Phyllida followed the figure down the main throughway, then down a curving, narrow road that made its way between buildings with doorsteps right off the passage. The uneven street was dangerous, and she was beginning to get a stitch in her side, but at least the dry shoes she’d changed into earlier were ones with more practical heels than her original footwear.

Down the curving road, she ran; then across a small garden, onto another narrow street, dodging parked motorcars, flowerpots, garden gates, and one irritated feline who hissed when she nearly knocked over the waste can it was surveying.

Then all at once, Phyllida realized she no longer heard running footsteps ahead of her. There was suddenly no sign of her attacker.

She’d lost him. Or her.

She paused, breathing heavily, standing in the middle of a curving cobblestone road she recognized as being on the near east side of the village. Brick houses and retaining walls created a narrow throughway that had been constructed for horse and carriage and was barely wide enough for a motorcar to pass through.

Drat. Whoever it was—and she was beginning to believe she knew the cunning, brilliant murderer’s identity—had gotten away.

Phyllida rubbed her sore shoulder and started to trace her steps back to the church. Perhaps the attacker had dropped something during the pell-mell dash.

She heard the sound of a motorcar engine just as she approached the opening of the narrow street, and all at once, the glare of two bright headlights was in her eyes.

Phyllida was blinded, her eyes watering from the sudden sharp light that was much, much too close, and she held up her hand in an effort to ward off the brightness.

The engine revved and suddenly the headlights leaped toward her. Fast.

Phyllida gasped—there was nowhere for her to go! She turned, darting back up the narrow street with the headlights spilling their beams around her.

The motorcar growled and spurted closer, and Phyllida didn’t dare look behind her. She knew it was close, and gaining . . . and she was trapped in this narrow, winding road between brick walls.

She couldn’t draw in a breath to scream—not that it would do much good anyway. By the time anyone realized what was happening, she’d be pinned beneath the tires of the motor. All she could do was focus on pumping her legs as fast as possible and keeping herself as far away from the deadly vehicle as she could.

But it was a losing battle. Even hampered by the narrow, winding passage, the motorcar was nearly upon her, and Phyllida couldn’t outrun it.

She had to find another option.

And then she saw it.

The crenelation on the retaining wall just ahead, where the road took a right turn. Brickwork jutted out in regular decorative channels, like the merlons on a castle wall, leaving narrow indentations between them.