. Middleton was hurrying through the garden gate, staring around at the damage. “My good God!” he said, looking Rutledge up and down. “Are you in one piece, man?”
“Barely.” Rutledge looked at the torn cloth of his trousers, and he had a feeling the dark lines marking his leg were blood from a cut.
“Here, Grace, we need your house until I find out what’s broken,” Middleton ordered.
“I don’t want him in the house,” she cried. “I’ve enough work to do here.”
A voice called from up the lane. “Here, Doctor. Bring him in here.”
Rutledge swung around to see Mrs. Channing standing beside Mrs. Melford, outside Hensley’s house.
“Can you make it that far?” Middleton asked him.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get there.” He turned his back on Grace Letteridge and walked stiffly, limping a little, out of the garden and toward the two women.
He could feel her staring at his back, her anger still palpable.
22
Both Mrs. Channing and Mrs. Melford followed him into Hensley’s office, with Dr. Middleton at their heels.
Mrs. Channing disappeared toward the back of the house, and Mrs. Melford pushed a chair forward for Rutledge to sit in.
He sat, grateful to be off his feet.
Someone came to the door to hand Dr. Middleton the shoe that Rutledge had lost by the wall. He glimpsed an unshaven face, and then it was gone.
The doctor took the other chair from behind the desk and propped Rutledge’s right leg across it.
“These trousers won’t be mended,” he said, and searched in his bag for his scissors, cutting the cloth to peel it back from the wounds.
There was a darkening bruise near his thigh, and the back of his leg was bloody, a long cut running down the calf. Middleton looked up as Mrs. Channing came in.
She said to him, “There’s water on to boil. Fortunately the fire hadn’t gone out.”
She took in the damage to Rutledge’s ankle, already turning red over the strengthening blue of a bruise, and said, “You were lucky, you know.”
“Stupid,” he answered, “is more to the point.”
Middleton straightened, turning Rutledge’s face toward him. “You’ve scraped your cheekbone on something.
Where else?”
Mrs. Melford followed Mrs. Channing back to the kitchen as Rutledge opened his shirt. The canes of the rosebushes had left their mark on his shoulder and across one arm, on his stomach, and along his side. Their thorns had torn at his hands. Dr. Middleton went for the water himself, came back to bathe Rutledge’s wounds and sprinkle an an-tiseptic powder on them, then cleaned the gash on his calf.
“You’re going to be sore tomorrow,” the doctor warned him. “Who was that fool driving, I’d like to know. He ought to be shot.”
“A good question. There’s a clean shirt in my luggage in Hensley’s room and another pair of trousers.” He looked ruefully at the earth caked on his coat, and all but filling one of his shoes.
The doctor finished his work. “That’s three,” he said tightly. “Hensley. Towson. You. I’d like to know what’s going on here.”
“Damned if I know.” Rutledge’s cheekbone had begun to throb. He put up a hand to touch it, realized the hand was filthy, and let it drop again.
“Who’s the lady with Mrs. Melford? A friend of hers?”
“No. She’s from London.” He flexed his arm and shoulder, then bent his knee a time or two. He wouldn’t be climbing back up the spire ladder anytime soon.
“I don’t understand. Was it an accident? You’d have thought the driver might have stopped, if it were!”
“It was intentional. Someone had taken a lorry standing outside one of the houses on Church Street.”
“That would be the Lawrences’.” Middleton nodded.
“They had worm, and much of the wood has to be replaced. I say my prayers every night that there’s none to be found in my house. Insidious little beasts!” He paused. “I hesitate to ask, but you don’t believe it was anyone at the Lawrences’, do you? I can’t for the life of me—”
“No.” Rutledge bent to drag his stocking back over a rapidly swelling ankle just as the door opened, and the two workmen, clad in overalls, stepped inside.
“The lorry was just at the top of the rise, where Holly Street runs up to The Oaks,” the older of them said. “Door open, no one inside.”
Rutledge saw Middleton’s look. Whoever it was could have slipped back into Dudlington, or was long since gone up or down the main road.