Footsteps were coming toward him, hollow in the fog. He stopped and listened to the rhythm of the steps. A man’s pace, walking briskly. Had Leslie left his motorcar out of sight, and come back? Looking for Rutledge—or on his way to the Yard?
He decided to step out into the road and let Leslie pass him, then follow him down to the river where they could talk in private.
In the distance he could hear the muffled sound of horses stamping where the Household Cavalry stood guard.
The footsteps hurried past him. Then stopped.
Rutledge stayed where he was, his eyes on the wall of fog, all the while watching for any glimmer of the headlamps of an approaching vehicle.
There was silence all around him.
He smothered another cough as the fog caught the back of his throat again.
“’Ware,” Hamish exclaimed.
And the sixth sense that had saved him time and again in the trenches urged him to move.
He was nearly out of the road when a motorcar, its headlamps off, came up from Westminster behind him. He saw the brightness of chrome as the headlamps flared, pinning him where he was. Blinded, he couldn’t see the driver—but the driver must have had a perfect view of his startled expression staring toward the invisible windscreen.
A spurt of speed, and the motorcar swerved toward him. Rutledge dove for the far side of the street. The wing brushed the edges of his coat and hip so hard, it spun him in a quarter circle, and he had to fight to keep from sprawling backward on the ground.
Almost as quickly as it had come, the motorcar disappeared, a swirl of gray fog in its wake.
Rutledge stood there, fighting for breath.
He could hear the motorcar moving faster still, and in the same instant there was a heavy thud! A woman screamed, high-pitched and then abruptly cut off.
Stiffly at first, he raced toward the cry, passing the horses, nearly stumbling over a purse lying in his path, unable to see the owner until he was almost on her.
She lay awkwardly, one leg twisted under her, her face a bloody mask.
He knelt down beside her, felt for a pulse. It was faint, irregular.
“Someone summon an ambulance,” he shouted. “Hurry!”
In the distance a voice answered, “Where are you?”
“Send for an ambulance. I’ll hear the bell.” He got to his feet long enough to take off his coat and spread it over her, realizing as he did how tiny she was. Then he was back beside her.
He could hear footsteps running, but his attention was centered on the woman. The blood on her face was dripping into her fair hair, tumbled out of its pins. He took out a handkerchief to wipe the blood out of her eyes, and as he did, she opened them, looking up at him with pain and terror in her gaze.
“It’s all right, help is coming,” he said gently, fumbling for her gloved hand and holding it firmly in his. “I’m here, I won’t leave you.”
She clutched his fingers, a lifeline.
“Where does it hurt?” he asked, but she couldn’t manage to speak. All he could see was the twisted limb and a wound on her scalp, by her hairline. Her dark green hat was just under her other hand, and he was reminded of the gray hat belonging to the dead woman. Shaking off the memory, he went on speaking to her, afraid to move her lest she have internal injuries. Telling her that she would be fine, that he wouldn’t leave her. Asking her name.
Someone materialized out of the shrouding fog. He caught the gleam of the helmet badge first. A Constable. “There you are, sir. I’ve asked for an ambulance.” He looked down at the woman, then knelt next to her, across her body from Rutledge. “Should we try to move her? She’s still perilously in the road.”
Rutledge shook his head slightly, and said to the woman, “Here’s a policeman. You’re in good hands.”
But the light was fading from her eyes, and as the two men watched, she died.
The Constable crossed himself. “Who did this, sir?” he asked grimly. “Was it your motorcar?”
“I’m on foot. It was coming at speed, barely missed me, and then I heard it strike her. It was running without its headlamps. Then suddenly they were in my eyes. Almost impossible to see the vehicle or the driver. They might have blinded her as well.”
“I take it that it didn’t stop?”
“No.” This close he could read the Constable’s name. It was Fuller.
“Who is she?”
“I don’t know. She couldn’t tell me. Her purse is over there somewhere.”
The Constable rose and went to search for it. Rutledge closed her eyes, spread the bloody handkerchief across the dead face, and sat back on his heels.
He hadn’t seen the motorcar. He couldn’t describe it, and he most certainly couldn’t claim he knew the owner. It could have been anyone.
The Constable was back, a black leather purse in his hands. He knelt again, opened it gingerly, and, taking off his gloves, he poked around with one finger.
“Handkerchief,” he listed, taking it out. “Lace. Initials in the corner. JRRF. A small looking glass, same initials in silver on the back, a comb, a smaller purse containing money—ah. A case of calling cards.” He lifted out the silver monogrammed case and opened it.
“Mrs. Gerald FitzPatrick. It has her direction as well.” He was interrupted by the ambulance bell, and handed the contents of the purse to Rutledge as he stood up and prepared to stop it.
Rutledge set the contents back inside after abstracting one of the engraved calling cards, slipping it into his pocket. He could hear the Constable telling the attendants that the lady was sadly deceased. He went on, quietly giving information for the morgue.
When the attendants came to collect the body, Rutledge retrieved his coat and watched as she was placed on a stretcher and carried to the ambulance. Small as she was, she hadn’t had a chance against the speeding vehicle. He felt a sudden surge of anger.
Looking down at the puddle of blood, already mixing with the dirty rainwater, he saw her hat, picked it up, and strode to the ambulance before the doors were closed. “This is hers.”
The attendant thanked him and laid the dark green hat at her feet, next to her purse. Rutledge stepped back.
This was a case for the Metropolitan police, not the Yard. But he would make it his business to find out what he could.
He’d seen Leslie. He was certain of it. But where was he now?
As the ambulance pulled away, silent now, the Constable turned to Rutledge. “Your name, sir, in the event we can find the blackguard who did this.”
He gave his name and direction, adding, “I’d like to know what you discover.”
The Constable was about to tell him that he would find out in due course, if he was called on to testify to the speed of the motorcar. But when he looked up, what he saw in Rutledge’s face stopped him in midsentence. “I’ll see that you are, sir.” His gaze moved on to the wall of white. “A pity, this. They’ll send someone to speak to her family. I’m always grateful that’s not my duty.” He moved out into the street, searching for any evidence that might identify the motorcar. “It’ll be dented. Must have been.”
The two men searched for several minutes, but there was nothing. In the end he thanked Rutledge for his help, touched his helmet in a brief salute, and went back to his rounds.
Rutledge watched him disappear into the fog, then turned and walked back the way he’d come. He could hear the bell of Big Ben striking the hour, but almost missed his own motorcar, having to circle back twice before he saw it looming ahead of him.