A Pale Horse

by Charles Todd

  He had hoped that that would be a telling argument in persuading her to identify the body. But the silence lengthened.

  “At least give me the name of your father’s solicitor, Miss Parkinson. I shall have to contact him. Meanwhile, you’re letting your anger blind you. I think your mother would want to know that you and your sister were provided for.”

  But the bait was ignored.

  No response, no angry outburst, no confrontation in the failing light, where he could try to read Rebecca Parkinson’s face and define her reactions.

  He’d learned long ago that when people could be persuaded to talk, even about something as simple as the weather, he had a better chance of building a bridge to the truth. Silence worked in favor of the suspect—if there was no conversation, there would be nothing to stumble over later.

  Hamish said, “Ye ken, ye said fra’ the start, this sister couldna be persuaded to work wi’ the police.”

  Please God, Sarah would be a different sort. Certainly she was the more emotional of the two women. And probably the less stubborn.

  In the end he left, driving back to Berkshire in the waning light of a spring evening.

  It was just dark when he reached The Smith’s Arms. Tired and dispirited, he had listened to Hamish for miles, and he wished only for peace.

  As he walked into the inn, he stopped short.

  Sitting quietly in the chair by the window, where sometimes he had eaten his breakfast, was Meredith Channing.

  The surprise was so complete that he simply stood there, unable to imagine what had brought her here, how she had found him. Even Hamish hadn’t warned him. And then he remembered that she was a friend of Frances’s, and he asked quickly, “Is anything wrong?”

  She rose to greet him, something in her face that frightened him. But then she said, “I thought it best to come and tell you about Simon Barrington. For your sister’s sake.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I asked a friend to call the Yard. Sergeant Gibson was kind enough to give me your direction.” She looked around, listening to the sounds of laughter and someone’s harmonica making rowdy music in the bar. “Is there anywhere that we can be private?”

  “The night is mild enough. We can walk, if you’d like.”

  She preceded him through the doorway, and said, “I passed the White Horse as I was coming in. It’s amazing. One of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. There’s something about it that is—I don’t know—rather fearsome. And yet not at all frightening.”

  “I’ve always admired it.”

  They turned in the direction of Wayland’s Smithy. He said, “I saw Simon when I was in Lincoln. With another woman. I didn’t know who she was.”

  “Yes, well, she’s his sister, and she’s been having an appalling time. He goes north every weekend, even midweek if it’s necessary. He hasn’t told anyone but his closest friends, people who know her too. Her husband’s dead, you see, and she’s ill, rather a dreadful illness I’m afraid, and he takes her to the doctor in Lincoln for treatments. I expect he doesn’t know how long she may have to live, and if she does, how long she will need to convalesce.”

  “Why tell me this? Why not speak to Frances directly?”

  “If I tell her, I’m betraying a confidence from a friend. But Frances came to me for answers, and I know how wretched she is. I’m hoping you’ll find a way to assure her that it isn’t personal.”

  “I’ll do my best.” He hesitated. “Is she in love with Simon, do you think? Or is this a passing fancy? I’ve been busy, and there hasn’t been time to find out.”

  “I think she’s lonely, and sometimes that palls. Simon is single, attractive, and of her own social set. If she isn’t in love with him, she may believe she ought to be. And that could go a long way toward explaining her unhappiness.”

  He hadn’t considered that possibility. It put matters in a different light.

  They had reached the Smithy and stood beside it, gazing at it but not really seeing it. He thought that Frances was not the only problem that Mrs. Channing had brought with her.

  After a moment she said, “I shouldn’t have come. This could have waited.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  In the darkness her face was a pale blur framed by her hair. “Ian. I only just heard about Jean Montroy’s death.”

  He took a deep breath. “It was a surprise.” Inadequate, but that was all he could manage.

  “Yes, it must have been. I’m sorry.”

  Rutledge turned away, listening to the roar of Hamish’s voice in his ears, and not understanding any of what he was saying.

  “What did the poet say? That the saddest words of tongue or pen were what might have been? It’s true. If we’d been married in the summer of last year, the child might have been mine. But it wasn’t, and if she was happy, I’m glad. Her happiness was brief enough.” He walked a short distance, then came back. “Who told you?”

  “It was in the Canadian newspapers, of course, and a friend sent me the cutting. I wondered if you would like to have it.”

  He considered that, and in the end, said, “Thank you. No. At least not at present.”

  “Of course.” She put her hand on one of the stones that formed the Smithy and said, apropos of nothing, “Whoever was buried here must have been famous in his day. I wonder what his life was like, and his death.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any way to know. Although the local smith will tell you that there’s still treasure to be found inside.”

  “Perhaps he’s right. Well, it’s late, and I must be on my way. I’m staying with friends a few miles from here, and they’ll be wondering what’s become of me.”

  They walked back to the inn in a comfortable silence, and he found it soothing. “Where is your motorcar? I didn’t see it when I came in.”

  “I left it in the kitchen yard. Mrs. Smith thought it best.” He could hear the amusement in her voice. “I don’t think she quite agrees with women driving.”

  He turned the crank for her and said, as she pulled on her driving gloves, “Thank you for coming.”

  “I wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do. Good night, Ian.” And with that she drove out of the inn yard and went on her way.

  He watched the rear light disappearing down the road before turning back to the main door and going inside.

  Rutledge didn’t sleep well. He was awakened by the sound of guns firing in the distance—artillery, German, he could tell—and realized after the first startled instant that they were in his head. He’d been dreaming about the Front, and it had stayed with him even though he had awakened from it. The inn was quiet around him, and he lay there listening to the night.

  In the darkness he heard Hamish saying, “Why did a friend send yon widow a cutting aboot your Jean?”

  It hadn’t occurred to him to question that at the time, but it struck him as odd now. Why had she really come? To see how he was mourning Jean? Or to be certain that the news hadn’t eroded his narrow margin of safety, his tenuous grip on sanity? He wasn’t sure how much Meredith Channing knew about his war. Sometimes it seemed that she guessed more than he was prepared for anyone to know. But then she’d been at the Front, a nurse in the forward aid station closest to his section. She had seen men in every state between living and dying and somehow managed to keep her own sanity intact. There was a well of something there, understanding perhaps or sympathy, even knowledge. But no pity. He couldn’t have borne that from anyone.

  A rooster crowed in the distance, and Rutledge reached for his watch, lighting his lamp long enough to glance at it. Dawn would be breaking soon.

  And with it, what? Another murder? Another day of chasing a truth that didn’t want to be discovered?

  Sometimes he thought that Gerald Parkinson would be happier in an anonymous grave rather than one where he wasn’t wanted.

  After a time he drifted again into sleep, his last thought one that had grown out of his conversation wit
h Meredith Channing.

  A murderer would have put Parkinson’s body in Wayland’s Smithy and called his death a suicide.

  When he came down the next morning, Mrs. Cathcart was eating her breakfast at the table that was usually his, but he made no move to join her. She seemed to be in better spirits, and Mrs. Smith had been carrying on a running conversation with her as each dish was brought in. The subject under discussion was affairs at the cottages, and they had reached the point of debating whether Partridge was one of the victims or not.

  “He’s not been seen for some time. But the police were there, in his cottage, and nothing was said about finding him,” Mrs. Cathcart was saying.

  “He would come here sometimes to talk with the lorry drivers. The distance to this place or that, what accommodations might be had, what kind of weather he might expect. I didn’t know for the longest time that he was from the cottages—I thought he’d come in from Uffington. Horrible to imagine him murdered. Are they quite sure of that?” Mrs. Smith asked over a rack of toast.

  Rutledge asked, “Did he ever talk about his visit to Liverpool?”

  It was Deloran and his men who had tracked Parkinson there. And Rutledge had never been satisfied that Parkinson hadn’t lured them there, to keep his watchers from guessing what he’d really done during his brief absences.

  But neither Mrs. Cathcart nor Mrs. Smith could answer that question.

  Mrs. Smith was called away by two drivers just in, and Mrs. Cathcart was still sitting over the last of her tea when he left the inn.

  Hamish said, “She believes her husband willna’ think to look for her here.”

  It was true—The Smith’s Arms was hardly a place where the Mrs. Cathcarts of this world spent their days. But she seemed less anxious this morning, as if she had slept well enough.

  Rutledge drove as far as the foot of the lane and pulled the motorcar to the verge. The sun was watery as he walked up to the cottage occupied by Mr. Allen. The smith had fashioned a wrought-iron SIX in a Gothic script for Allen’s door, giving it a distinction the other cottages lacked.

  The curtains twitched in the front window before the door was opened to Rutledge’s knock.

  “Taking precautions,” Allen said in explanation as he moved aside to let Rutledge inside the small entry. “I’m dying but have no interest in hurrying the process.”

  “Miss Chandler, who once lived in Brady’s cottage, sends you her regards. She was pleased to hear that you’re still alive.”

  He smiled. “She didn’t belong here. But beggars can’t be choosers. I’d wondered if her good fortune was truly that.”

  “It appears to have been.”

  “I wish I were well out of here myself. This business of murder practically on one’s doorstep is not good for any of us, I expect. I’ve found it hard to sleep. I spoke to Miller this morning, and he agrees, if we had anywhere else to go, we’d be off. I’m not up to travel, sadly. I’ll have to take my chances.”

  “What does Miller think about events?”

  “He’s a rather timid man, and he overcomes it with bluster. Once you get past that, he’s all right. Though I don’t count him a friend, you understand. He’s not convinced that Brady is our man. He favors poor Slater, telling me that he’d not be predictable in taxing situations. Miller says he grew up with one such and there was murder done because of a misunderstanding that got out of hand. I can’t say that I agree. I’ve never seen Slater violent.”

  “That leaves you, Singleton, and Quincy to be cast as murderers.”

  Allen smiled. “I daresay I’m not in Inspector Hill’s sights, given my health.” The smile faded. “What’s become of Mrs. Cathcart? I haven’t seen her today. Has someone looked in on her?”

  “Yes, she’s fine. She was enjoying breakfast earlier.”

  “Is Partridge dead, as Brady claimed?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid he is. But under rather different circumstances than Willingham’s murder. It will take some time to learn what Brady’s role was in his death. If any.”

  “I must say, I’d have not thought it of Brady. He was a weak man, in my view, troubled by his drinking and whatever it was that brought him here to live.”

  Rutledge prepared to take his leave, watching Allen’s face sag with fatigue, one hand clutching the arm of a chair with white-knuckled fingers.

  Allen was saying, “I’ll tell you something about Partridge. For what it’s worth. I wouldn’t have, if there was a chance he was still alive.”

  Rutledge waited.

  “I don’t think that was his real name. I’d seen him at a party in Winchester several years ago, and although we weren’t introduced, he was pointed out to me as one of the people doing some sort of hush-hush work for the government. There were a number of important guests at the dinner, and he seemed to know most of them. I never asked him about this, partly respecting his privacy and partly because I heard later that he’d fallen from grace and was in bad odor with the government. You can imagine my surprise when I looked out my door one morning and saw him walking down the lane. He was calling himself Partridge then, but for the life of me I can’t remember how he was called at the party. Something similar, but I’d have remembered Partridge if it had been that. It’s not a common name.”

  “And you said nothing about this to anyone else?”

  Allen responded with irritation. “I told you. I respected his privacy.”

  “Later on, did you tell the friend who’d first pointed this man out to you that you’d seen him here in Berkshire?”

  Allen’s face flushed. “Only because I thought it might reassure him that all was well. I was in Winchester to see my doctor when I ran into him.”

  “How long after that did Mr. Brady come here to live?”

  “A month, possibly less. There can’t be a connection. I’d have sworn they didn’t know each other.” But Allen was no fool. “You aren’t trying to say there’s a connection, are you? That word spread, and that’s why Brady came here? I refuse to believe it.” But the dawning realization was shattering. “If your charge is true, why did the man wait so long to kill Partridge? Answer me that?”

  “Brady’s dead, and there’s no way we can ask him.”

  Allen said again, “I refuse to believe my casual comments had anything to do with Brady or the murder of Partridge.” He stepped forward, forcing Rutledge to move back outside the door, and shut it with firmness.

  “That was how Martin Deloran found his missing scientist,” he said to Hamish as he walked back the way he’d come.

  A chance encounter, a remembered name and face, a chatty reference in a conversation, and somehow the news had reached Deloran’s ears.

  Hamish said, “Ye ken, Parkinson knew as soon as the watcher came, but didna’ understand how it was that he’d been found.”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  He stopped to tap at Miller’s door in Number 7.

  This time to his surprise it opened. “The police have been and gone. I’ve nothing to say to you.”

  Rutledge said, “I happened to call on Miss Chandler, and she asked to be remembered to you and to Mr. Allen.”

  “Kind of you. Good day.”

  But Rutledge had his hand on the door to prevent it from closing. “I’ve also come to ask if you knew Mr. Partridge well.”

  “No one here knows anyone well. I thought you’d have learned that by now.”

  Rutledge studied the man. A thin face, hair graying early, a sturdy build. He could have been the conductor on a streetcar or a clerk in a shop. Middle-class with an accent that didn’t betray his roots, one cultivated to win him a better position in the marketplace, but not completely natural to him. It was his eyes that were interesting. They were what many would call hazel, but the dominant color was a golden green and oddly feral. And they were guarded, as if someone else stood behind them, a very different man from the one the world saw at first glance.

  Inmates of prisons sometimes had that shuttered look, surviv
ing as best they could in a place where they were afraid.

  Rutledge said, “Every cottage has windows. And there’s nothing to see except the horse on the hill and the comings and goings of your neighbors.”

  “I don’t watch from my windows.”

  But he had, like the others, and now he denied it, as the others had done. What was his secret?

  Had he embezzled funds at his place of business? Or been passed over for promotion and lost his temper? Allen had called him a timid man, and Slater had said he was evil.

  There was something here, something that Rutledge, an experienced police officer, could feel in the air.

  “You saw nothing the night that Willingham was killed? Or on the night when Brady must have disposed of Partridge’s body?”

  “I didn’t see anything when Willingham was killed. Thank God I was asleep. As for Partridge, I don’t even know what night that was. But I can tell you that it was about three days since I’d seen him—he used to walk over to where the trees start and stand there looking up at the horse—when I heard the motorcar come back. It was close on three in the morning, and I was having trouble sleeping. I got up, thinking I might have a cigarette, and I stood there at the window watching someone open the shed door and then drive the motorcar inside. As a rule, Partridge shuts it straightaway, but this time I didn’t see him walk around to the door as he usually did. The shed door stayed open.”

  “And in the morning?”

  “The shed door was shut and all was quiet. I thought perhaps he’d slept in, after a long drive. I never saw him again.”

  When Rutledge didn’t comment, Miller hesitated and then added, “The next night Brady went there to Partridge’s door, knocked, and went inside. He stayed nearly an hour, and then hurried back to his own cottage. My guess at the time was that Partridge had been taken ill, but nothing came of Brady’s visit.”