Poor Mrs. Kendal was shuddering violently. Her account of the tragedy was afterwards proved to be substantially correct. The wheel tracks in the dust of the high road accurately followed the lines that she had described. The large, dark thing that had flown up and come down again was the spare wheel, somehow ripped clean off the car. It was that which had killed Bill Patch.
Harter had been flung clear and had landed in the mud of the river bed, nearly dry at that time of year. He was not hurt. The two on the back seat—old Carey and Mrs. Harter—were flung against the stone parapet. They picked up the woman on the road, screaming. Carey, who was probably killed on the spot, had somehow been caught in the wreckage. (When I got down there, Mrs. Harter had been taken away, into the cottage hospital, which mercifully was not far off.)
“They got her out almost at once,” said Mrs. Kendal. “We had stopped the car and Puppa ran back, but I wouldn’t let the girls come. Ahlfred came, of course, but I said to the girls, ‘No, girls.’ And they stayed by the car. There seemed to be people there in a moment—I saw Major Ambrey, but, thank Heaven, Nancy was safe at home. Oh, poor little thing—who is to go to her?”
“I will,” said Claire wildly.
Loman Cottage is three miles from the Manor House and the chauffeur had gone down to the scene of the accident.
“They will have sent for her from the cottage hospital,” Mary said gently. “Is old Mr. Carey—?”
Mrs. Kendal nodded, the tears running down her face.
“They said he must be. They—they couldn’t move the car so as to free him.”
“They’ll have moved it now, with the men. I’m going down there,” said Claire suddenly.
“No, don’t!”