Tales: Short Stories Featuring Ian Rutledge and Bess Crawford by Charles Todd Page B

into the ambulance and pulled the unconscious Williams out, setting him against the stone wall. And then he went back for the armed man.
    But Private Aaron Lloyd had broken his neck in the crash, his head striking the metal rim of the upper berths that held stretchers in place. He lay where he’d fallen, the revolver still clutched in his hand.
    Leaving him, Rutledge went to look at the driver. Jones was badly hurt but alive, his nose and cheekbones broken by the impact with the windscreen.
    “What the hell were you trying to do?” Rutledge demanded, pulling him from behind the wheel and leaning him against a wing. “Was it worth it, this abduction? Your half-brother is dead!”
    “Williams ran off with my wife,” Jones tried to answer, his voice muffled by his bleeding nose. “Then he left her in Manchester to die penniless and alone.”
    “Was he a trades union man? This Williams?”
    “Aaron thought it likely. He came to the village where Sarah was staying with her sister. There was trouble with the colliery owner, and the man had to get out. When he left, Sarah went with him.” He closed his eyes. “Williams was the right man. I swear he was. My brother told me. He recognized the bastard.”
    “Williams is a slate man. From North Wales. He had nothing to do with your wife.” Rutledge was watching the approaching ambulance come to rescue them. “Your brother lied to you.”
    “Aaron never lies. Williams is from Manchester.”
    “Then why didn’t Lloyd try to stop Sarah—or call you to come to Manchester to fetch her back? Where was he all this time, watching and doing nothing, letting her die alone?”
    Jones stared at him through bloodshot eyes. “He said he tried. He said he even followed them to Manchester, but Sarah wouldn’t listen.”
    “Apparently Aaron was a great one for saying . Where was he ?”
    “He was ill, bad lungs. He was sent away to recover. Away from the coal dust.” After a moment he added unwillingly, “To the same village. That’s how he knew.”
    “And he didn’t warn you? He didn’t summon you to come and put a stop to whatever Williams was up to?”
    The man’s gaze went to the open doors at the rear of the ambulance. He couldn’t see his brother’s body from where he lay. He made to get up, and Rutledge shoved him back down. “He said—” Taffy Jones began again.
    “Why weren’t you holding the revolver on Williams? Why was it Aaron? She was your wife. You should have shot him.”
    “He said I had no stomach for what had to be done. It’s one thing to be killing Germans. The blood’s up. I’d failed twice, when it came down to it. He said he’d see to it. Are you certain he’s dead? I don’t believe you.”
    “Don’t you understand, you fool? I’d wager it was Aaron who ran off with your wife. Abandoned her when he had finished with her. And she was too shamed to come home again. Why else would he have been in the back of the ambulance, with the weapon? He didn’t want you to confront Williams. To listen to him. Why was he so insistent that Williams had to die? She was your wife, not his.”
    Jones roused himself, putting a hand up to his nose and eyes. As if to fend off what Rutledge was saying.
    “He wouldn’t do such a thing. You’re lying.”
    “He tried to persuade you to kill an innocent man. For all I know, it was Aaron who shot Williams in the back—for you . Your revenge.”
    In spite of the bloody mask that was Jones’ face, Rutledge could read his eyes. “It’s true, then. Bloody cowards, both of you,” he said in disgust.
    “He told me he was a better shot. Doing it in cold blood.”
    The other ambulance had caught up with them. An orderly jumped out and ran to Jones, then peered into the back of the stolen vehicle. Another came to kneel beside Williams, still lying against the wall but just regaining consciousness.
    A third was demanding to know what had happened.
    As Rutledge got to his feet, Jones tried to shake his head but