Hunting Shadows: An Inspector Ian Rutledge Mystery Read Free

his time and wait for the perfect angle.
    Not too soon. Not too late. He knew, almost to the blade of grass, where he wanted his victim to be. He could see the Russian gun clearly, at the opposite end of the Green from the West Tower, the long muzzle of the cannon pointing outward, as if its intent was to protect the Cathedral from the townspeople.
    Kneeling there, his weapon beside him, he was fairly sure he was invisible from the ground, but to be safe, he pulled an old dark gray hood out of the scissor sharpener’s blouse and draped it over his head and shoulders. It was, he knew, almost exactly the same color as the stone around him.
    Once more, he settled down to wait.
    It was ten minutes to the hour when he saw his quarry alight from a motorcar that had just pulled up. Another man and a woman arrived with Hutchinson, chatting quietly as they turned toward the Cathedral. He could see the man’s face clearly now, smug and satisfied with himself, a slight smile lifting his lips as he spoke to the woman beside him.
    The angle was excellent. The target unsuspecting. He let the Captain come a little closer across the greensward, just clear of where the motorcars were stopping, steadied his breathing and emptied his mind of any emotion. Then he took careful aim, almost without thinking adjusting to the man’s measured pace and the light wind. Old habits die hard.
    And calmly, slowly, he squeezed the trigger.
    The echoes against the stone were deafening, but he took no notice, his scope still trained on the quarry as Hutchinson’s body reacted to the hit before he could even flinch from the sound of the shot. Without a word, he crumpled to the ground and did not move. Only the red stain spreading across his stiff white shirtfront showed that he had been struck.
    The woman, her hands to her face, was screaming, and everyone at the barricade turned to stare in her direction, then looked wildly around for the source of the shot. The other man was kneeling, frantically trying to loosen Hutchinson’s cravat and open his shirt. But it was useless. That had been a heart shot, there was nothing to be done. Still the man kept working, unable to believe that it was hopeless.
    Satisfied, the scissor sharpener ejected the single cartridge casing and began to disassemble his rifle, taking his time, ignoring the screams and cries below. He knew what was happening, he didn’t need to look. Some were running to the assistance of the fallen man, others fleeing toward the street behind them, toward The Lamb Inn, out of range for fear there would be a second shot. A few would be scanning the rooftops and windows of buildings on either side of the grass, looking in vain for the shooter. The greeters at the door had rushed into the sanctuary, crying havoc. He could hear the unnerved guests as they hurried out to see, and all the while, the organ music went on, as if in the loft the organist was unaware of what was happening below in the nave. Then the last notes trailed off as he must have realized something was wrong.
    The scissors grinder made his way to the stairs and started down them, taking his time, careful not to lose his footing. When he reached the bottom step, he peered out a crack in the door, then opened it wider. No one. Either they were cowering in the nave or already outside. The bride’s motorcar was just arriving, adding to the chaos.
    He began that long walk again, taking his time, reaching the Galilee Porch and the open doorway. Appearing bewildered and afraid, he stared vacantly around. No one paid him any heed. He inched sideways, making his way to his left. His bicycle was where he’d put it, but he didn’t mount it. Instead he walked it down the quiet street, back the way he’d come, toward the school. Several people from there were running toward the Cathedral, and one or two called out to him, asking what had happened.
    He shook his head. “Terrible,” he said, “terrible.” His voice was shaking, he looked as