Cold Comfort Read Online Free Page A

men shouting, and someone firing a shot.
    He raced toward the line of ambulances he’d just left, saw his driver lying on the ground, dazedly trying to raise himself on his elbow. An orderly was already kneeling beside him. Rutledge ran on to the second ambulance in the line and called to the driver, “We’ve got to stop them.”
    But the driver leapt out of his door, shaking his head. “They’ve got a weapon.”
    Rutledge took his place behind the wheel, gunned the motor, and pulled out of line, turning in the direction of the fleeing ambulance heading fast toward the main road to Calais.
    The ground was wet from recent rains, and he could feel his tires slipping and sliding in the viscous mud. Holding grimly to the wheel, he drove as fast as he dared, and then, when he saw he was making no headway, faster than was safe.
    He was gaining, even as the ambulance bucketed across what passed for a road, narrowly missing a column of men marching toward the Front. He could hear the big guns behind him, opening up for another punishing marathon of shelling. And then the ambulance ahead of him skidded wildly, spun around, and missed a yawning ditch by inches. The driver got control again, but it had given Rutledge his chance. Praying that the tires would hold, he rammed his foot down on the accelerator and came up even with the fleeing vehicle.
    Someone swung open one of the rear doors, and Rutledge could see Private Lloyd kneeling there. Behind him lay Williams. Lloyd was raising a revolver, pointing it toward Rutledge. But Williams somehow managed to use the rigid brace on his shoulder to spoil the man’s aim just as he fired. Furious, the man backhanded him, sending Williams hard against the metal side of the ambulance, just as Rutledge sped past, cut in front of the vehicle, and forced it into the low wall that was all that was left of what had been the approach to a French barn.
    The ambulance hit the wall at speed and came to a jarring stop, throwing Private Jones, the driver, into the wheel and then the windscreen. By the time Rutledge had braked and got out, he could see blood running down Jones’s face. But it was the man with that revolver who was his main target.
    He ran to the back of the ambulance and flung open both doors. Williams and Lloyd lay on the floor in a jumble of legs and arms.
    Rutledge could hear another vehicle coming after him, but there was no time to wait. He climbed 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