As an afterthought, Mason had left the date and time.
An hour ago . . .
But he had neglected to say why he was on his way there with the Constable. To prevent anyone who stopped in the surgery from spreading word before whatever it was could be confirmed?
That must mean another body.
He turned and went back into the house proper, walked into the kitchen, and saw that Mason must have just finished his breakfast. Dishes had been left on the table, nothing cleared away. The ends of toast, a smear of yellow yolk, congealing. The teapot was cold.
Going out into the yard, he crossed the puddled garden on the narrow path that separated vegetables and the house flower beds. He could hear the horse in the small stable, stirring as if eager for his breakfast as well.
Opening the door, he saw there were two stalls and an open space for feed and for the doctor’s carriage. In the nearest stall was a tall chestnut gelding with a lopsided white blaze on his nose. It gave him a slightly tipsy appearance, but as Rutledge approached the stall’s door and spoke to him, he reached out and sniffed Rutledge’s clothing. He nodded his head, blowing a little, and waited.
Rutledge found bridle, blanket, and saddle on the wall beside where the carriage was kept. Carrying them back to the stall, he talked to the horse as he worked, and found it more eager to get out into the brisk air than objecting to what Rutledge was doing. Finishing the straps, he led the animal out into the small stable yard, and mounted.
It had been some time since he’d ridden, but once in the saddle, he felt at home and urged the horse forward. It set off at a steady trot, almost as if it knew where it was heading. But when they had passed through the two stones at the far end of the avenue and he turned the animal toward his left, it hesitated, as if more used to going in the opposite direction. There wouldn’t be much call for a doctor on the broad and empty plain.
“Not this time, old son,” he said, and the horse obediently followed the touch of his heel.
It was impossible to see any marker that would lead him to the Long Barrow. But he started forward, counting on his sense of direction to guide him. Or failing that, he thought wryly, the horse knowing where his stable mate might be. The ground beneath his mount’s hooves was soggy with moisture, the chalk unable to absorb any more rain.
And then fifteen minutes later, the perfectly conical shape of Silbury Hill appeared out of the mist, to his right. He kept going, thinking that he might well collide with the Long Barrow before he could see it. He recalled the opening was at the east end of the long earthen, almost loaf-shaped mound. But that wasn’t necessarily where Dr. Mason and Henderson would be. For all he knew, they’d already passed him, going back to the village. Sound traveled peculiarly in this heavy a mist.
Hamish said, “Ye should ha’ left a message of ye’re ain.”
“He’ll see my motorcar by the house.” Rutledge was beginning to think he’d overshot his goal, traveling onward across the plain. Just then he heard a horse calling, his own mount responding.
Rising slightly in his stirrups, Rutledge shouted, “Mason? It’s Rutledge.”
“Damn it, man, I can’t see a thing.”
Following the direction of the voice, he trotted on. He’d walked through this green, quiet plain as a student on holiday, stopping here to eat his lunch before moving on. It had been an impressive trek, through prehistoric mounds and barrows. He’d had a compass then, and a good survey map. But he hadn’t gone inside the barrow.
Mason called again, and Rutledge adjusted his direction. Then without warning, he was almost on the mound. Turning the horse to the right, he saw the back of a carriage appearing out of the mist, and then a horse, tail swishing in a steady rhythm.
Mason said, “Over here.”
Rutledge dismounted, looped his reins over the high rear wheel of the carriage, and walked past the horse in the shafts to the line of misshapen stones that guarded the entrance to the barrow. Mason was waiting for him by one of them.
“Good, I’m glad you made it. This way.” He rested a hand on a stone, guiding Rutledge back to where rough steps led through a narrow opening.
Hamish, busy in the back of Rutledge’s mind, was not eager to go farther.
Ignoring the voice, Rutledge followed the doctor. He was in a sort of forecourt, now, the chamber to his left, a square stone blocking the exit from the forecourt to his right. Rainwater had darkened the rubble underfoot.
Henderson appeared out of the mist. He looked wary, as though he was not as pleased to see the Yard as Mason was.
“Just there. Behind the Constable,” Mason was saying, and Henderson moved out of the way.
13
For the first time Rutledge saw what had brought them all here. A worn pair of boots, then trouser-clad legs, a greatcoat, and finally a head.
Thin dark hair framed a ravaged face.
Rutledge’s first thought was, It’s a man. Somehow, in the back of his mind, he’d feared they’d found another female victim. And then, We’ll have the devil’s own time identifying him.
For the man had been dead some days, he could see that clearly. Scavengers had been at the soft tissues, and worms as well. Along the chin, the bridge of the nose, and the ridge above the eyes, white bone showed through the torn flesh in places. The teeth were bared in a macabre grimace, lips and part of the cheeks missing.
His gaze moved down the body again. The greatcoat the man was wearing was an officer’s, threadbare in places and dark with rainwater.
“Great God—” he began, and stopped. They didn’t know, Mason or Henderson, about the break-in at the Leslie house, did they? Unless gossip from Stokesbury had already reached their ears.
“He won’t be pleasant to take up,” Henderson said sourly, as if agreeing with what Rutledge had been about to say.
The mists moved again, hiding the poor face.
“Does he come from Avebury? One of the other villages?” Rutledge asked. “Can you recognize him?”
Henderson shook his head. “There’s not enough left to know. But from the look of him, he’s a vagrant.”
“How did he die? Doctor?”
Mason took a deep breath. “I can’t be sure. There’s a gin bottle over there, by the chamber entrance. Do you see?”
Rutledge leaned forward. He could just see the mouth of it.
“Drank himself into oblivion and died of the cold, most likely,” Henderson added.
But why out here in the open, when he could have sheltered inside the narrow chamber, well out of the weather?
“Anything in his pockets? Have you checked?” Rutledge looked from one man to the other.
“Best to wait until I have him in the surgery.”
“How long has he been dead? Can you tell?” he asked Mason.
“Hard to say until I’ve examined the remains. Less than a week, I’d guess, but he’s lain out here in the elements. That changes a body. There were crows at him when we got here this morning. And not the first time, either. It took some doing to scatter them.”
Crows, the traditional scavengers on battlefields.
“Who found him?”
“That was Mr. Downing,” Mason said. “He lives on the far side of the church. He has two young retrievers he’s training. Brings them out to run. One of them disappeared over the steps, and Downing feared it had cornered a polecat. He went after the dog, and damn near fell over the body. He came for me, and I collected Henderson. I asked Downing if he’d touched anything, he or the dog, but he told me he hadn’t.”