Charles Todd - A long shadow

And even as he thought it, he realized how tired he actually was.

By the time he reached Hensley's house in Dudlington, closer to dawn than to midnight, he felt bone weary. Still, he walked through the rooms, torch in hand, and searched them carefully.

In one corner of his mind, he'd half expected to find the shell casing that he'd left in Chelsea sitting somewhere here, waiting for him.

The cold rain had given way to colder sunshine, and Rutledge felt the stiffness in his body that came from heavy sleep in a room without a fire. Hamish, apparently already awake, said sourly, "The Oaks would be mair comfortable." "That's very likely." Rutledge swung his feet out of bed and looked at the clock. He'd missed his breakfast. Mrs. Melford would be furious with him for missing his meals yesterday as well. Just then he heard her calling to him from the foot of his stairs, and remembered that there was no key to the house door. "Inspector! Your eggs are growing cold, and I shan't keep them warm more than five minutes longer." The outer door slammed, and Rutledge went to fetch his shaving gear. In the event, he was a good seven minutes late, and Mrs. Melford glared at him as he came into her dining room. But she brought his breakfast, and he found he was hungry. "Any news of the constable?" she asked, as if assuming his absence had been spent in Northampton. "Resting." She went to fetch a rack of toast and set it before him with a pot of marmalade. "Are you any closer to finding whoever it was shot him?" "Not yet." "Yes, well, we'd all expected the Yard to be more efficient." "The Yard," he answered her shortly, "works with information. Apparently in Dudlington, there's none to be had." She disappeared again and came back with warmed milk. He found himself thinking how different mornings had been in Westmorland, where the kitchen had seemed an oasis of warmth and brightness. Had it been love he'd felt there, three weeks ago-or only his loneliness responding to something rare: unforced companionship? He'd probably never know the answer to that now. And he must learn not to wish for more than a brief friendship. The letter from Elizabeth Fraser had been clear. Don't come backHamish was restless, urging him to finish his meal and leave the past where it could do no harm. "Ye canna' marry anyone. It's no wise." Mrs. Melford was saying, "Everyone in Dudlington has been wondering why it was you interviewed Grace Letteridge." He came back to the present with a jolt. "Do you suspect her of complicity in Hensley's attack?" he countered. Her mouth tightened. "Really, Inspector!" "Miss Letteridge had spent some time in London. In the early years of the war. I spoke to her about that." Disappointed, she said, "She'd been a good friend to Emma. We were wondering if that had anything to do with your visit. So soon after you'd spoken with Mrs. Ellison."

"You knew Emma Mason, then?"

"Everyone did, Inspector. She was a bright, pretty, sweet-natured girl."

"What does Dudlington think happened to her?"

"She's buried somewhere in Frith's Wood. That's what they say. Although the wood was searched and there was no overturned ground or other evidence of digging. Still, whoever it was could have waited until after the search to put her into the ground," she added ghoulishly.

He thought about the empty rooms in Hensley's house, and how easy it would be to leave a body there until it could be moved.

Hamish reminded him of the unlocked door.

That's true. But no one appears to go beyond the parlor. More to the point, Hensley is Caesar's wife-a policeman and above suspicion, he answered silently. And then aloud he asked, "I'd have thought her grandmother would have contacted Emma's mother, to ask if Emma was there."

"Poor woman, she doesn't know where her daughter is. She won't admit that, you know, but Miss Arundel, our postmistress, says that letters have come back marked Unknown. For years now."

"Which means Emma could indeed be in London with her mother. And Mrs. Mason doesn't intend to send her back to Dudlington."

Mrs. Melford frowned. "I suppose that's true." But her tone of voice indicated that she was far from believing it was.

He finished his tea and rose to leave. "Thank you for waiting for me this morning. It won't happen again."

Without acknowledging his apology, she turned and went back to her kitchen. He found his account on the table by the stairs and paid it. Rutledge walked down Church Street to the far end. Beyond the rectory stood the barn from which Ted Baylor had heard his dog barking. Baylor was a younger man than Rutledge had expected. Dressed in muddy boots, dark corduroy trousers, and a heavy coat that emphasized the width of his shoulders, he stopped stock-still as the man from London came down the stone- flagged passage between the milking stalls where cows were lined up head-in, their rumps steaming in the cold air. "Mr. Baylor? Good morning," Rutledge said. "I've been told it was your dog that alerted you to trouble in Frith's Wood the day that Constable Hensley was shot." Baylor regarded him warily. "It was." "Had you noticed anything else unusual that day? Crows taking flight across the field, for example, or other signs that there might be something going on?" "Never saw the crows," he answered. "Perhaps the dog had, and that's what started the barking." "Pity you can't ask him," Baylor retorted. "Does he bark at the wood from time to time? Scenting rabbits-" "Not much of anything lives in Frith's Wood." "What about your wife-or children?" "I have no wife-nor any children. My half brother lives with me. And he doesn't tend the cattle." "I'd like to ask him, all the same." Baylor shrugged. "He won't see you. Now I have work to do." "Not just yet," Rutledge replied briskly. "What did you see when you went into the wood?" "I saw nothing but trees, and I didn't much like that. I was about to leave when the dog started rooting around, and it was then I saw a foot showing from behind a bush. Went around to the other side of the bush, and there was the constable, facedown in the leaves, white as a sheet, and cold into the bargain."

"Had he been moved, do you think? From where he'd been shot?"

"I didn't notice. But there were scuff marks, as if he'd dragged himself a bit."

Signs lost, Rutledge thought to himself, when the men came in to rescue Hensley. "Did you point these marks out to anyone else?"

"No, why should I have done? He'd lain there for two hours or more, it was natural he'd tried to help himself."

"You work with cattle. Could you have lifted Hensley and carried him some distance?"

"Look here! I never touched him."

"I'm sure you didn't. My question was, could you have carried him to safety, out of the woods, if you'd had to?"

"I very much doubt it. Not with that arrow in his back. It was obscene, him lying there, cold as a fish, and an arrow jutting from him, for all the world as if Red Indians had been at him. I'd not have touched him, without the doctor asking me to try. Besides, once I'd told the doctor to come right away, I fetched a hurdle from the barn and took it back with me. And some others heard me shouting and came to help."

He slapped the flank of a cow, moving her over a little, and added, "Bad enough when Dr. Middleton had us hold Hensley firmly while he broke the shaft well above the wound. You'd have thought he'd done it all his life, he was so clever at it. Hensley never moved." His voice was admiring. "Not something you see every day. Not even in the war."

"How do you explain someone using a bow and arrow in Frith's Wood?"

"I don't. That wood is not like any other I've ever seen. If I were a drinking man, I'd swear the place is full of God knows what, and Hensley was a fool to tempt whatever it is lives in there."

"Was he looking for Emma Mason's grave?"