by Charles Todd
He shoved the maps back in the pouch, got out to crank the motorcar, and set off to the west, bearing south, stopping only for petrol. Along the way he scanned other town squares, but he saw nothing that would fit what he was searching for.
But when he drove into the center of Westbury, he had no doubt that he’d made the right guess. He not only found the marketplace but the exact building facing him in the late afternoon sun.
He had had no lunch and missed his tea as well, but he pressed on.
The main problem to solve now was how to go about proving he was right.
If he went to the police station, there would be questions. He wasn’t ready for them. For that matter, what could he say? That he was giving his imagination free rein in a case that didn’t exist? At least, not officially.
If he began asking about a man called Partridge in the shops, gossip would spread like wildfire. Perhaps to the wrong ears.
And the post office had rules.
That was still the best place to begin.
He arrived just in time to see the elderly man behind the grill putting up a sign.
CLOSED.
Rutledge called to him, and he reluctantly set the sign aside, mouth turned down, eager to be off to his late tea and comfortable chair.
Behind him on the floor lay a large, nondescript dog. Clearly both companion and bodyguard, because he lifted his head to stare up at Rutledge, sniffing the stranger’s scent. Satisfied that all was well, he lowered his head to his paws once more and sighed, for all the world commenting on the delay in departure.
“The name’s Rutledge. I’ve come down from London to find a Mr. Partridge. We haven’t been able to reach him, and I wonder if you can tell me whether or not he’s moved.”
The postmaster regarded him sourly. “Moved, you say?”
“Yes. It’s the only explanation we can come up with.”
“I don’t know of a Mr. Partridge hereabouts.”
He reached for his sign again, but Rutledge said quickly, “I think we have the name right. I have a sketch here, perhaps you’d be willing to look at it?”
“What do you have that for?” The man’s tone was suspicious.
Rutledge brought up the file without answering the postmaster and opened it.
“That’s not Mr. Partridge.”
“I thought you said Mr. Partridge didn’t live in Westbury.”
“I never said that. I told you I didn’t know of a Partridge hereabouts.”
“Then how can you be so certain this isn’t Partridge’s likeness?”
“Because it isn’t. I just told you.”
Rutledge was losing patience.
“Quite,” he said. “Then perhaps you know the name of the man in this sketch.”
“I do.”
“Will you kindly direct me to his house?”
“You never told me why you have a drawing of him.”
Rutledge had never been so tempted to take out his identification and tell the postmaster that this was police business and none of his. “I expect that’s a family matter. No one could find a recent photograph.”
“Then you should have said so.”
“I should like to find Mr. Partridge this afternoon, if that’s possible.”
“I told you he wasn’t Mr. Partridge.” The postmaster’s expression was smug. He was quite enjoying being bloody-minded.
“Who, pray, is he?”
“That’s Mr. Gerald Parkinson, and he doesn’t live in Westbury.”
“Parkinson? Where does he live?”
“Between here and Dilton.”
“Get to the point, if you will. Where shall I find him?” Rutledge’s mounting anger must have shown in his face or his voice. The dog lifted his head again and stared.
The postmaster said, “Here, now, there’s no call to be rude. Follow the main road south, and halfway to Dilton, there’s a turning to the left. Take that for three miles, and you’ll see the gates of the house.”
“Thank you.”
Rutledge turned on his heel and left. He took ten minutes to find himself a sandwich and a cup of tea, and then, blessing April’s longer evenings, drove south out of town.
He found the turning, no more than a lane and not clearly marked, as if it led nowhere in particular. But it was reasonably well made, indicating traffic, and he passed first one and then another house—neither with gates—whose windows were golden in the early evening sunlight. The next house was surrounded by a low wall with a pair of white posts and a graceful white gate where the drive came down to the road. The gate was firmly shut.
There was a placard set into the right post, bronze, he thought. It said PARTRIDGE FIELDS in elegant script.
Rutledge stopped the motorcar, and Hamish startled him as he spoke.
“You will no’ trespass.” It was the British outrage at a stranger’s encroachment. “The gate is closed.”
“But apparently not locked. I’ll walk up to the house and knock at the door, as any guest would. All very civilized.”
Hamish was silent. Rutledge opened the gate and started up the drive. As in the other houses on this lane, tall shrubs lined the way, cutting off a view of the house. But when he reached the end of the plantings, he found himself in a circular drive before a Georgian brick house. There was a semicircular portico held up by slender fluted columns and a black paneled door reached by three shallow steps. He went up them, lifted the brass knocker, and let it fall.
It seemed, as he stood there, that it echoed through an empty house beyond, and no one answered the summons, though he stood there for a good five minutes, waiting.
He went down the steps and looked up at the shining windows, wondering if someone was there, looking down at him. Then he turned to his right and started around the house. There was a terrace on this side, French doors leading down to a French-style garden of roses and perennials. Beyond the garden was a square shrubbery of boxwoods, and he could see wrought-iron benches and a stone fountain inside the small sheltered garden they created. Inside the bowl of the fountain was a horse, head to one side, tail and mane flying. It was a lovely thing, but no water splashed over it. The fountain was dry.
He went on to the back of the house, and saw that the kitchen door was shut. No signs of servants going about their duties, the kitchen garden more than a little overgrown compared to the formal plantings, and the outbuilding doors were barred.
The house, for all intents and purposes, was closed up.
Rutledge came back to the French doors and stood with his hand shielding his forehead, trying to look inside. Dust sheets covered the furnishings, and even the small chandelier was swathed in what looked to be a pillowcase.
Why had Partridge—Parkinson—left behind this jewel of a house to live in a tiny cottage in the middle of nowhere?
Hamish had had enough of trespassing. Rutledge turned to go, with one last look over the gardens. Someone kept them up, though not the kitchen garden, and came here often enough to see that no weeds marred the symmetry of the beds or weather damaged the plants. There wasn’t so much as a twig underfoot on the small well-mown lawns at the far side of the house, ringed by flowering trees. A croquet lawn? It was smooth enough for that. And a long pair of windows from what appeared to be a study looked out over the green carpet. There the draperies had been drawn and he could see nothing.
He took one last look at the house. It seemed to be standing there waiting for its owner, and if he was right, that the dead man in Yorkshire was Parkinson, then its owner could never come again.
Hamish said, “He lost his wife.”
And that might have explained the man’s exile—too many memories here to let him heal.
But it didn’t explain his death.
Rutledge drove back to The Smith’s Arms, too late again for his dinner. Mrs. Smith was waiting up for him, as if half afraid that he wasn’t coming back, his account unsettled.
She said, “There, you’re in. I was just tidying up a little. I
’ll be off to bed, then.”
Saying good night, she mounted the stairs, and he looked into the bar before following her. It was already shut and dark.
He went up to his bed and stretched out fully clothed, too weary for more than that.
Why had Partridge—Parkinson—changed his name? To fit into his surroundings without attracting attention? But then that was the name that Deloran had given him too. Either Deloran was content to go along with Partridge’s need for anonymity or it suited the War Office very well.
Who was he? What sort of man had he been before the spring of 1918? And what was it that had triggered this abrupt change in his life? Losing his wife, yes, that would account for much.
How had he made his living, to be able to afford a house of that size with well-kept gardens? Even if he was independently wealthy, he must have held some position during the war years. In industry, perhaps, or in some capacity with the military. Men with certain skills worked at code-breaking, others at perfecting aircraft and weaponry or translating documents. There was always a need for clever minds. Stage designers had turned their talents to creating camouflage patterns for ships and gun emplacements and even trenches as spotter planes flew longer sorties over enemy lines. The list was endless.
Was that why the army was concerned about his whereabouts? Had he worked in something that was still under wraps, and therefore his erratic behavior had drawn attention to the need to keep an eye on him? It seemed far-fetched.
This was April 1920. The war had ended in November of 1918. According to Mrs. Cathcart, Parkinson/Partridge had moved into his cottage in the spring of 1918. What might have seemed important in the waning months of the war when the outcome was still in doubt wouldn’t explain Deloran’s secretiveness now.
Rutledge gave it up and lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the night sounds, an occasional vehicle passing on the road, a dog barking in the distance, and then the sudden patter of rain on the roof.
The fine weather had broken.
It was still raining when Rutledge woke up in the morning. Sometime in the night he’d changed out of his clothes and gone to bed, only half awake as he fumbled with the sheets.
Mrs. Smith was serving breakfast when he came down, and he discovered just how hungry he was. The warm charger she set in front of him was demolished in short order, and he sat there drinking his tea and eating the last of the toast.
The door opened and the thin man—Will, wasn’t it?—with whom he’d played darts earlier in the week stepped into the inn and shook the last of the rain off his hat.
He nodded a greeting to Rutledge and went to find Mrs. Smith. Rutledge could hear their conversation over the banging of pots and pans.
When he came back, he had a Thermos of tea in one hand and a cup in the other. He sat down at Rutledge’s table with a polite, “D’you mind?”
“Not at all,” he answered. “Driving all night, are you?”
“More or less. The rain wasn’t so bad at first, but by dawn it was heavier. I’ve stared at the road for longer than I like. It was coming to look the same, every curve and straightaway. Played darts since that night?”
“No opportunity.”
“If my mother hadn’t taught me my manners, I’d wonder aloud what a man of your stripe is doing here at The Smith’s Arms.”
“It’s convenient.”
“To what?”
“To nowhere.”
The man smiled. “I know when to stop. She taught me that as well.”
“I came here to solve a riddle,” Rutledge said. “And it’s not likely to be solved as easily as I’d hoped.”
“About the White Horse? There’s a legend, you know. That on certain nights it comes down to the Smithy to be shod.”
“Indeed.”
“There’s more than a few say they’ve seen it. But I reckon they were not as sober as they claimed to be. Are you here to keep an eye on us? The lorry drivers?”
Rutledge laughed. “Hardly that. Should I be?”
“A man gets an itch between his shoulder blades sometimes and looks around to see who might be watching.”
“Watching for what? Surely you can’t be smuggling this far inland?”
“Smuggling? No. The war put an end to that, as a matter of fact. Ships couldn’t put in to a small cove and off-load goods there. Likely to find a submarine staring back at them as they up-anchored. Or a coastal warden coming to see what they were up to.”
He finished his tea and prepared to go. “I’m off.”
“Ever see anything strange here at the White Horse? On nights you or your mates were driving through?”
Will grinned. “Like seeing it come down to be shod?”
“No, more human agency than spectral.”
He shook his head. “It’s quiet through here, which is why some of us choose this way. Better time, with the roads so empty.” He walked to the door, then paused. “I was told not long ago that a fair woman in a motorcar was stopped at the side of the road, and she was crying. Close by Wayland’s Smithy. The driver drew up alongside her motorcar and asked if there was aught wrong. And she said no, she was fine. He drove on, but he told me later he’d seen that motorcar before, and it wasn’t a woman driving then.”
“Where had he seen it?”
“Here. Outside the inn.”
“How long ago did this happen?”
The driver shrugged. “A fortnight? More or less.”
“Interesting story.”
“I think it must be true. He’s not the sort given to lying. He said she didn’t look like a whore. Who knows? Since the war, they’re bolder, aren’t they? Not enough men to go around, like.”
And he was gone, his lorry roaring into life and rolling down the road, spray from the tires throwing up mud and muck like a brown bow wave.
Rutledge watched him out of sight.
Now he had a second report of a fair-haired woman in the vicinity of the Tomlin Cottages. Difficult to connect this one with the woman who had knocked at Parkinson’s door. Still—it could mean that she’d come back to try again and encountered him along the road, where no one else saw the meeting. And the interview hadn’t gone well.
Any query through Sergeant Gibson at the Yard about Parkinson’s family would surely jangle tins on the wires that directly or indirectly reached Deloran. And then Deloran would have Rutledge back in London and on the carpet.
It was one thing to pursue a man who didn’t exist. Quite another to look into the past of one who not only existed but was also safely dead.
What, then, were his choices?
Hamish said, “Return to London.”
That made sense. He hadn’t been able to contact Sergeant Gibson to see what had turned up about Henry Shoreham. And there was still the nameless victim on Inspector Madsen’s hands to be officially identified. Not to mention the mystery of why Partridge or Parkinson had died in Yorkshire. The best place to draw these threads together was in London.
Hamish said, “A man could bribe a lorry driver to take away a body. It wouldna’ be the first time sich a thing was done.”
“If Partridge had been found by the road, I’d agree. But what lorry driver would risk carrying a dead man deep into Fountains Abbey’s ruins, and setting him down by a cloister wall?”
“Ye ken, it would depend on how much the man was offered to take sich a risk.”
And if that was the case, the driver had long since vanished into a new life.
“There has to be some trace. Somewhere.”
He hadn’t been aware he’d spoken aloud. Mrs. Smith stuck her head around the door and said, “More toast, sir?”
“Thanks, no. I’ll be leaving in two hours. But first there’s something I must do.”
“I’ll have the accounting ready for you when you come back.”
“Thank you.” He folded his serviette and set it beside his plate. Where to begin? That was always the policeman’s dilemma. It could spoil chances as well as open doo
rs.
He went up to his room, packed his valise, and then left it on the bed.
The rain was heavier now, and he could feel it across his shoulders, through the wool of his coat. He thought of the old cliché about April showers. Last April he had hardly known who he was or where he was. Had he come this far in only a year? If it had rained at all last April, he couldn’t remember it. At the clinic the days ran into one another, and the nights were torments.
The cries of other disturbed patients in the darkness, nothing to distract his churning mind, no routine to force him to shut down his memories, nothing between him and a fear so great he couldn’t close his eyes. That was before he learned that Hamish couldn’t follow him into sleep. And so he had fought sleep, he had paced the floor of his room until his feet were numb and his legs ached, and still he walked. Anything to stave off sleep. He’d even pinched his arms until they bled, to keep himself awake. And then, at dawn, he would fall into a stupor and sit in his chair staring at the wall, a sleep of sorts, but never deep enough to dream.
Night after night. And in the rooms around his, other men suffered as well, banging on their walls, crying out for something to stop the anguish—a true madhouse of fear that was worse than anything found in an asylum.
The doctors had had to keep him drugged to let him sleep, and if he could have found the powders the sisters brought him, he would have swallowed them all, to end it. Not a bad way to die, a way where dreams couldn’t follow him.
He cranked the motorcar and got in, sitting there shaking. It had nothing to do with the rain.
Hamish said roughly, “Aye, that was the heart of it. You wanted to die. I wanted to live. And we neither of us got our wish.”
“And so we’re damned, both of us, because God got it wrong. I wish you had lived and I had died. I would have come to haunt you, and when you married your Fiona, I would have been the skeleton at the feast.”
“No,” Hamish said, his voice cold. “I would ha’ forgotten you, and left you rotting in France.”
12
