Rutledge was braking with all the power of his arm, knowing it wasn't going to be in time, that either the bicycle could catch him or he would slam at speed into the side of the lorry.

He fought the wheel, heard the bicycle crash into something just to the left of him, and saw himself sliding too, this time sideways, and his brakes could do him no good.

Somehow Rutledge managed to gun the motor at the last, forward momentum clashing with his sideways slide.

He wound up in a field by the road, came to a jarring stop, and was out of the motorcar while it was still rocking heavily.

The lorry was crashing into the wood, trees snapping as the weight of the vehicle mowed into them, metal rending with a high-pitched whine that was earsplitting.

He couldn't see what had become of the rider, and his greatest fear was that whoever it was had been caught beneath the lorry wheels and dragged.

Suddenly everything was quiet.

From the verge of the road he heard a whimper, and went quickly toward it, cursing himself for not bringing his torch. There wasn't a light for miles, it seemed, except for the lorry's headlamps and his own.

She was lying in stubble and high gra.s.s, and he stumbled over a stone and nearly went headfirst into her.

He and Hamish saw her at the same time.

It was Sarah Parkinson, and she was badly injured. He thanked the G.o.ds wherever they were that she was still alive, and knelt beside her. He didn't know what had happened to Singleton and he didn't care.

His hand touched blood, wet and warm at the side of her head, and then as he ran his hands down her body, he could feel the odd angle of one arm. Broken, he thought, but the head wound was more serious.

She moaned as he touched her, and he was afraid to move her until he knew the extent of her injuries.

Another motorcar was coming from the east, and Rutledge stood up, not sure that the driver could see the lorry and his motorcar in time to realize what had happened. He moved to Sarah Parkinson's feet, prepared to wave off the other driver, but the motorcar slowed, then stopped.

"Is anyone hurt?" It was a woman's voice, frightened but steady. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Over here," Rutledge called. "Bring a torch, or fetch mine from my motorcar."

The driver got out and ran toward Rutledge's motor, rummaging for the torch. Rutledge had a fleeting thought about Hamish, from long habit.

She came racing back, nearly tripping on the rough ground, torch in hand, flicking it on and shining it inadvertently into his face.

She stopped. "Rutledge? What's going on?" she demanded, as if he had staged the accident to throw her off stride.

He said, "It's your sister. I don't think the lorry struck her, but she's here on the side of the road, one arm broken and a cut on her head. If there are internal injuries-"

Rebecca was beside him, pushing him away, shining the light on her sister's face.

"Sarah? For G.o.d's sake-Sarah."

She began to work quickly, but there were tears spilling down her cheeks now and her voice began to quiver as she talked to her sister.

There was no response.

"I've killed her!" Rebecca Parkinson cried. "We had a quarrel, it was my fault-I shouldn't have let her go alone in the dark-I tried to find her again-"

Her sister moaned, and Rebecca bent over her trying to cradle her head.

"Don't move her," Rutledge cautioned. "We don't know the extent-you must go and find help at once. There's a village back the way I came, no more than three miles? Four? Go there and ask if there's a doctor."

"I won't leave her. It's my fault, I tell you."

He grasped her by the shoulders and shook her. "Hysteria wastes any time she has left. Get in the motorcar and go. There's a murderer loose here, he was driving that lorry, and you can't stay here alone. Go Go."

She stumbled back to her motorcar and got in, pushing her foot down on the gas pedal with such force that the car leapt ahead as she turned it and he heard a wheel of the bicycle crunch under the tires. But she b.u.mped over it and kept going, disappearing into the darkness with such abandon he wondered if she would make it herself.

He used the light to look for more injuries, and then bound Sarah's head with his handkerchief to control the bleeding. As he moved her slightly, she cried out. Her arm or her back? He had no way of knowing.

Speaking to her quietly, he tried to rea.s.sure her, but she seemed not to know where she was or what was happening.

"A blessing," Hamish said, at his shoulder.

Taking off his coat he rolled it and set it under the broken arm, then ran his hands down her legs. He could feel b.l.o.o.d.y bunches of stocking, blood soaking through her skirts, but there was no indication of a break on either.

She came to for a moment, and he said, "Rebecca is here. She's gone for help. Hold on. It won't be long."

"I hurt. All over."

He tried to smile. "That's good. It means you can feel. Stay quiet, I'll be here."

From the lorry he could hear the sound of a door creaking open.

Singleton was still alive.

He did nothing. Said nothing. And listened.

After a time a voice from the darkness called, "I can see you, even if you can't see me. I'll kill both of you if you try to stop me."

"You aren't my case. You're Hill's. Go on." He snapped off his torch.

"You aren't armed. I am."

"I said, go on."

He could hear footsteps crunching in the dirt of the road and then fading as Singleton reached the gra.s.s verge.

Hamish said, "He'll no' leave witnesses."

But Rutledge remained silent, listening from where he knelt at Sarah Parkinson's side.

To Hamish he said, "I'd swear he wasn't armed."

"You canna' chance it. He's Hill's case. You said so yourself."

"Yes."

He could hear the crank turning, and then the motor came to life. The driver's door shut. Singleton was backing Rutledge's car into the road. He could see the sweep of headlamps across the sky.

For an instant Rutledge thought Singleton might try to run them down, but the ground was too rough just where he was kneeling by Sarah, and the risk of doing serious damage to the motorcar was obvious.

And then the moment came where if Singleton was armed, he would fire.

Does he have a service revolver?

Many of the enlisted men had brought them home as souvenirs...

The motorcar idled in the road. Rutledge held his breath, keeping his back to Singleton, making sure that he was between the killer and the girl on the ground at his feet.

She said, "What's wrong? I heard a motorcar. Is it Rebecca?"

Rutledge didn't answer, counting the seconds as he waited.

And then Singleton was driving away, leaving them there in the night.

He could feel the tension in his back. To Sarah he said, "She'll be here soon."

It couldn't have been more than ten minutes later that Rebecca was back, braking hard, calling to her sister. A door opened. A man carrying his medical bag hurried toward them. Rebecca was maneuvering the motorcar until the headlamps shone directly on her sister, giving them light to work.

The doctor was there beside Rutledge. "What's most urgently needed?"

"The head wound. It's bleeding heavily."

Rebecca hadn't emerged from the car. Rutledge thought he could hear her teeth chattering over the sound of the engine.

"Head wounds generally do. Next?"

"Right arm. Broken, I think. Cuts and bruises. I don't know about her back. But she can feel pain. All over, she says."

"A good thing." He began to work, slowly at first and then with greater a.s.surance as he learned the extent of Sarah Parkinson's injuries. He did what he could to brace the broken arm, put bandaging over the head wound, and then turned to Rutledge.

"She'll be all right, but I daresay there's concussion, and shock is setting in. We need to get her to hospital."

Rutledge said, "There's a rug-" But his motorcar was gone. He called to Rebecca Parkinson. "Do you have a rug, there?"

"Yes, I think-"

He could hear her getting out now, coming toward them. "Is she alive?" Her voice was under control, but tense with stress.

"She's all right," he told Rebecca and took the rug from her, helping the doctor wrap Sarah in it. Between them the two men carried her to the motorcar and lifted her into the rear seat. It must have hurt like the very devil.

The doctor got in after her and made certain she was comfortable. Then he turned to Rutledge. "Anderson's the name."

"Rutledge." He nodded to Rebecca. "I'll drive."

"All right, I'll direct you. Can we get around that lorry?"

"I think so."

"That's the fastest way. What's become of the driver? Is he dead?"

"He went for help."

Anderson nodded. "Then we needn't concern ourselves with him."

Sarah regained consciousness several times, complaining of feeling cold and hurting. Anderson rea.s.sured her, but Rebecca, next to Rutledge, didn't look back or answer her sister.

They drove into a medium-size town where there was a hospital of sorts near the church. It had, Anderson was telling him, been a lying-in hospital before the war and after that had been turned into a burn treatment center. "But most of the patients have been sent elsewhere now, and the town has taken it over."

"Where are we?"

"Salverton."

"I need to find a telephone as soon as possible. The lorry is still blocking the road."

"Yes, of course. The hotel just down that street should have one. Give me a moment to find someone with a stretcher. Then you can go."

Rutledge stayed until Sarah Parkinson was in a room on the first floor, nurses working over her with quiet efficiency. Rebecca, still silent, was with her. No one noticed as he slipped quietly out and went to the stairs.

The clinic had been a bank in an earlier life, Rutledge thought, noting the marble pillars in Reception and the ornate staircase sweeping up to the first floor. His footsteps echoed as he crossed to the door. A nursing sister pa.s.sing through nodded to him.

He found the hotel, The White Hart, without any difficulty, put in a call to Uffington, and after a time heard Hill's voice on the other end of the line.

Rutledge gave the inspector a brief report, and asked about the cottages.

"We couldn't save the empty ones where the fire had been set inside. We couldn't get enough water to them. The rest, the ones still occupied, will be habitable. Where's Singleton?"

"I wish I knew. I told you, he left in my motorcar."

"He wasn't injured in the crash?"

"Not as far as I could tell."

"Surely you could have stopped him." Hill's frustration came to the fore, backed by anger.

"I couldn't leave the woman he ran down."

"But she'll live, you say?"

"It appears that way. Early days." He saw again the doctor's grave face as he examined the head wound and tested Sarah Parkinson's reflexes. "The next twenty-four hours will tell us."

"Where do you think Singleton went?"

"Where does he feel safe? I don't know. I expect he'll abandon my motorcar as soon as possible and find other means of transport. It could be a country bus or a train. One that isn't crowded, I should think."

"We haven't got enough men to watch train stations."