Charles Todd - A Lonely Death

And now he was loose. But here in the churchyard or at the rectory?

Rutledge's hearing was acute, but Hamish's had always been far sharper.

"On the steps of the rectory."

Rutledge could just make out the soft footfall. And then it came down the steps again and was lost in the grass. After a few seconds Rutledge realized that someone was moving around to the side of the rectory, facing the church.

Where was Mr. Ottley, the rector? At this hour, in his bed, most likely. But was he? For now Rutledge could see that although the drapes had been drawn, lamps were still lit in his study.

Just then, the rectory door opened, throwing a shaft of light across the lawn, and Mr. Ottley was saying, "I'm glad you came, Tuttle. I think you've made a wise decision. If Miss Lang accepts your proposal, I'll be happy to post the banns and marry you when the time comes."

Tuttle. Constable Walker's nephew. And what the hell was he doing in Eastfield? He must, Rutledge thought, have arrived at the rectory while it was still dusk and the police were gathered inside St. Mary's. Damn and blast the man!

"Thank you, Rector," Tuttle responded. "I'm that sorry to have come so late, but we lost track of time, didn't we, Nan and I?" He laughed lightly. "One good thing about getting married, I shan't be traveling all the way to Hastings and back of an evening."

Mr. Ottley laughed with him, and then they said good night.

The door closed, and the shaft of light vanished, leaving Rutledge blind for several seconds. But he could hear Tuttle moving down the path from the rectory door, and then turning toward the gate into the churchyard. A shortcut to his house-Rutledge had spoken to his mother only that afternoon.

A lorry rumbled down the Hastings Road, and its headlamps swept the churchyard wall as it passed the main gate.

As if in a tableau, Rutledge could see Tuttle stop, his head turned toward the vehicle. And in the shadows by the rectory wall, he could just discern the outline of another man frozen in place not ten yards from where Tuttle was standing.

Tuttle was the victim this time.

And Rutledge had two choices-to call out a warning, and risk losing Summers, or to put himself between Tuttle and the killer.

Tuttle was opening the rectory gate, whistling to himself as he stepped through it and paused to shut it behind him.

Something-some tiny movement-caught his attention, and he turned to stare at the rectory wall, now in darkness again. "Who's there?" he asked sharply.

A voice said softly, so as not to disturb the rector behind his closed doors, "Do you remember me, Tuttle?"

The low churchyard wall was between them now. Tuttle said warily, "I don't know your voice. Who are you? What do you want?"

"To say hello. For old time's sake."

"You've got the wrong man, then," Tuttle answered and began to walk swiftly toward the far gate and the better-lit Hastings Road, careful to keep on the smoother ground between rows of gravestones.

He passed within ten feet of where Rutledge was standing, but his attention was wholly on the man behind him as he listened for the telltale squeak of the rectory gate. He began to pick up his pace now, anxious, clearly beginning to realize the danger he was in. The Hastings Road was safety-doors he could pound on, people who would hear him shout for help. Even the sanctuary of The Fishermen's Arms, if he was quick enough.

Behind him, Rutledge saw the killer vault the wall rather than use the gate, landing lightly, in a crouched position. Then he straightened and started forward.

Rutledge turned his head. Tuttle by this time was some fifteen feet from the main gate, and he cast a worried glance over his shoulder, unable to see where in the shadows his hunter could be. The wind up now, he made a frantic dash for the gate and was through it, into the Hastings Road, running for the hotel.

" 'Ware!"

It was Hamish who saved him.

In an instant, Rutledge realized that Summers must have caught a glimpse of him there amongst the trees watching Tuttle walk on, and on the spot changed course, altering his intended target to the one at hand.

There was a fleeting movement of air, a sound that had barely registered, before Rutledge dropped to his heels, out of reach of the garrote intended for his throat. It scraped across his head, and he heard the man behind him swear.

Rutledge surged to his feet again, catching Summers off balance, and the two men fell hard against a footstone, flailing at an adversary neither of them could see in the thick shadows of the church tower.

For an instant Rutledge had a solid grip on the man's upper arm, spinning him as they got to their feet, but his boots slipped in the bruised grass, and Summers broke free. He ran, only to fall headlong over something underfoot. Rutledge lunged forward, missed him, and saw him race toward the church porch and the deeper shadows of the apse beyond.

Rutledge gave chase, launched himself at the figure just ahead, and brought Summers down, knocking the wind out of both of them.

Rutledge was the first to recover, but the other man was fast, and breathing hard, he set off again, back the way he had come, toward the west door of the church. He got it open before Rutledge could stop him, and then tried to slam it shut, catching one of Rutledge's hands as he did.

Setting his teeth, Rutledge pulled at the edge of the door, bracing himself, and when Summers suddenly let the door go, it opened so fast that he was flung against the carved stone arch. He nearly cracked his head against the protruding foot of a saint, but using the wall as a fulcrum, rebounded with such speed that he was inside the entrance to the church before Summers could manage the inner door into the sanctuary. Something brushed his face, and he grunted with shock at a touch so close and so human. Then he realized that it was not a hand but the frayed end of the bell rope. He caught it again somehow, and leapt high on it, coming down with all his weight on it.

High above in the tower, the bell clanged with a deafening discord.

Two short blasts of a whistle-it was the nearest he could come to the signal for needing help. But before he could ring the bell again, Summers was on him, knocking him to one side. Rutledge whirled as he crashed into the wall, expecting Summers to be in front of him now.

He judged it wrong.

The garrote this time brushed his ear and he jerked sideways, knocking against the low table where church information and items for sale were usually kept. It went over in a crash, and Summers yelled in pain as one of the legs unexpectedly clipped him, and he went down.

They were fairly equally matched, although Rutledge had the advantage of height. He felt for the wildly swinging bell rope, caught it, and leapt high a second time. But Summers reached up as he was scrambling to his feet, and seized Rutledge's ankle, pulling him back. Still, he managed to keep his grip on the rope, and again the bell sounded a harsh note, rocking on its cradle to ring a second and then a third time before Summers could stop him.

Kicking out with his free foot, Rutledge caught Summers in the throat, for he choked on a cough and released his hold.

Letting go of the bell rope, Rutledge dropped to the stone flagging, trying to pick up movement and locate Summers. But he waited a second too long, for something brushed his shoulder, then a fist slammed into the edge of his jaw. Rutledge's head snapped back, and he saw stars.

The other man was on him then, pinning him half against the wall, half against the door into the sanctuary. Shaking his head to clear it, Rutledge broke the hold, lashing out in his turn, and Summers stumbled backward over something that had fallen from the overturned table, sending it bouncing across the floor, and he went down. It was the break that Rutledge was looking for, and he caught at the fabric of the man's lapel, held on hard with one hand, and with the other, went for where he guessed the man's body would be. The blow sank into yielding flesh, and he heard the whoosh of air as Summers fought to breathe again.