Rutledge thanked him and left.
He went back to the Leslie house, and this time it was the daily who answered the door.
“Chief Inspector Leslie has left, sir. If you’re Mr. Rutledge, I was to give you this.”
She reached in her apron pocket and pulled out a small, sealed envelope. “He said you would know what it means.”
He took the envelope, thanked her, and walked back to his motorcar as she shut the door behind him.
He tore open the envelope and pulled out the single sheet inside.
There was no greeting and no signature. Just a few words in Leslie’s handwriting.
I’m sorry. I seem to have lost my taste for killing.
18
Rutledge had a choice. To follow Leslie to Cornwall or to wait for his return.
Hamish said, “What if he’s no’ gone to Cornwall?”
If Leslie drove fast, if he knew the roads and could make up lost time quickly where necessary, he could go first to Avebury.
That was where the knife was . . .
He didn’t hesitate. Leaving the square, he set out for Wiltshire himself, and as soon as he was clear of the outskirts of London, he pushed the motorcar hard. Even so, he had time to think.
If Karina’s killer had come to Avebury by way of the West Kennet Avenue, where he might well have been seen by Mrs. Parrish, once the deed was done, he could leave by the most direct route. Cutting cross-country was faster, and there was less chance of being seen. It was how the purse had been hidden in the barrow, it was how the killer had known the forecourt and chamber were accessible.
But would Leslie have been clever enough to realize that leaving the knife and the purse in the same place was tempting fate?
If the purse had been found after Radleigh’s body had been discovered, there was no connection to the dead woman. She couldn’t have identified it, there was nothing in it to identify her. Radleigh could have taken it from anyone at any time. And if the crows and other scavengers had had a chance to finish their work, there would have been no way of telling how long he’d lain there. Weeks or even months, depending on when he was discovered. Possibly the killer that had got away—possibly not.
But the knife—that would be telltale.
Rutledge pushed harder on the empty stretches, almost colliding with a lorry turning into his path outside Marlborough. Swearing, he barely got clear, the horn on the lorry blasting the driver’s anger at him.
He reached Avebury and went directly to Dr. Mason’s, pausing only long enough to collect what he needed from the boot.
The doctor opened the door, took one look at Rutledge’s expression, and said quickly, “What is it?”
“Have you seen Chief Inspector Leslie?”
“No, is he—?”
Rutledge cut across his question. “I need to borrow the chestnut gelding again, if I may. There’s no time to explain.”
“Yes, of course, I’ll help you—”
But Rutledge was already striding toward the stable, and he had the blanket and saddle in place before Mason caught him up, his coat thrown on and his scarf trailing behind him.
“I’ll give him the bit,” he said. “What’s happened?”
“The knife is still missing. And I think Leslie’s going after it. I have to get there first.”
The doctor swung the doors wider as Rutledge mounted. “Do you think he’s armed?” he asked quickly, catching the bridle as Rutledge started out of the stable.
“God knows. Yes, if he’s already found the knife.”
“He’s fast, Prince is. And he’s not been ridden of late, he’ll be ready to go.”
But Rutledge was already headed around the house toward the street, and the horse under him lengthened its stride as they cleared the open front gate.
Where in hell’s name had the knife been hidden? It hadn’t been in the chamber, there was nowhere in the forecourt that was as safe from the curious, the summer visitor. And he himself had circled the barrow without noticing anything unusual, any possible cranny.
He set off down the road, and as soon as he had passed through the causeway, Rutledge swung left. The chestnut was used to that now, and was eager for a run.
Soon the conical shape of Silbury Hill was in sight, and in the distance was the Long Barrow. Rutledge was pulling his mount in that direction when he saw movement on the western end, away from the entrance.
Urging Prince on, into a full gallop, Rutledge made for what he’d seen, telling himself it hadn’t been crows or even a stray ewe.
With his free hand, he reached inside his coat, pulled out his field glasses, and gripping the horse with his knees, he scanned the barrow ahead.
There!
He caught the movement again, and for a brief instant, there was the figure of a man in the lens before he lost it. The horse was moving too fast for him to hold the glasses steady, but he’d seen enough. He shoved them back inside his coat, and concentrated on reaching the barrow.
Leslie must have heard the hoofbeats. Suddenly he was climbing to the top of the barrow, staring across the plain, a dark silhouette against the fading light. He watched the oncoming horse for several minutes, and then began to climb down on this side, preparing to meet Rutledge at the foot of the barrow.
By his stance as he reached the bottom, he was braced for whatever was to come.
Rutledge slowed the gelding as he got closer, trotting now, gauging his adversary while letting him wonder what to expect.
By the time he was in hailing distance, Leslie said, “I thought I’d left you in London.”
Rutledge didn’t reply until he was within ten yards of Leslie, reining in his horse.
“Any luck, remembering where you left the knife?”
“It was dark. I couldn’t very well mark the spot. You may have better luck.” His shoulders were squared, his head up. “How do you expect to take me into custody, on horseback?”
“The horse can find his way back home. We’ll use your motorcar.”
Before he could stop himself, Leslie glanced toward the distant road. Rutledge looked in that direction, and he thought he could see the motorcar, off the road and behind some trees.
“Rather a long walk back, for you.” He didn’t dismount.
“Oh, very well, come inside the chamber over there, and I’ll show you what I did with it. I was searching for a better choice when I heard you thundering toward me.”
But Rutledge had searched the chamber. The knife wasn’t there.
He smiled grimly. “I’ll wait while you fetch it.”
Leslie smiled in return. “Then I’d rather walk. The truth is, I don’t particularly care for that damned chamber.” He turned, moving toward the distant road, walking briskly. Rutledge turned the horse and followed at a little distance.
“I don’t particularly care to hang, either,” Leslie commented when they were halfway to the motorcar.
“You should have considered that before you killed the first time.”
Leslie winced. “It wasn’t my plan. The truth is, I don’t like remembering it. And afterward, I had to watch Dr. Mason examine her body. It was all I could do to keep from screaming at him to stop.”
Rutledge said nothing.
Before they’d reached the motorcar, Rutledge took out his handcuffs and tossed them to Leslie. “Put them on.”