He reckoned he must be close to The Monk’s Choice, but he couldn’t see the pub. Not even the glow of lamplight from its windows. He might, he thought, be a quarter of a mile short. But voices didn’t travel that far, even in mist. Still, there were not that many buildings along this stretch of road, much of it farmland belonging to the Abbey.
He waited. Listening.
What had seemed to be a low conversation grew louder, taut with anger now. As if they were walking this way as they talked.
Rutledge wasn’t sure of the time. One o’clock? Possibly two? Who were they—and why were they on foot along the road? But then they might ask the same of him . . .
Two men. He could distinguish that much. And they didn’t sound inebriated. Just very angry.
He tried to move a little closer, but a stone rolled under his foot—and silence fell. He could hear his own breathing, he tried not to hear Hamish’s.
Someone was moving away quickly, trying not to make any noise, and then another set of footsteps set off in a different direction, masking each other’s sounds.
And a few seconds later, he had the night to himself again.
When he was certain he was alone, Rutledge walked on, toward what he thought was where the voices had been standing. Moving slowly, prepared for anything, he could feel the road becoming grass beneath his feet.
“Ware—”
The sense of something in his path came too late. Without warning, his right foot caught in what felt like tangled wire. He struggled to keep his balance, but his left foot slipped in the wet grass as it tried to take his weight, and he went down hard, his ribs striking something and sending a searing pain through his side.
His last thought as he lost consciousness was that Hamilton, returning soon with his motorcar, would have no idea where he was.
Then the pain and the blackness took over.
When he regained his senses, he could feel cold grass under his face. In place of the mist, no more than shreds now, a wind had risen, breaking it up. It was still dark, and cloudy, because he couldn’t see any stars.
He couldn’t remember at first why he was lying on the ground, but when he tried to sit up, his ribs sent a surge of pain through his body, and as he lay back, something hard brushed against his head.
Still dazed, he felt around him with his hands, and finally his fingers touched the torch he’d dropped as he went down. Fumbling with it, he found the switch and the light blinded him for a few seconds.
Then he saw what he had fallen over.
A bicycle.
Not a man’s bicycle, a woman’s . . .
Mrs. Lowell’s? There was a basket on the handlebars, small, neat, and tied with a blue ribbon.
Surely someone at the Abbey would recognize it, if it was.
But what the hell was it doing out here, in the middle of nowhere? He flashed the light this way and that, looking for the pub or some other building. There was nothing except farmland.
He tried to get to his feet, but finally had to turn so that his weight went on his arms, without using his chest muscles. It was still difficult enough that he grunted from the pain. He had to squat to retrieve the torch, then managed to right the bicycle.
He was standing there, wondering if he could manage riding it when something caught his eye. There was a small orange glow in the distance.
Even as he watched, it vanished.
A window, a lamp near it. Judging from the height of that orange glow, the room was on the first floor. A bedroom?
He began to walk in the direction he’d seen the light, keeping it in his mind’s eye as he moved, using the torch to light his way so that he wouldn’t fall again. When he was close enough to recognize the building just ahead, he stopped.
It was the pub. The Monk’s Choice. Dark now, no light showing, although he walked around it at a distance, to be sure.
Somewhere a dog began barking.
Ignoring it, he spent several minutes within sight of the pub, waiting to see if anyone came out the door. Whether the lamp meant someone was finished for the night or about to leave the room—and the building.
When there was no sign of anyone moving in or out of the pub, he finally turned and went back the way he’d come.
He was used to measuring distances. He knew to a few yards where he’d fallen over the bicycle.
But when he got there, it was gone.
Casting his light about, he searched for half an hour. It was nowhere to be seen.
Rutledge remembered the dog barking.
Someone had come back for the bicycle and taken it away.
Swearing, he finally gave up his search and started back. Back to the lane and the hedge, where he was to meet Hamilton. There was no time now to reach the Lowell house and return.
Tomorrow.
He was beginning to find it difficult to breathe, and had to slow his pace. He didn’t think his ribs were broken, there hadn’t been that sense of shock and nausea that came with broken bones. Still, his right side hurt like the very devil. And he thought he must have hit his head as he went down. A lump above his left ear was growing larger with every step, but his mind seemed clear enough.
He was wary when he saw distant headlamps, growing larger by the minute. Moving slowly, as if the driver was searching for something.
Hamish said, “Was yon bicycle real?”
But Rutledge shut away the voice, watching the oncoming vehicle. While he still had time to get out of the high-beam glare.
Then he recognized the familiar shape of his own motorcar, and stayed where he was.
Hamilton slowed as he recognized the figure his headlamps had picked out of the darkness at the edge of the road.
“What the hell—” he said, tired and short-tempered. “Rutledge, I’ve searched the damned airfield for you—I was going back to gather a search party—is that blood on your forehead?”
Rutledge put his hand up, and found a cut, wet with blood but not bleeding profusely. He remembered now, hitting it on the rim of the bicycle’s tire as he tried to sit up.
“Never mind that. Did you take Mrs. Lowell’s body to the surgery? Is there anything you could see there that might help us?”
“Yes, of course—and no, we didn’t. Nothing obvious. Wister will know more tomorrow. But it doesn’t appear she was interfered with. Clothing intact. Get in, man, or it will be dawn before we see our beds. Do you want to drive?”
“No.” It was difficult climbing into the motorcar. He had to set his teeth against the pain.
“What’s wrong?”
“I tripped over a bicycle, of all things. Lying along the road near where I’d heard two men arguing. I think it was Patricia Lowell’s.”
“Then let’s take it back with us. You should never have left it.”
Rutledge was in no mood for it. He said tersely, “It’s gone now. But I can describe it.”
Hamilton was cross. “Damn it, you should never have let it out of your sight. Who was arguing? Why is it gone?”
“Just drive. There’s nothing more we can do tonight.”
Grumbling, Hamilton reversed, and started back toward Walmer.
They drove in silence after that, until they were in sight of the first house in the village. Then Hamilton said, “We’ll go back at first light. In case you misjudged where you saw it.”
“Go if you like. It isn’t there.”
Hamilton left the motorcar in the hotel yard, started to walk away, then turned back.