A Long Shadow

A Long Shadow by Charles Todd Read Free Book Online

Book: A Long Shadow by Charles Todd Read Free Book Online
Authors: Charles Todd
that."
    "He doesn't lie. Simple people seldom do. He told you he didn't know where the revolver is, and he doesn't. If he saw a dead man in that pasture, he described him in terms he could understand."
    He recalled Tommy's exact description. "He was dead, buried. I saw him and I didn't like it. And I ran."
    "Buried, as in a churchyard?"
    "No, not in a churchyard. There were no flowers, and no tombstone. Still, he was lying there, buried."
    "I can hardly scour Hertfordshire for a dead soldier! It's a waste of my time and the time of my men."
    "No. Whoever was in that pasture couldn't have been a local man."
    "You can't be sure of that."
    Rutledge glanced at him, saw the angry face etched by the motorcar's headlamps, and answered him carefully. "It's your patch. You know it best. If you find out anything, you know where to reach me in London."
    "If it's not a local man," Smith said, pursuing the issue doggedly, "it was no accidental shooting, was it? He knew where he was aiming." When Rutledge said nothing, he fell silent, thinking it through. Where the rutted lane met the main road and the motorcar's tires fought for a grip in the icy mud as Rutledge turned, Smith went on. "You have an enemy out there, then. I'd not care to be in your shoes." He turned his head to look behind Rutledge, as if searching out Hamish. "I'll thank you to take your troubles out of Hertfordshire as soon as you can. We don't need them."

7
    Bowles was pacing his office by the time Rutledge had received his summons and knocked at the door. "Where the hell have you been?" the Chief Superintendent demanded angrily. "I sent for you a good half hour ago! And what's happened to your face?"
    "I've just got in from Hertford, sir—"
    "I don't give a dance in hell where you've come from. You're leaving for Northamptonshire straightaway. There's trouble in a place called Dudlington in the north of the county. A constable has been shot with a bow and arrow, for God's sake!"
    "A bow—" Rutledge began, surprised, but Bowles cut him off.
    "He'll live, no thanks to the bastard who did it, leaving him in the weather to die of his wound. It was intentional, this shooting, we're certain of that. And I want whoever it is brought to justice now. Do you understand me? Hensley's one of my men, or was, when I was an inspector in Westminster. He went north over my objections, and look where it's landed him."
    Bowles's face was red and blotched with fury. He shoved a file of papers at Rutledge.
    "Well, don't stand there, man! I want you to interview Hensley tonight, if those fool doctors will let you, and get to the bottom of this business. They've got him in hospital in Northampton, and the local man says he's just out of surgery."
    It was useless to plead fatigue or other pressing business. Bowles was not a man who cared about anything but getting his own way. And blustering anger was a well-tested method of keeping his subordinates from arguing with him.
    Rutledge took the file and left.
    Down the passage he ran into Sergeant Gibson in conversation with the man sweeping the floor.
    Gibson turned away to speak to Rutledge and said dourly, "If you want the truth of the matter, Hensley left under a cloud. I never did know the ins and outs of it. A personal matter. He managed to keep it from Old Bowels' ears, I'm told. The Chief Superintendent thought he was the perfect copper. Threw him up to us any number of times."
    Rutledge said dryly, "Then there'll be no end of suspects for this attempt at murder."
    Gibson caught himself before he grinned. Instead he retorted, "How the mighty are sometimes brought low." And with that he was off down the passage, leaving Rutledge standing there.
    Dudlington was a tiny village of stone-built houses topped with gray slate roofs and a single, slender-towered church, huddled together in the midst of open fields, as if for warmth or comfort. The rich brown of plowed acres and the yellow green of winter pasture lay like a blanket around them,

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