Charles Todd - A long shadow

A change in expression crossed Baylor's face. "The whispers say she's buried in there. I was in France, I don't know the truth of it. But in my view, there's no one who'd have gone in there to dig a grave, in the first place. There's no telling what might have come to light."

"Hensley went there. At least once."

"The constable comes from London. What does he know about Frith's Wood? I saw you going in there, walking about. What did you think of it?"

Hamish said, "It's a challenge."

Rutledge was on the point of quoting Hamlet, that there were more things in between heaven and earth than were dreamt of in most philosophies. Instead he replied, "I don't know that I'd like living so near to it. As you do."

"The cows won't go near it, even when they're in the pastures closest to it. Not for shade in summer or protection from the weather when it rains. But I'm safe enough here." He turned and looked in the direction of his house, even though he couldn't see it from inside the barn.

"Why do you think the dog barked?"

"He heard the constable groaning, very likely. He's trained to work the animals, he'd have paid heed to it."

Rutledge thanked him and left.

Hamish said, "A stiff man. And honest enough. But with something worrying him, all the same."

"The half brother, perhaps," Rutledge answered.

He stopped at the kitchen door and knocked, but no one came to the door or to any of the windows overlooking the back garden and the sheds.

He made himself a note to ask about the elusive half brother. If Mrs. Melford wouldn't tell him, Dr. Middleton might. Walking back to Holly Street, Rutledge decided to stop in the shops on Whitby Lane and found himself in the greengrocer's, stepping over a basket of apples from the south. He remembered the wizened, sour ones that were good only for jelly in the Lake District, where the growing season was so much shorter.

The sign over the door had read FREEBOLD AND SON, and Rutledge nodded to the man standing behind the cabbages. "Mr. Freebold? Or son?"

"Son. My father and grandfather, God rest them, have gone on to their just rewards," he responded affably. "How may I serve you, sir?"

Turning his back on the two or three women in the shop, Rutledge introduced himself and said, "I'm interested in Frith's Wood. Everyone tells me it isn't a safe place to go. And yet Constable Hensley appears to have gone there, of his own free will. I'm trying to find someone in Dudling- ton who might have seen him walk that way."

"I've not heard of anyone," Freebold answered, glancing over Rutledge's shoulder at the women in his shop. Apparently they had shaken their heads, for Freebold turned back to Rutledge and said, "Someone did say early on that he was seen leaving for Letherington that day."

"On his bicycle?"

"Yes, he was a great one for the bicycle." Freebold patted his own girth and added, "My days on two wheels are long vanished, right enough."

Behind him, Rutledge could hear one of the women titter.

"Then what became of the bicycle, do you think? I'm told no one found it there in the wood."

"Which isn't to say he didn't come home and go out again. He wasn't what you'd call overworked here in Dudlington. He'd take an hour or so and pay a visit to The Three Horses in Letherington, if he found that Inspector Cain wasn't about. He was something fond of The Three Horses."

"Why not stop at The Oaks?"

"I expect Constable Hensley and Frank Keating didn't see eye to eye," Freebold answered with some reluctance. "You'd best ask Keating about that."

Rutledge thanked him and left.

Half an hour later, he was walking into The Three Horses, in Letherington. It was a sizeable village, with two churches to Dudlington's one, and three pubs. The Three Horses was the oldest, with a smoky interior and old oak walls set with horse-racing memorabilia.

The owner, it transpired, had once been a jockey.

"Rode three winners," he said to Rutledge, pride in his eyes. "Derby winners at that! Josh Morgan is the name." He was a small, wiry man with a large head and lively gray eyes.

Rutledge asked for a pint and, when it was brought, engaged Morgan in conversation about his winners and then asked, "I understand Constable Hensley came here when he was in Letherington."

"Oh, yes, we were blessed often enough with his company. A quiet man, except when he got to talking about London. Then he could go on for an hour without repeating himself!"

"Much of a ladies' man?"

"He would chat up whoever was in the saloon, but it was more in aid of his own view of himself. He never gave them-or me-any trouble, I will say that for Constable Hensley."

"You've heard about the arrow in his back?"

"Inspector Cain was telling us what happened. I'm glad to hear the constable survived. Nasty piece of business! But then I'm told Frith's Wood isn't a place to meddle with. I've never been there, you understand. I'm not what you might call superstitious, except perhaps on race day, but I believe in leaving well enough alone."

"Had he been in Letherington that day? I hear he sometimes stops in at The Three Horses when he knows Inspector Cain isn't likely to find him taking his time getting back to Dudlington."

"He didn't show himself here," Morgan answered, shaking his head. "And that would be unlike him. Always one for the road, he'd say. Not a drinking man, mind you," he added hastily. "But he'd have a pint, sometimes two, before heading back. Ale was his choice. The darker the better. And he could carry what he drank. No harm done."

"What did he talk about, as a rule?"

"Racing. He was a football man as well, and he hated Manchester with a passion. Nearly came to blows over that one once, when we had a Manchester man in the bar. Lorry driver, he was. Big as a house." Morgan grinned. "I was on my knees praying there'd be no brawl. They could have wrecked half the bar, between them. But Constable Hens- ley said he must get home to the missus, and he left. I offered Manchester a drink on the house, to see him on his way. Just to prevent the two from meeting on the road somewhere."

"I didn't think Hensley was married," Rutledge commented. The house in Dudlington was empty. Was there a wife hidden away somewhere else?

Morgan laughed again. "There's a woman who nags him if he's late for his dinner. He always said it was as good as being married, but without the fuss."

Barbara Melford, then. She would be furious to learn she was being described as Hensley's "missus."

"Do you think Hensley was afraid of someone? Or worried about being followed?"

"He never said as much to me. Of course it's possible. He was a policeman, wasn't he? They're after telling everyone what to do, if we get out of line. Hensley was no exception. It wouldn't endear him to everyone."

No one else at the pub was helpful, although they appeared to be concerned about Hensley's condition and wished him well. A far cry from the attitude just a few miles away in Dudlington.

On his way back to the motorcar, Rutledge heard Hamish say, as clearly as if he had followed at Rutledge's heels, "The bicycle was hidden in the field, but he didna' ride it this far."

"Which means," Rutledge answered, "he either changed his mind about coming to Letherington, or was waylaid before he could get here."

"It's verra' likely," Hamish said, "that he lied about where he was going."

"And someone caught him in the wood."

"He willna' tell ye that."

A motorcycle roared past as Rutledge cranked his engine into life. He watched it out of sight, then said thoughtfully, "That's an easy way to get about. If I had distance to cover."

"Aye, but where do you hide it? It's no' like a bicycle, shoved into the weeds."

But Rutledge was searching his memory for the sound of a motorcycle near Beachy Head, or on the road to Hertford. And drew a blank.