“Where do we go from here?” she asked softly.
“As far as possible from where these guns are hidden. And where he’s not likely to look.”
“I thought you’d want to catch him. Once he was inside.”
“I do, but I want you somewhere safe, meanwhile.”
“No,” she said firmly. “In the dark, we could just as easily shoot each other.”
“His weapon of choice appears to be a knife. He could be standing and waiting in the dark, and stab you before you knew he was there.”
“No,” she repeated. “I won’t let him destroy the library. I’ll shoot him myself first.”
“Then stay out of the way. I want to take him alive, and see him tried.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” she replied, but she had turned away, and he couldn’t be sure just how far he could trust her to follow his lead.
With the shielded torch, Rutledge could make his way back to the library fairly quickly. Bruce had been locked in the gun room, for his own safety.
They moved quietly down the last passage by the library door, and paused to listen. But there was only silence.
With Lady Benton behind him, Rutledge reached for the knob and slowly began to open the door.
The room was pitch-black. Rutledge flashed the torch beam left and then right, but no one was there. Either searching the shelves, as they had done, or simply waiting for Lady Benton to come down to investigate the sounds of breaking glass.
He waited a full minute, then crossed the room, opened the far door. No one was in the far passage. But the door to the garden room was standing wide. Beyond, in the flash of his torch, he could see pieces of a large vase scattered across the floor, smashed to bring someone running.
Behind him he heard Lady Benton draw in a breath, as she saw the wanton damage. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know. The outer door is open. Leave while you can. And send word to Hamilton.”
“There’s only one torch. I’m safer here.”
Rutledge said, “We wait in the library. He’s hunting you, at a guess. And so we stay where he least expects to find us.”
“I’m worried about Henry and his family. Do you think he’s already harmed them? We ought to do something. I just can’t think what.”
“If he’s harmed them, it’s already too late.”
They moved back to the library, and shut both doors behind them.
Rutledge switched off the torch. “I’ll take the revolver now. If you are sure I’m down, find the weapon and use it.”
“Let me go to my room—the other revolver is there—”
“There’s no time. The safest place for you is up on that ladder. Unless he has a light, he won’t see you there. But I will know precisely where you are.”
Reluctantly she crossed to the ladder, and he switched on the torch for a few seconds, until he was certain she had climbed safely. And then he sat down to wait.
Waiting. The hardest part, he thought.
And without warning, he could feel the nightmare rising, could feel himself in the trenches, his feet in the dank water where rats ran and parts of the dead hadn’t been found, a cold wind blowing, and dawn ten minutes away. He was at the bottom of the ladder, his eyes on his watch, the whistle ready in the other hand. Some of the men were praying, he could hear them, while one man swore softly, a constant stream of coarseness. Two men had rosary beads—
By an effort of sheer will, he forced himself back to the present, making a sound in spite of himself as he fought for control.
“Are you all right? Inspector? Mr. Rutledge?”
The whisper out of the darkness reached him.
He cleared his throat. “Smothering a cough.”
Hamish said, “Listen—”
Someone was coming down the passage, he thought, the sound just at the limit of his hearing. Not trying to conceal the footsteps . . .
There was no time to warn Lady Benton. He got to his feet just as the door opened, flung wide enough to hit the wall behind it with a soft thud.
The intruder was making certain no one was standing behind it.
The sound was met with silence.
Rutledge held his breath, for he was closest to the door.
And then a torch went on as whoever it was walked into the room.
Rutledge couldn’t see more than a shape behind the sudden flare of light, but it pinned him.
There was no choice but to attack. He came at the man fast and hard, and the intruder dropped the torch to meet the sudden onslaught. From the floor it cast its light upward on their faces as they fought, shadows and brightness, distorting their features.
Rutledge had served in the trenches, he’d fought hand to hand, and survived. Franklin had killed without mercy, but his victims had been unsuspecting, vulnerable. Still, he was fighting for his freedom now.
There was a flash, something bright, caught for an instant in the torch’s beam—
A knife—
It was in the intruder’s free hand, and he was using all his strength to bring it up.
Rutledge reached out and caught the man’s wrist, bringing it down hard, with such force that the other man cried out, dropping the blade.
They went down, hitting the floor hard, and Franklin grunted, freeing his hand and reaching up for Rutledge’s eyes. Rutledge hit him, and the hand fell back.
They were rolling across the floor, and Rutledge had him now, about to pin him, when Franklin’s boot, drawn back for a kick, struck the ladder where Lady Benton was watching.
The ladder began to move fast, rolling on the groove designed to make every shelf accessible. It hit the far wall with a thud, and from the semidarkness in that corner came a cry of alarm. And then the sounds of a struggle as she fought to regain her footing.
For a split second Rutledge looked up, and in that one instant, Franklin broke free. He bolted, flinging the ladder back across the room as he passed.
Lady Benton was clinging to it by one hand, her other hand flailing, as it tried for a grip. Rutledge got to his feet, leapt forward, and managed to reach the ladder. But as it abruptly stopped, she lost her grip completely, and came down in a flurry of skirts. He caught her, set her on her feet, and was gone, after Franklin.
He heard her cry out, “Shoot him—don’t let him get away—”
Rutledge’s boots crunched in broken glass as he raced through the garden room and out into the night.
There was no sign of Franklin.
But there was only one way out of the private garden, and that was the arch in the hedge, and the gate there.
It was standing wide, and he set out in pursuit.
17
Rutledge came through the gate and onto the lawn at a dead run. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and he saw Franklin racing across the lawns, with no shelter until he reached the place in the hedge where the airmen had had access to the Abbey grounds.
Hamish was saying, “Yon’s a clear shot—”
And it was. He could bring down Miles Franklin—the revolver was still there in his belt and loaded.
But the weapon was unfamiliar, and if he stopped now, took aim—and missed—he wouldn’t have a second shot.
And then even that chance was gone as Franklin disappeared down the slope that led to the airfield.
Rutledge ran on, went through the gap after him, and nearly lost his footing as a root caught at the toe of his boot.