But the airfield offered very little cover to the fleeing man, and he knew it. He turned and ran close by the hedge, deep shadow enveloping him.
Rutledge followed him, was gaining by the time Franklin reached the far end of the hedge and turned into the lane.
Rutledge heard a horse whinny, and as he rounded the far side as well, he saw Franklin climbing the fence where Lady Benton had seen the ghostly horse.
And it was there, saddled and waiting.
This time Rutledge didn’t hesitate. He skidded to a halt, had the revolver in his hand, and was already aiming as he fought to steady his breathing.
Franklin was silhouetted against the night sky for an instant as he reached the top rail of the fence and was about to swing himself over. Without hesitation, Rutledge fired.
He saw Franklin throw up an arm, then bend as if twisting sideways, and knew he’d been hit. But the unfamiliar revolver had pulled slightly to the left, and as Franklin began to fall from the fence, he caught himself, for an instant, hung there before he half-fell, half-leapt to the ground. He got to the horse only feet away, swung himself up into the saddle, even as Rutledge fired again. But the horse was already on the move, Franklin leaning forward in the saddle so that it was impossible in the darkness to tell animal from man.
The horse set out at a gallop, straight for the fence where the lane met the road, and was put to it. It cleared the rails handily as Rutledge watched. Even in the dark, he could see the fast-moving blur turn toward Walmer.
He was already turning, heading for the carriage house, shoving the heavy door wide, racing toward his motorcar standing behind the landau. He turned the crank, the motor caught, and he was in the driver’s seat, pulling out, narrowly missing the landau, almost clipping the gate as the heavy motorcar roared through it.
He reached the main road, sure that even at her full gallop, the mare couldn’t have gone farther than the closed gates to the Abbey. And the motorcar was faster, its headlamps cutting through the night.
Rutledge glimpsed her ahead of him, passing now where the old Abbey gatehouse had stood, and then she was lost, a heavy stand of trees by the road masking her flight as it blocked what little light there was.
By the time he too had reached the ruined gatehouse there was no sign of her on the road. It was as if she had vanished among the trees or was lost in the fields that stretched on the far side of the old gates.
He lost precious minutes, making certain the main gates of the estate were still locked, that they hadn’t been tampered with. In the great headlamps of the motorcar, the brass scroll with Lachrymosa etched in it seemed to glow like molten gold.
Satisfied that Franklin couldn’t have doubled back, he started toward Walmer again.
I should have shot him when I had that first chance, he told himself grimly. It’s on me if I lose him now.
To his left as he drove, scanning both sides of the road, movement caught his eye.
There was a stretch of fallow ground, running down to a line of trees in the far distance. And a horse was coursing diagonally across the field toward an inlet, and beyond, the lights of Walmer.
He couldn’t tell, as he drove, whether there was a man on the horse’s back or not.
What’s more, there was no way to follow across the fields. No access at all from the road. He had to drive the legs of the triangle, but he had no idea where the mare was heading.
Swearing, he sped up, perilously taking a sharp curve, as Hamish warned him to take care.
The outskirts of Walmer were ahead, but he had lost the horse behind the brambles and scrub trees that bordered the fields already well behind him, and then he was among the cottages and small houses that led into the High, and was forced to slow.
There were options—the harbor for one, where Franklin could steal a boat and disappear. There were The Salt Cellar and The Viking, where at this hour he might think he could take refuge. What would he choose to do? Were there motorcars in the yard behind the Swan Hotel? Had he already found one and had a head start toward Chelmsford? What would he choose?
Hamish said, “I’d choose yon motorcar.”
There was the brother, Rutledge suddenly remembered. And according to Lady Benton, it couldn’t be Newbold.
Whoever he was, would he help?
Rutledge drove down to the harbor, but there was no horse wandering about, and The Salt Cellar, like The Viking, was dark.
With the motor still running, he got down and knocked at the door of The Salt Cellar. But no one came to answer it. He had no idea where Johnson lived, just that it was not in the rooms above the pub. And then he saw what he had nearly missed in the shadowy doorway. Someone had tried to force the lock. The heavy door had held.
Nor did anyone come to see what the fuss was about when he knocked at the door of The Viking.
He got back into the motorcar, reversed, and went to find Hamilton.
Hamilton answered the door on the third knock. “Damn it, Fred, I—”
He broke off as he saw Rutledge in the shadows of his doorway. “What the hell do you want?”
“I need you—as many men as you can collect as fast as possible. I’ve tracked Mrs. Lowell’s killer as far as Walmer. He was on horseback—a mare he’d taken from the Home Farm. He broke into the Abbey tonight.”
“Lady Benton all right?”
“Yes.” He kept thinking about the broken door into the garden room. There was no way to lock it now. Still, there was the dog . . . He said, “If we don’t find him now, we’ll never catch him.”
“All right, let me get my clothes on. Constable Brown is on Church Street. I’ll collect the other two.”
“Where does Johnson live? The owner of The Salt Cellar? Someone—possibly the killer—tried to force the lock. He may have found another way inside. I’m going to find out.”
“At the foot of the hill. It’s a semidetached, his daughter lives on the other side. Look for the house with a little barrow in the front garden. She plants things there.”
As Rutledge turned to go, Hamilton added, “We’ll sweep from this end, you begin at the harbor.”
He drove to Church Street, roused the Constable, wasting precious time answering his questions. He said, “The harbor. Start there. I’ll be with you shortly.”
It was not difficult to find Johnson’s house. He didn’t need to look for the barrow. There was a dim light just showing at the back of the house, and it went out as Rutledge knocked on the door.
No answer. He knocked again. “Johnson? Scotland Yard. I know you’re—”
The door opened, and Johnson said, “For God’s sake, keep your voice down.” He caught the sleeve of Rutledge’s coat and pulled him inside. “This way. I daren’t light a lamp.”
Rutledge followed him to the kitchen. Johnson lit a small lamp, then covered it with a towel before setting it on the floor.
The table was covered with bloody cloths. And to one side of the room stood a young woman, presumably the man’s daughter, who lived in the other side of the house. Her face was pale, her hands trembling.
“He was here,” Johnson was saying. “Bleeding. I didn’t know—I let him in. And he told me that if I didn’t help him, he’d kill Sally, there.” He gestured toward her. “I believed him—”
“What did he want?”