A Pale Horse

by Charles Todd

  After a time, he got up to leave and she saw him to the door. He stood there listening to the tumblers fall into place as she locked it, before walking away.

  There were two more vehicles here now, men from one of them carrying a stretcher for the dead. Others were gathering around Hill, listening to instructions.

  The remaining cottages were shut tight. Ranks closed against outsiders, even with murder done. It was a matter of self-preservation, Rutledge thought.

  Hamish said, “Aye, but they know one of them could ha’ done this.”

  And he was right. Two dead…out of nine.

  He walked on toward his car. He’d seen enough, he knew as much as Hill did at this stage.

  Quincy’s door opened and he said, “What’s going on?”

  “Willingham’s dead,” Rutledge answered.

  “Indeed.” Quincy looked thoughtfully in the direction of Willingham’s cottage. “There was a cry in the night. I heard it. I thought Dublin was having a romantic interlude, and so I didn’t investigate. Anything to do with events?”

  “You’ll have to ask Inspector Hill. He’s the man in charge.”

  “Your only interest is Partridge, then. I wonder why.”

  “Because he’s dead too. An uneasy coincidence, don’t you think, in such a small community?”

  “You’d better come in.” Quincy opened the door wider, and Dublin scooted between his legs and into the house.

  Quincy had finished his breakfast, and the dishes were still on the table. Dublin jumped up to sniff at them, then lost interest, moving on to curl up in a chair.

  “Why do you think Partridge died? He’s gone away before.” Quincy was standing by the window, watching the activity up the lane. “And nothing happened.”

  Rutledge was at his shoulder. “He always came home again, in a matter of several days. You said as much yourself,” he responded. “Someone knew his pattern.”

  “Yes, it’s true. He was a man of habit, in some ways.”

  “Where did he go? And why? I can’t find anyone who will tell me.”

  Quincy shook his head. “We never exchanged that sort of information. I don’t like the police prowling about. Will they be knocking on doors, do you think?”

  “I expect they will. Mrs. Cathcart is frightened. I doubt they’ll persuade her to open her door.”

  Quincy hesitated, then said, “I saw Singleton walking late. He’d been up the hill. I wondered if he was looking for you. I saw you there, two nights ago.”

  “I stopped for a while. The horse is interesting to me.”

  “And so are we, your specimens under glass. I doubt Inspector Hill knows as much about us as you do.”

  “Because of Partridge. I’m not interested in your past, just whether or not you had a reason to dislike your neighbor.”

  “I don’t have a reason to like or dislike him. But I’ll tell you, I don’t much care for Brady, he can’t hold his drink. And Miller’s a slippery sod. I wouldn’t put murder past him, if you want the truth. Singleton is secretive, and that means he has secrets.”

  “What’s yours?”

  “Mine? I was a remittance man, and told never to set foot in England again. But I got homesick, tired of foreigners, their language, their food, their ways. So I slipped back into England and the family thinks I’m still in Mexico. My keep is paid into my account each month, and I like it that way.”

  It was a challenge, but Rutledge didn’t take it up.

  After a moment Quincy went on. “What’s your interest in Partridge, anyway? I don’t know that I believe the tale you tell. For all I know, Partridge is a red herring, and it’s someone else who is on your watch list.”

  “I’d like very much to know why he’s dead.”

  “Or you know why, but not who killed him. And my money is on Brady, because he hates Partridge, you know. God knows why, but he does.”

  Which was an interesting consideration. The watcher should be above reproach. And until Partridge—Parkinson—was a closed book, there was no release for Brady either. Was he tired of loneliness and orders?

  Rutledge left, and was halfway to his motorcar when he heard Hill calling to him. He was just coming out of Miller’s cottage, and jogged down to meet Rutledge, his fair face flushed as he caught up.

  “I thought you’d agreed this was my patch. And here you are hobnobbing with the neighbors.”

  “I had agreed,” Rutledge answered him, keeping his tone mild. “But Mrs. Cathcart and Quincy called to me, wanting to know what had happened. I told them Willingham was dead. They suspected as much, with the police summoned.”

  “Well, I’d be grateful if you kept away.” He paused. “What about Slater? He tells me he knew you were here and came for you instead of me. He could have wielded that knife, you know, and used you for an alibi.”

  “I doubt Slater killed Willingham. In the first place, why?”

  “Miller tells me Slater has something of a temper and Willingham was the devil to get along with.”

  “He was an unpleasant neighbor. I don’t believe he invited his murder by tormenting Slater.”

  “Yes, well, you never know. Slights sometimes galvanize people like Slater into retaliation.”

  “What do you mean, slights?” Rutledge asked.

  “You can see, Slater isn’t the brightest star in the sky, is he? And he’s had a run-in or two in Uffington. He’s been accused of doing bad work, for one thing, and overcharging for it.”

  “Ah, the sexton. Yes, bad news travels fast. The work on that teapot was well done. I saw it myself. The sexton cheated Slater. If the sexton were dead, you might have a case.”

  Hill considered Rutledge with interest. “You do know these people, don’t you? Better than you’re willing to admit.”

  “I’ve held a conversation with several of them.” Hill was beginning to annoy him, and he could feel Hamish stirring in the back of his mind.

  “See that you don’t hold any more until I’ve got to the bottom of this business. And you’ve never been clear about the Yard’s interest here in Berkshire. No one’s said anything to me about an inspector sent down.”

  “It has nothing to do with Willingham, I can assure you. A watching brief for the moment.”

  “Yes, Miller informed me that you’d shown an inordinate amount of interest in Partridge. Where is he? Not dead, by any chance? A knife in his back?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Well, keep clear of my men and let them do their work.” Hill walked away.

  “He doesna’ care for you stepping on his toes.”

  “I don’t blame him. I’d not like anyone meddling in my case.” He turned the crank and got in, but sat there with the motor idling, thinking.

  He now had the perfect excuse to ask Sergeant Gibson to learn what he could about the people here in this tiny enclave of lepers.

  It might be interesting to see what he could discover.

  But he was no nearer to finding what had happened to Parkinson. A death in Yorkshire, a death in Berkshire, and both without the usual span of motives that often tipped the balance of an inquiry. There was no village here, in the real sense. And no threads or connections to be picked up and sorted through. The inhabitants of the Tomlin Cottages hadn’t known one another before coming here to live, as far as he could tell—and that could hold just as true of Brady as any of the others. Martin Deloran wouldn’t have trusted such a task to anyone who had been a friend of Parkinson.

  Where was he to find the daughter that the housekeeper had spoken of in passing? Or the other children? There was time to go back to Partridge Fields and ask. Although he was of two minds over involving this daughter until he was prepared to tell her that her father was dead…

  The house, when he got there, was shut tight, and no one answered the knocker. Hamish, moody, had much to say about his failure to ask the housekeeper about the children when he had the chance. Instead he had pursued the subject of Porton Down, and then it was too late.

>   Rutledge drove on to the post office, and braced himself to face the elderly postmaster again.

  The man was as irascible and unhelpful as he’d been earlier.

  “I’m not supposed to give out information of this sort,” he informed Rutledge.

  “I’m searching for her father. She may know where he can be reached.”

  “I can’t help you there. She doesn’t live here.”

  “Very well. The direction of the housekeeper at Partridge Fields. Where can she be found when no one is in residence? It’s police business.”

  They went in circles for all of five minutes. Finally, in exasperation Rutledge said, “I’ll speak to the local police, then, and bring someone back with me.”

  “It won’t do you any good. The housekeeper doesn’t live here either.”

  Rutledge turned away, holding on to his patience with an effort. But as he was walking out the door a young woman with dark red hair and freckles who had been in the post office putting stamps on a small stack of invitations followed him out into the April sunshine.

  She called to him and said, “You are trying to locate Rebecca Parkinson? I overheard you tell Mr. Walsh you were a policeman.”

  “Yes. I need to find her father.”

  “Is anything wrong? Is someone ill?”

  “We’ve been asked to try to locate him. I’d hoped his daughter might help.”

  She frowned. “I doubt you’ll succeed. They haven’t spoken for two years.”

  “I can try,” he said, smiling down at her. “If I knew where to find her. Do you know her?”

  “We went to school together. Look, she and her father are estranged, but if it’s important—”

  “Very important.”

  “All right then. She’s taken a small house about five miles from Partridge Fields. No one’s lived at the house since Mrs. Parkinson’s death. But Rebecca keeps up the gardens. If you go to the crossroads, and turn left instead of right, you’ll find her at a place signposted Pockets.”

  He thanked her and went back to the motorcar.

  The house was where the young woman had said it would be, small and well kept, the thatch overhanging the door and a pot of heartsease in tall stands on either side of it. The gardens surrounding it were filled with spring blooms.

  He went up the front walk and knocked lightly.

  After a few minutes, a young woman of perhaps twenty-four, blond and attractive, opened the door to him.

  “My name is Rutledge,” he said. “I’m from Scotland Yard—”

  Her face went white, as if the blood had drained away and left only the flesh.

  “What do you want?” she asked, holding tightly to the door, her voice low and husky.

  “I’m trying to find your father. It’s police business.”

  “I don’t know where he lives. I don’t care.”

  “I’m told you came to visit him once not long ago. A young woman of your description was seen knocking on his door.”

  Where she had been pale, she flushed now. And he thought it might be anger.

  “I haven’t knocked on any door of his. I can tell you that. He killed my mother, and I hate him.”

  She tried to shut the door, but he prevented her with a well-placed shoe.

  “Miss Parkinson. I have reason to think your father is dead.”

  She stared at him, as if trying to read something in his face. “Dead?”

  “It’s very likely.”

  “Well, then, he’s in hell, where he deserves to be. Go look for him there.” And she shut the door with some force.

  He stood there, on the tiny porch, and waited, thinking that she might be curious enough to want to know more.

  But apparently she had meant what she said, and after a moment, he went back to the motorcar.

  He had just reached for the crank when he thought he heard raised voices from the house. Only for an instant, and even then he wasn’t certain whether Miss Parkinson was arguing with someone or venting her own anger—or her grief.

  17

  Rutledge found a telephone in a small hotel along the road back to Uffington, and put in a call to the Yard. Gibson couldn’t be found right away, and it was a good quarter of an hour before the telephone rang and Gibson was on the line.

  Rutledge gave him a list of names and asked him to learn what he could about each.

  Gibson said, “It will take a while.”

  “I’ve got all the time in the world,” Rutledge said with irony and told the sergeant when he expected to call the Yard again.

  He ate his lunch at the hotel, and then traveled back to The Smith’s Arms. There he found Smith eager to hear what had transpired at the cottages.

  Rutledge said only, “Inspector Hill is dealing with it. Willingham is dead, that’s all I can tell you.”

  “Willingham?” Smith seemed surprised. “I thought perhaps you’d found Mr. Partridge.”

  Rutledge let it go. But Smith was starved for information and said, “But how did he die? His heart, was it?”

  “You must ask Inspector Hill.”

  “Pshaw, his like never show up here, at the Arms. I’ll ask Andrew, when he comes for a pint. Care for a late lunch, Mr. Rutledge?”

  Rutledge refused, thanking him, and went up to his room. Taking out paper and pen, he sat down and wrote an account of what he’d seen and done that morning at the Willingham cottage, signed it, and set it aside.

  After that he went to stand by the window, looking out across the yard and the road, watching the wind dancing through the high grass there.

  There was a letter, only just begun, that he’d found in the basket beside Parkinson’s desk.

  “My dear” was as far as he’d got before crumpling it up.

  Had that been written to his daughter? Apologizing for whatever he’d done to make her hate him with such venom? Trying in some small way to make amends for the loss of her mother? Or asking her forgiveness for whatever role she felt he’d played in his wife’s death?

  And yet Parkinson had died as his wife had died, using gas. That would seem a bitter irony to Rebecca Parkinson, when she learned what had become of her father.

  “Unless,” Hamish pointed out, “the lass herself murdered him.”

  That had to be taken into account as well.

  Except that the body had been found in Yorkshire…

  Hamish said, “’Ware!”

  And Rutledge turned to see Andrew Slater walking up the road toward The Smith’s Arms.

  Minutes later, Slater was mounting the stairs.

  Rutledge had the door open, ready for him.

  “Why did you leave?” the smith asked, aggrieved. “You left us to the mercy of Inspector Hill. He’s half convinced that I killed Willingham. I ask you, why would I come and tell you I’d heard a cry, if I’d done the deed myself? It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  “Hill is doing his duty. And he’ll begin by taking a long hard look at the dead man’s neighbors. If you’ve done nothing wrong, if your conscience is clear, you’ll see that’s true.”

  “Yes, well,” the smith said, gingerly lowering himself down in Rutledge’s chair. It groaned under his weight. “If I survive, I’ll applaud myself for my clear conscience.”

  “Who do you think might have wanted Willingham dead?” Rutledge had promised Inspector Hill to stay out of the case, but Slater had come to him.

  “God knows. We didn’t much care for him, and if we didn’t, who did? He’d never spoken of a family. Who’s to mourn him, then?”

  “A good question,” Rutledge answered.

  “I can tell you Mrs. Cathcart is taking it hard. And so is Mr. Allen. Death came too close last night for his comfort.”

  “And the others?”

  “Miller doesn’t give a damn about any of it. If we all dropped dead in our shoes, he’d probably be pleased. Mr. Brady is trying to make himself very inconspicuous. He was drunk as a lord before he went to bed last night, and I doubt he’d have heard the an
gels’ chorus after that. But he doesn’t want it known to the world.”

  “Did Mr. Partridge have better luck with Willingham? Did they talk, do you think?”

  Slater shook his head. “Where’s a beginning for friendship? I expect I spoke with more of my neighbors than anyone else. I’m too thick to notice when I’m being ignored. Besides, I’m lonely sometimes.”

  “No one ever came to call on Willingham?”

  “If they did, I never saw them. Mrs. Cathcart is afraid someone might visit her. That’s sad.” He looked down at his large hands, lying idle on his knees. “I wish I hadn’t grown so. But there’s nothing I can do about it. Just as she can’t help being afraid. And I don’t know if Quincy is his first name or his last. I never feel right, calling him ‘Quincy.’ Mr. Allen is dying, and there’s no one to comfort him. I expect he doesn’t want to be comforted. There’s something stoic in that. Mr. Partridge had demons, and didn’t know how to rid himself of them. And Singleton wants to be a soldier still. You have only to look at his carriage and how tidy he is. Hair clipped short, clothes immaculate. Mr. Brady is tormented too, because this isn’t where he most wants to be. And Mr. Miller is the strangest of the lot, because I think he wants to be here.”

  It was an intriguing summation of the inhabitants of the leper cottages. Sometimes, Rutledge thought, a simple man saw more directly into the heart than one who was burdened with the sophistication of social behavior.

  Slater got to his feet. “You won’t let them arrest me, will you? I don’t want to be taken into Uffington and put in a cell, with everyone staring at me. I think I’d go mad, locked up, and tell the police anything just to be let go. Even lies.”

  He went back down the stairs heavily, like a man carrying an enormous burden. Outside he turned to the Smithy, not back the way he’d come. It was odd how he seemed to find comfort and even acceptance there.

  Slater hadn’t been gone five minutes when Hill came looking for Rutledge.

  He said, seeing the door open into Rutledge’s room, “I’d like to have your statement now, if you please.”