Leslie caught them and stared down at them for a moment. “How many times have I used my own cuffs?” he asked, almost to himself. Looking up at Rutledge, he said, “Are they necessary?”
“Do you think I’d trust you all the way to London, uncuffed?”
“To be honest? I wouldn’t trust myself, in your shoes.” And he flung the heavy cuffs straight at the horse, striking him in the white blaze on his nose.
The animal reared in pain and fright, nearly unseating Rutledge. He clamped his knees against the horse’s sides, caught a handful of mane with one hand while the other held tight to the reins. And then the gelding took off, galloping down the line of trees, away from the man beside the motorcar. Rutledge’s last glimpse of Leslie was of him racing for the bonnet to turn the crank.
And then he had to give his whole attention to the horse, who was close to sweeping him out of the saddle as it ran under low branches before clattering out to the road.
Leslie blew his horn as he started back the way he’d come, at speed.
It was a challenge.
By the time Rutledge had the horse under control, there was no way he could go after Leslie. Instead, he rode on, shouted for Mason as he came through the gate, dismounted, and called as the doctor opened his door, “Take care of him. Look at his nose. I don’t have time.”
And then he was turning the crank of his own motorcar, and tearing down the road after Chief Inspector Leslie, pausing only long enough to retrieve his handcuffs.
He was two miles from the outskirts of Stokesbury when he saw the brightening of the sky ahead and to his left.
“Damn the man,” Rutledge exclaimed savagely, and pressed on into the village.
The house was fully engaged by the time he got there, and Leslie was out in front, standing a little apart from his helpless neighbors, watching it burn as they tried to save the houses on either side. The shed too was ablaze, but no one was paying it any heed.
Rutledge braked hard, got out, and strode toward Leslie. The man turned, gave him an odd look, then held out his hands.
Rutledge said, something in his voice that Leslie heard clearly, “If you try anything this time, I’ll post you as a fugitive, armed, dangerous, and to be shot on sight.”
“You’ve won, Rutledge. I’ve nowhere else to go.”
And he stood there, waiting as his neighbors stared at the two tall men, while Rutledge clamped the handcuffs around both the Chief Inspector’s wrists.
19
They drove in silence all the way to London. Leslie made no effort to escape, his hands in his lap, his eyes on the road ahead.
Counting the miles? Rutledge wondered, on his guard all the same.
They were threading through the dawn traffic of London, the sun rising and a stiff breeze coming up with the light.
“Why did you burn the house?” Rutledge asked then.
“Did I set it afire?” And then, “I did. But not the way you think. I’d gone in, expecting you to go directly to London, leaving me in the clear. There was some money there, I knew I’d need it. Constable Benning knocked at the door, and I thought it was you. I leaped up, and I knocked over the lamp in my haste to get out through the kitchen. When I saw who it was, I made some excuse and we went around to the front of the house. As I was about to turn the crank, we smelled smoke. It was too late. The carpet must have caught, or the drapes. I don’t know. The heat was too fierce for either of us to try to salvage anything. There’s no fire company in Stokesbury, did you know? Benning ran to ring the fire bell. Nothing anyone could do by that time.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Leslie said, his voice suddenly drained of feeling, his face drawn with exhaustion, “I don’t particularly care whether you do or not. I can’t prove it, and I can’t change what happened. Sara was fond of that house. That’s my only regret.”
But any evidence still there to find had gone up in the fire.
Hamish said, “Ye ken, he’s preparing his defense. There’s no knife, and whatever was in yon house is gone as well.”
Rutledge suddenly remembered the photograph of Karina that had never been put in the case file. Had that been somewhere in the house too?
When they pulled up in front of the Yard, Leslie said, the mocking note gone from his voice, his eyes dark with something Rutledge couldn’t define, “Whatever I’ve done, I’ve got a shred of pride left. Remove the handcuffs. Let me walk to Markham’s lair without the speculation and stares.”
Rutledge himself had walked that gauntlet. But he was about to shake his head when Leslie quickly added, “I swear to you on whatever honor left to me that I will do nothing, say nothing. I swear.”
“If you break your word, I’ll shoot you myself.”
Leslie stared at him. Then held out his hands. Rutledge unlocked the cuffs and put them back in his pocket.
“Thank you.” After a brief hesitation, Leslie got out of the motorcar, walked around it, and went directly into the Yard, climbing the stairs ahead of Rutledge and turning toward Markham’s office.
It was Rutledge who knocked, after a quick look at Leslie. His face was expressionless, his eyes hard.
Markham called, “Come,” and Rutledge opened the door.
It was an awkward and painful half hour.
Markham, glaring at Rutledge, had turned to Chief Inspector Leslie and asked, “Has he run mad?”
Leslie didn’t glance at Rutledge. “Everything he has told you is true. I’m responsible for the death of Karina Larchian and the ex-soldier whose remains were found in the Kennet Long Barrow.”
“Do you have any idea how this is going to reflect on the Yard, if you are charged and tried?”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
And that was all the apology that Markham got.
He fussed with the papers on his desk, glared again at Rutledge, as if he had personally planned this awkwardness, then said, “There will be an inquest, damn it. In Avebury. Until then you’ll be remanded into custody. I will have your identification, Leslie.”
The man winced at the use of his name without his title. He handed it over, and stood there stoically while Markham went through the necessary formalities, including a statement of guilt that the Chief Superintendent had insisted on having in Leslie’s own hand.
Leslie signed his resignation from the Yard, held out his hands, and Rutledge put the cuffs on his wrists a second time.
Markham said to Rutledge, “I’ll inform you when the inquest is held. Now get out of my office.”
They walked together back through the Yard. Word must have run like wildfire before them, because the onlookers seemed to multiply with every step.
Rutledge met every eye, as he had done before, when he had been the one stared at. Leslie stared directly ahead. And finally, blessedly, they were on the stairs and almost at the door.
As they got into the motorcar, Rutledge said, “Why?”
Leslie answered after a moment, his defeat in every word. “I loved two women, you see. But I’d vowed to love and honor only one. I thought, in a sense, that death was less painful for Karina than my rejection.”
Leslie had asked one more favor from Rutledge, just before they walked the short distance into the prison. “I don’t want Sara to hear this from strangers. Will you tell her? She has friends, they’ll stand by her. Her sister as well. Just don’t tell her why. Or about France. I don’t want anyone to know I loved her. It was an act of madness. That will do.”