FIFTEEN
Josette expected Sherston at seven. When eight o’clock arrived and he still hadn’t returned, Josette ordered dinner to be served in his absence. ‘I do apologize, Colonel,’ she said, taking her seat at the table. ‘It’s too bad of Patrick.’
‘He’ll bustle in soon saying he was unavoidably detained,’ said Tara, cheerfully. She cocked her head as the telephone rang in the hall. ‘Hello, this is probably him now.’
Anthony, who knew only too well who was detaining Sherston and how unavoidable it was, found it difficult to play his allotted part of easy unconcern as Vyse, the butler, went to answer the call. Josette looked up as Vyse came into the dining room.
‘Mr Elswick, the solicitor, would be obliged if you would speak to him on the telephone, madam.’ Vyse coughed. ‘He says it’s important.’
Josette was on the telephone for a matter of minutes, some of the longest minutes Anthony had ever spent.
She came back into the dining room like someone in a trance. ‘Patrick’s been arrested,’ she said without preamble, then collapsed into tears.
Early next day, Anthony walked to the boathouse. He hadn’t seen either Josette or Tara that morning and, after the previous evening, he didn’t want to. Tara had reacted with fury, Josette with silent horror.
There was, as he had hoped, a letter in the canoe.
Dear Brooke,
Congratulations. We’ve got him. It took some doing to get the authorities to act but, after your information, I had no choice. He doesn’t suspect we had any part in it.
He was arrested at Sherston House. He was taken to Carey Street Police Station and charged. His solicitor, Elswick of Harwood, Elswick and Kendal, was in attendance. We don’t want him wriggling out on a technicality. He stormed and blustered and indignantly rejected the charge, especially when the police spelled out, and Elswick confirmed, that the only penalty for High Treason is death.
It was the sight of all the ‘Frankie’s Letters’ that got him, laid out neatly with their transcribed messages beside them. It was like pricking a balloon. All the fight went out of him. Elswick asked him to deny he was the author. Sherston admitted he’d written them. He wouldn’t say much else, despite Elswick’s promptings. So there we are. If we can nail Smith as well, we could rest easy, so stay put until you receive further instructions.
With best wishes,
W. Gabriel Monks
Anthony read the letter through again then stuck a match and set fire to it, making sure the pieces of charred ash went into the lake. They’d won. Half-won, anyway.
Smith was still out there and he was still in danger. He sat against the boathouse wall, sightlessly watching the water lapping round the piles of the wooden jetty.
It was so damn difficult to feel anything. He remembered how determined he’d been to get whoever was responsible for Terence Cavanaugh’s death but now, with Sherston safely behind bars, he couldn’t summon up any emotion but pity.
He couldn’t face the house and slipped away without fuss. He didn’t know if he was followed. He didn’t really care.
It was late that afternoon when he returned to Starhanger. He had lunched at the village pub and then sat by the river, trying to put his thoughts in order. He must leave Starhanger.
Despite Sir Charles’s instructions, he couldn’t, in all decency, continue to inflict his presence on the stricken household and, now Sherston was taken care of and the link between Starhanger and Smith broken, he had no reason to stay.
Despite the apparent solitude of the riverbank, he knew that one of his guard dogs, at least, was near at hand.
Anthony longed for an encounter with Smith. He was in the mood to relish a fight. He’d half-expected Smith to make a move, now he was alone and apparently unprotected, but Smith, frustratingly, left him unmolested.
The door to Starhanger was open. He squared his shoulders and walked up the steps and into the hall. Vyse was crossing from the morning room into the library. He stopped as Anthony walked in, evidently surprised to see him.
Anthony paused enquiringly. ‘Was there something you wanted, Vyse?’
Vyse picked up a silver salver from the hall table. ‘There’s a letter for you, sir. It was delivered by hand this morning.’
Anthony took the letter. Vyse cleared his throat, looking at Anthony awkwardly. ‘I beg your pardon, sir, but could I enquire—’
‘Colonel!’ Tara stood at the end of the hall. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’ She came a few steps into the hall. ‘That will be all, Vyse.’
‘Very good, Miss.’
Vyse gave a small bow and withdrew.
Anthony stuffed the letter into his pocket and followed Tara into the conservatory. ‘I had the idea Vyse wanted to say something to me.’
Tara shut the door behind them. ‘I’m sure he did,’ she said grimly. ‘But although Vyse is one of the best, I’m not having the servants discuss family affairs with a guest.’
She looked at him appraisingly, her face white with tension. She started to speak, swallowed hard, and tried again. ‘Colonel Brooke, where is Josette?’
Anthony stared at her. At the back of his mind, a little shoot of fear took root and started to grow. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Josette. She’s with you, isn’t she?’
‘No. I haven’t seen her today.’
Tara’s eyes widened. ‘Then where is she? She’s gone.’
Anthony looked at her, unable, for the moment, to make sense of her words. Then he grabbed hold of her arms, his face very close to hers. ‘Gone? What do you mean, gone?’
Tara’s startled eyes met his. ‘We don’t know. Her maid said she was in her room last night, but her bed’s not been slept in.’ Her voice broke. ‘I thought she’d gone with you.’
‘What!’ His grip tightened.
Tara’s lip trembled. ‘You’re hurting me.’
He let her go, then, realizing what strain she was under, helped her to a seat. ‘Tell me what this is all about.’
Tara slumped helplessly. ‘I thought you and Josette had gone off together.’ She moved her head to one side, avoiding looking at him directly. ‘I know how you feel about her. It’s obvious. It’s the way you look at her, the way your face lights up when she comes in the room. I know.’
Anthony looked at her silently.
‘It’s a nightmare,’ she added desperately. ‘First Uncle Patrick was arrested, then Josette disappeared and you couldn’t be found. I can’t understand what’s happening but it’s you, isn’t it? You’re responsible for everything.’
He met her eyes, schooling his face into blankness. She reacted with sudden fury. ‘For heaven’s sake, Colonel, don’t pretend!’ Her voice was savage. ‘You know, don’t you?’
Anthony couldn’t hold out any longer. Silently he inclined his head.
Tara gave a little choking gasp.
‘I know some of it,’ said Anthony quietly. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to Mrs Sherston. Haven’t you any idea? Could she have gone up to London, say?’
‘She wouldn’t go off by herself to London in the middle of the night. I rang Mr Elswick and he hasn’t seen her. He said he’d telephone if she turned up, but there’s been no word.’
‘What about the police?’
Tara shook her head. ‘I didn’t want to tell them.’ She paused, looking at him reluctantly. ‘Not in the circumstances. What I thought were the circumstances, anyway. Shall I ring them now?’
Anthony hesitated. If the police were called that meant interviews, an investigation, and delays. He suddenly remembered the letter Vyse had given him. ‘Wait a moment,’ he said. ‘This could tell us something.’
He pulled out the letter, Tara watching him. ‘That’s not Josette’s writing,’ she said.
As Anthony read the letter, his stomach turned over. He’d wanted Smith to make his move. He’d got his wish.
Dear Colonel Brooke,
By this time you will be aware that a certain lady of your acquaintance has disappeared. If you want to see her again, be on the main road outside Starhanger at six o’clock this evening. You will, of course, be unarmed and alone.
James Smith
He met Tara’s watchful, apprehensive gaze and decided to trust her. It was, perhaps, weakness on his part but, in a world of shadows, misunderstandings and half-truths, there was something deeply appealing about her honesty. She hadn’t beaten about the bush but asked him an awkward question straight out. He wanted Tara to understand why he acted as he had done. He wanted that very much. He held out the letter to her. ‘Read that.’
Tara frowned and took the letter. She read it through and looked up, puzzled. ‘What’s this about? Who’s James Smith?’
Anthony sat down on the sofa and lit a cigarette. ‘James Smith wants to kill me.’ Tara made an incredulous noise but he waved her quiet. ‘He’s an enemy agent. We’ve crossed swords before now and I’ve escaped by the skin of my teeth.’
‘Are you serious, Colonel?’
‘Perfectly serious. He’s killed at least two others.’
Tara put her hand to her mouth. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t believe any of it. Josette can’t have been kidnapped. This is England, for heaven’s sake. You’re up to something. I know you’re a spy. You came here to spy on my mother, didn’t you? She’s dead and Uncle Patrick’s in prison, and it’s all down to you. I knew you weren’t real. I don’t believe in James Smith. I don’t believe that’s a real letter. You wrote it.’ She stopped and her voice wavered. ‘Didn’t you?’
Anthony didn’t answer her directly. Instead he got up and went to the conservatory door leading into the garden and opened it.
With Tara following him, he walked out onto the terrace, into the garden and down to the copse of trees flanking the wall that separated Starhanger from the road. He stood beside the trees and whistled. Tara gave a yelp of surprise as Cooke emerged from the wood. ‘Meet Lieutenant Cooke.’
‘At your service, Miss,’ Cooke said with a smile.
Anthony could see Cooke’s appearance like a rabbit from a hat dealt the final blow to Tara’s scepticism. ‘It’s all right,’ he said reassuringly. ‘This is one of my men.’ He smiled fleetingly. ‘He was one of the burglars the other night.’ He gave Cooke the letter. ‘It’s from Smith. He’s got Mrs Sherston.’
Cooke read the letter quickly with a growing smile of satisfaction. ‘And I’d say we’d got him, Colonel. If he turns up at six, we’ll have him on ice. What’s your idea, sir? Parkinson’s back at the inn but Bedford and I are ready and waiting. If he shows up, we’ve got him.’
‘As a plan, that’s simple enough to work,’ said Anthony. ‘I presume Smith’s going to abduct me, not gun me down in the road.’
Cooke sucked his cheeks in. ‘He might try, sir, but I doubt it. He’ll want to find out exactly what happened at Marriotvale, to say nothing of the U-boat. I think you’re right. I don’t think he’ll kill you out of hand. My guess is Smith or one of his confederates will show up in either his car or that motorbike and expect you to step aboard nice and quietly.’
‘Which I will do, of course,’ said Anthony. ‘He’s got Mrs Sherston. We can’t risk anything happening to her.’
‘We can’t guarantee anything with a man like Smith,’ said Cooke. ‘I wish we’d nailed him last night. He must have enticed Mrs Sherston outside somehow.’
‘Can we do something,’ Tara broke in impatiently. ‘Other than just wait for this Smith, I mean? Can’t we look for Josette?’
‘Where do you suggest looking?’
Tara brushed her hair back from her face. ‘I don’t know but I want to try. Someone might have seen something.’
‘They might,’ Anthony admitted. ‘And you’d know who to ask.’ He hesitated. ‘The only thing is, you could be running into danger.’
Cooke shook his head. ‘If you’ll excuse me, sir, I can’t see it. Smith won’t want another hostage. He’ll be strained as it is, keeping Mrs Sherston under wraps. He’d expect Miss O’Bryan to look for Mrs Sherston. It’s the natural thing to do. He won’t realize she knows the truth and, with Miss O’Bryan knowing the area, she might find something out.’
Anthony put a restraining hand on Tara’s arm. ‘Be careful. We’re dealing with a very ruthless man. No heroics.’
‘No heroics,’ she repeated. ‘All right. I’ll take one of the horses out. I’ll cover more ground that way.’
‘If you must,’ said Anthony reluctantly. ‘Cooke, can you keep an eye on Miss O’Bryan?’
Cooke shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but our instructions are to keep tabs on you.’ He smiled at Tara. ‘After all, the young lady’s only taking a look around, aren’t you, Miss?’ He touched his hat to her and disappeared into the bushes once more.
Anthony turned to Tara and led the way back across the garden into the conservatory. ‘Do you believe me now?’
‘Of course,’ she said abstractedly.
‘In that case,’ said Anthony settling down on the conservatory sofa, ‘I’ve got a question. You said I’d come here to spy on your mother. Why did you think that?’
She drew a deep breath. ‘Uncle Patrick was excited about you. He said you were this marvellous man who’d done all sorts of incredible things in Germany, and he’d invited you down here to interview you. My mother smelt a rat at once. She . . . Well, she’d got involved with some very odd people.’
Tara’s brow furrowed. ‘I didn’t like them.’ She hunched forward earnestly. ‘You must understand. She was passionate about Ireland. When the war started she was convinced Germany would win and this was Ireland’s opportunity at last.’ She looked at him in perplexity. ‘I don’t know what she did. Can you tell me?’
‘She sent information to the Germans,’ Anthony said quietly.
Tara drew her breath in sharply, studying his face with wide, frightened eyes. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said uncertainly.
Anthony remained silent.
‘It can’t be true!’ Tara broke out. ‘What about Terry? Did Terry know? Terry Cavanaugh?’
Anthony nodded.
‘So she was right about him, too. She said he was a spy. Worse than that, a traitor. After all, he was as Irish as she was.’
‘He was American,’ corrected Anthony.
She waved his objection aside. ‘That’s just where he was born, not who he was.’ Her voice wavered. ‘Did you . . . Did you have her killed?’
‘Good God, no!’ The exclamation was startled out of him. ‘Miss O’Bryan, we don’t do things like that.’ He saw the doubt in her face. ‘No, really we don’t. Cedric Chapman killed your mother and he was on her side.’
She bowed her head and sat for a long moment. When she spoke, Anthony could tell she was trying hard not to let her voice betray her emotions. ‘Are you sure it was Chapman?’
‘As sure as we can be. I came here to find a spy. I’m not proud of my profession, but it’s necessary. I found positive proof your mother had been dealing with dangerous men. The most dangerous man of all is James Smith. I think Chapman worked for him.’
She looked at him, meeting his gaze square on. ‘Colonel Brooke, swear to me you are telling the truth.’
‘I am,’ said Anthony quietly.
He saw the belief in her eyes. She put her hand to her mouth and sat without speaking.
‘I never suspected a thing,’ she said at last. ‘Now that you’ve told me – well, I’m not surprised. It was all for my father, you know? It was all for him.’ Once again she was silent for a while, then she shook her head impatiently. ‘It still doesn’t make sense! Why should Chapman turn on my mother?’
Anthony shrugged. ‘I don’t know what went wrong that afternoon your mother met Chapman.’
‘Haven’t you any idea? Wasn’t there any clue?’
Anthony was about to deny it, but was struck by a sudden thought. He took a small cardboard envelope out of his pocket and handed it to her. ‘There’s this.’
She opened the envelope and took out the photograph of the little girl, the child with the solemn eyes.
As she looked at the picture, a grim suspicion grew in Anthony’s mind, a suspicion he fought hard to deny.
It was obvious the picture meant something to her. He could see her body grow rigid as she stared at the little square of cardboard. He could see her pull herself together, see the effort she made to relax. He could see the muscles in her throat contract.
‘I don’t know anything about it.’ She put the photograph back in the envelope and handed it back to him. ‘Where did you get it?’
Anthony felt a frozen chill of disappointment. Tara, honest Tara, had just told a deliberate lie.
‘Never mind,’ he said, taking back the envelope and returning it to his pocket. ‘I don’t suppose it’s important.’
‘No,’ she agreed, her eyes very thoughtful. ‘No, I don’t suppose it is.’ She didn’t speak for a few moments. ‘What about Uncle Patrick?’ she asked eventually. ‘Why was he arrested?’
Anthony looked away. ‘He was passing information to the Germans.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ she said, her voice shaky. ‘Absolute nonsense. Look, you came here to find a spy. You found my mother. Isn’t that enough?’
‘I’m sorry,’ was all he could say.
She sat for a few more moments then abruptly rose to her feet. ‘Colonel Brooke, I apologize for the suspicions I harboured about you and Josette. I was wrong. I see that now.’ She walked to the door leading back into the house and then stopped, her hand on the handle and turned back to him. ‘Are you really going to wait for Smith?’
‘It might be as well, don’t you think?’
She shuddered. ‘Good luck.’
Anthony went onto the terrace and, taking his pipe from his pocket, walked slowly round the garden at the back of the house. He should, he knew, be thinking of James Smith but just for the moment he was more interested in Tara.
He was worried about Tara’s reactions. That child in the photograph meant something to her, but what? Could it possibly be her child? Almost as soon as he’d asked himself the question, he’d dismissed it. Not only was the little girl in the photograph too old to be Tara’s child, but Tara had been puzzled by the photograph, not frightened, as she would be if it were a guilty secret of her own she was concealing.
So was it Veronica O’Bryan’s child? Tara could know all about it. Naturally enough, she wouldn’t want to tell him. Her mother had precious little reputation left, but Tara could want to salvage whatever remnants she could.
His walk took him round to the stables and he stood for a moment by the whitewashed walls. The inside of the stable-block was quiet. All the horses were out to grass at this time of year. He slipped into the stable block and stood for a few minutes in the dusty light.
There was a collection of straps, hats and tackle on a shelf at the far end of the stable and, underneath the shelf, hanging from hooks, a couple of old hacking jackets. Something about the jackets bothered him. There was the clip-clopping of hooves on the cobbles in the yard outside and Kindred, the groom, called, close at hand.
It took that moment of distraction for a memory to click into place and his suspicions to flare. From his wallet he took the blue-grey thread he had picked from the brambles in Ticker’s Wood, the day he had found Veronica O’Bryan’s body, and placed it against one of the jackets.
It was a perfect match.
Biting down hard on his pipe-stem, he put the thread back in his wallet. The jacket, although old, was a fine quality tweed, a lady’s coat. He could see the rough patch on the sleeve where the threads had been pulled.
There was the sound of hobnailed boots and Kindred came into the stables. ‘Afternoon, sir,’ he said placidly. ‘Were you wanting a horse?’
‘No thanks,’ said Anthony. ‘Kindred, who does this jacket belong to?’
Kindred peered at the jacket. ‘That’s an old one of Miss Tara’s, sir. She keeps it here to be handy, so to speak. She often takes one of the horses out first thing and she dresses very workmanlike, knowing that she’s going to be all alone, as you might say. It wouldn’t do for some ladies but Miss Tara’s got a fine, independent spirit. She’d rather ride by herself than in company. She knows the country for miles around like the back of her hand. You’ve only just missed her, sir. She’s going out this afternoon. I’ve just been getting Moondancer in from the paddock for her.’
Anthony put the jacket back on the peg. Tara had been in Ticker’s Wood. It was Tara who had left the thread on the brambles, Tara who had so convincingly been near to fainting when they had found the body, Tara who had so cleverly carried the war into the enemy’s camp by accusing him of murdering her mother. His stomach twisted.
Tara had got him to tell her about James Smith.
A blistering anger filled him. Tara had lied about the photograph and she had lied about her mother. He should have remembered Veronica was Tara’s mother. Now she was off to hunt Josette. He had a suspicion that she’d know exactly where to find her. And he’d told Tara O’Bryan exactly who he was and what he was doing. He nodded to Kindred, not wanting to trust his voice and walked swiftly round to the trees edging the garden.
His first thought had been to wait for Tara, but what then? He couldn’t restrain her by force and one word from her would bring the servants to her aid. What he wanted to do was get to Smith. Tara, he decided, could wait. However, what he could do was warn Cooke.
He stood by the line of trees and called softly. This time there was no answer. Anthony tried again, but the only sounds were those of the wind in the trees. He skirted round the trees, whistling. There was no response. With a little knot of anxiety in his stomach, Anthony walked round the bulk of the house towards the gates. Sticking out from the bushes was a shoe. Anthony walked forward softly, fearing a trap.
In a few minutes he pulled Bedford’s body out from under the bushes. Thank God, he was still alive, but he had a huge lump on the side of his head and he’d obviously been in a fight. Anthony tried to get him to wake up but he was out cold. He’d been coshed.
Anthony’s lips set in a grim line. There was only one man he’d come across recently who used a cosh and that was the chauffeur. He crouched beside Bedford and looked among the trees. There was another grey bundle in the wood about a hundred yards away. It was Cooke. He, too, had been coshed.
Anthony knelt by Cooke’s body. It was one thing to calmly wait for Smith, knowing that Cooke and Bedford were watching his every move. It was quite another to put himself at the mercy of a ruthless killer when he was alone. The chauffeur must be close by.
As quietly as he could, he made his way through the trees to the high brick wall of Starhanger. Choosing a likely-looking tree, he swung himself up into the branches and stealthily climbed high enough to look over the wall.
He pulled back into the shelter of the branches. Not more than ten yards away stood a big green car, a tourer with its hood raised. The chauffeur and a second man were leaning against the car, smoking cigarettes. The second man wasn’t Smith but a dark-haired man in a brown suit, someone he had never seen before.
Their voices were low and Anthony inched himself along the branch, trying to get close enough to overhear. He caught the word ‘woman’, and the chauffeur laughed. The branch had grown out over the wall, part of it resting on the brick coping stones. Again Anthony pulled himself forward. From his vantage point above their heads, he saw the man in the brown suit look at his watch and throw away his cigarette. ‘It’s about time . . .’ he said, when the branch creaked ominously.
The two men looked round. Anthony tried to pull back before they looked up, slipped, put his weight on a rotten branch and, with a rending crack from the tree, fell heavily into the muddy ditch, in a welter of leaves, twigs and rotten wood.
‘Bloody hell!’ yelled the chauffeur.
In an explosion of movement, the chauffeur hurtled himself towards Anthony.
Winded from the fall, Anthony, his ribs in agony from his returning breath, managed to pull himself away. The chauffeur’s hands reached out for him, but Anthony moved once more and the chauffeur grasped air and twigs. Half in and out of the ditch, Anthony reached out and held onto the polished leather of the chauffeur’s boot and brought him crashing down into the ditch beside him.
Still on his knees, Anthony made a wild grab. The chauffeur rolled to one side, struggling like a maniac. Some of those blows from his flailing fists and kicking feet went home, but Anthony shook them off, desperately trying to land one piledriving punch. He seized the chauffeur by the front of his uniform, raised him up, his right hand clenched into a fist.
Anthony saw his eyes widen, waiting for the punch, then a searing pain blasted his left shoulder as a shot rang out. He fell away, rolling back into the ditch.
The other man was by the car, gun in hand. ‘Get him!’ he yelled.
The chauffeur picked himself up, straightened his tunic and lunged at Anthony with murder in his eyes.
From somewhere in the distance came a shout, the crack of a whip and the sound of wheels and horse’s hooves. Sprawled on the edge of the ditch, Anthony could see a horse and cart, the driver whipping the horse into a canter, rattling down the road towards them. The driver shouted, his words lost over the racket of the cart.
The man by the car looked round wildly. ‘Leave it!’ he shouted. ‘Come on!’
The chauffeur stopped, drew back his foot and landed a kick in Anthony’s ribs. For a second or so everything went black. Lights scratched jagged lines of pain in his head, then there was the sound of swearing, a revving engine and Anthony felt a hand on his collar.
He opened his eyes and saw the carter bending over him, hauling him out of the ditch. Anthony made a vague gesture with his hand – he was halfway to being strangled – and, raising himself on his elbow, managed to get unsteadily to his feet.
The car was already some distance away, a cloud of dust marking its passage.
The carter, a big man, stood back. ‘Was that a gun?’ he said incredulously. Anthony nodded, unable, for the moment, to speak. ‘A real gun? A pistol, I mean?’ Anthony still couldn’t speak.
‘You need a doctor,’ said the carter. ‘The police will have to know too, I reckon. Who were they?’
Anthony didn’t want a doctor and he certainly didn’t want the police. And, although the carter had been useful, he didn’t want him, either. All he wanted was to get his hands first of all on the chauffeur and then on James Smith. He straightened up and took a deep, gasping breath.
‘It’s all right,’ he said to the carter’s obvious incredulity. ‘The gun wasn’t real. I’m an actor. We were trying out a scene for a film.’
‘A film?’ echoed the carter. ‘Moving pictures, like?’
‘Yes,’ said Anthony, brushing twigs and leaves off his clothes with his right hand. His left arm, the same arm that had been injured before, felt like a block of wood. ‘It’s a spy story about the war,’ he said. ‘Mr Sherston’s making it.’
At the mention of Sherston’s name, the carter’s face cleared. ‘It should be a good film,’ he said. ‘It looked real, so it did.’
Anthony laughed dismissively. ‘No, but if the fight was real, I’d have been very grateful to you. I think I’ll put the bit where you save me into the film.’ He felt in his pocket and drew out two half-crowns. ‘Here you are. Thanks very much.’
The carter shrugged and took the money. ‘Thank you, sir. And you say it’s a film?’
‘That’s right,’ said Anthony, removing leaves from his hair and forcing a smile. He cast a look downwards. ‘We’re thinking of calling it Ditched!’
The carter looked at him uncomprehendingly, then at the ditch by the side of the road, and suddenly threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘Ditched! That’s a good one, that. Wait till I tell everyone about that. Ditched!’
Still laughing he went back to the horse, climbed back up to his seat, jiggled the reins and slowly clopped away.
Anthony watched him go, the sound of the horse’s hooves gradually fading into silence. He moved his left arm tentatively and winced. The bone hadn’t been touched, thank God, but the muscle was damaged. His ribs were incredibly sore. He was desperate to follow the car but his arm was screaming for attention.
He managed to pull off his jacket. The bullet had creased his biceps and his sleeve was wet with blood. He thought of going back to the house for help but all he wanted to do was follow that bloody chauffeur and his car.
His shirtsleeve was ripped already and he tore the fabric off. Using his teeth and his good hand he managed to make a passable bandage with his handkerchief. He draped his jacket round his shoulders to cover his arm – he didn’t want to have to explain myself to any kindly passer-by – and set out to follow the car.
He was alone. Cooke and Bedford would take a long time to recover and he didn’t have a clue where Parkinson was. In the meantime he had a fresh trail to follow.