A Pale Horse

by Charles Todd

  “All right, Singleton, we’re leaving.” Rutledge got to his feet and pushed his chair back to the table. “Are you ready to come with me?”

  It was not the conversational voice he’d been using, but the tone of an officer expecting his men to obey on the spot.

  Surprisingly Singleton responded, standing and then gripping the edge of the table to steady himself.

  “Give me a shoulder, man!” he appealed to Rutledge, and together they walked out of the bar. Mrs. Smith, standing in the shadows by the stairs, watched, and up on the landing, Mrs. Cathcart had wrapped her arms about her body as if to stop shaking. Rutledge got Singleton outside and into the motorcar.

  They drove back toward the cottages, and Singleton was silent, brooding.

  As Rutledge turned up the lane toward his cottage, the ex-soldier said, “It’s Quincy, if you’re looking for one of us to be the murderer. He’s half mad anyway, with all those damned birds. Someone should fire the cottage with him in it.”

  “Someone did try. He got a shotgun barrel in his face.”

  “Then you’ve only to look at any one of us to see who it was.”

  “Quincy fired through the door. Apparently scaring the hell out of someone but not hitting him.”

  “I told you he was mad.”

  “Yes, probably you’re right. Do you want me to come in with you?”

  “No. You’re not drinking my whisky and telling me lies.”

  “Suit yourself. Good day, Singleton.”

  He waited while Singleton made up his mind. After a moment, the man clambered down, threw a mockery of a salute in Rutledge’s direction, and said, “It’s the pain that gets to you after a while. It drives you mad.”

  “Were you wounded?” Rutledge knew Singleton had served in India.

  “The disgrace, damn you. It turned my father against me, I’ll tell you that. He never spoke to me again. His only son, disgraced before his regiment. And mine. But I didn’t care any more. And he did.”

  He walked with surprising steadiness to his door and went inside. As Rutledge turned the motorcar, he was close enough to Number 7 to see Miller standing at his window.

  What if Miller had been telling the truth, or part of it, that someone had brought Partridge’s motorcar back to the cottage to make it appear that Partridge hadn’t used it?

  With the tab of the respirator found in the vehicle and Miller’s story—if true—to show that the motorcar had been returned late at night by an unknown driver, the pieces of the puzzle were falling together. But Rutledge still hadn’t determined where Parkinson had died. If it was in his own house, then the sisters were involved. If not, then it could have been Brady, or if Deloran didn’t trust him, another of his minions. He hadn’t died in the cottage. Had someone overpowered him while he stood in the trees looking up at the White Horse? It would have been easy, quiet.

  Rutledge had come to know Rebecca and Sarah Parkinson. Letting their father die the same way their mother had killed herself smacked of a certain justice. If he took them into custody, and a jury found them guilty, he’d have to be present when they went to the gallows. And he was fairly certain that Rebecca would protect her sister to the end, claiming that she alone had carried out the murder, even if it had taken two of them to drag their father’s body to the motorcar and drive it to Yorkshire.

  The newspapers would make a sensation out of the trial. Parkinson’s daughters would be vilified in print, their family’s secrets dragged out into the open and dissected over tea and the butcher’s counter and in the pubs.

  He had better be damned certain that his facts were irrefutable before he tossed two young women to the wolves.

  But for Parkinson’s sake, his murderer or murderers had to be brought to justice. Even if he would have railed at the police for doing it.

  Rutledge thought, I’ve always spoken for the victim. This time the victim might well prefer to see me fail.

  Rutledge drove to Sarah Parkinson’s house, waited at the door while she decided whether or not to answer his knock, and when she came at last, he went straight to the point.

  “You have a choice, Miss Parkinson. Come with me to Yorkshire and identify your father’s body, then help us solve the mystery of where and how he died. There have been two other deaths among the residents of the Tomlin Cottages, and so far we’ve managed to keep the two inquiries separate. But the fact remains that both of the dead men, Mr. Willingham and Mr. Brady, had a very good view of your father’s cottage. We’ve been told by another witness that your father’s motorcar was returned after he went missing. This witness saw one person driving it, and since your father wasn’t there the next morning, we have to believe that it was his killer who brought the motorcar back. Both Mr. Willingham and Mr. Brady were closer to the shed than our third witness. They could very well have seen the driver more clearly. If the police can’t prove otherwise, then a connection will be made between your father’s death and the other murders.” He could see the color draining from her face. “It’s been my experience, Miss Parkinson, that murdering another human being is easier after the first time. If you didn’t kill those men, then we must assume it was Rebecca, trying to protect you.”

  “My sister did nothing of the sort! You’re trying to frighten me. Go away.”

  “You can shut the door, if you like, and I’ll leave. But what I’ve told you won’t leave with me. It will echo in your head until you come to your senses and act to protect yourself. She’s your sister, Miss Parkinson, but she’s placed your own life at risk. Can’t you see that?”

  “You’re wrong,” she told him resolutely. “You are wrong—”

  “Then tell me what the truth is and let me deal with it.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.” Her voice held a world of sorrow. “This business at the cottages has nothing to do with us. And you said yourself that my father’s body—if it is his—was found a long way from here.”

  “Miss Parkinson, listen to me. Whatever happened, you must find the courage to speak out. If you’re afraid of your sister, we’ll protect you—”

  “Why should I be afraid of her? She’s done nothing. Nothing at all. And this talk about murders to cover up what witnesses saw is wild guessing, nothing else. Let this witness meet me face-to-face and tell me I was there. I was not.”

  “But you can’t speak for Rebecca, can you? If you weren’t there, you can’t prove or disprove that she might have been. Come in and give us a statement, tell us what you know. Let us set the record straight.”

  “If I sign a statement, you’ll use it against Becky. She’s the only family I have left. Do you think my mother would ever forgive me if I did something that would hurt Becky? Do you think I could forgive myself? My father is dead. There’s nothing more I can do to hurt him, and nothing more he can do to hurt me. Let it go.”

  “Murder isn’t something I can walk away from. When I leave here, I’m going to take a statement from the witness who saw your father’s motorcar return three nights after your father left. The motorcar is there still. But in the rear seat I found something that you or your sister overlooked. It’s a tab from the respirator he was—”

  She moved so quickly he couldn’t have forestalled her. The door was slammed, and he could hear on the other side the rasp of the bolt as it was shoved into place.

  He had planted the seeds of doubt about her sister in Sarah Parkinson’s mind. It was what he had come to do. But he felt unclean now.

  “It was a cruel thing ye did.”

  “What would you have me do? Tell me,” Rutledge demanded impatiently as he cranked the motorcar’s engine. “Tell me how else I could show her the danger ahead, if she remains loyal to her sister. Hill will come round to thinking this same way. He’s no fool.”

  “Would you betray your sister?”

  “The circumstances here are different.” But even as he denied it, he knew how much he loved Frances and would protect her.

  “No’ sae different in my view,” H
amish said dryly, as if he’d read Rutledge’s mind.

  “You had no sisters or brothers. How can you be so sure what you’d have done in my shoes?”

  “Aye, it’s true. All the same, you’ll no’ get anywhere with this lass.”

  He had a strong feeling Hamish might be right. In the end, they could very well get away with murder if they could prove they hadn’t touched Willingham or Brady.

  And while it was essential to his evidence that they go to Yorkshire and positively identify Inspector Madsen’s nameless body, they might decide to accommodate him, let him take them there, and in front of witnesses deny that it was Gerald Parkinson.

  He was surprised that Rebecca at least hadn’t considered doing just that. If she ever separated her anger from her best interests, it might still happen that way and her father would be buried as Gaylord Partridge. And as surely as the sun rose every morning, Martin Deloran would be delighted to support her testimony.

  It was time to put his case in writing. Rutledge drove back to the cottages to ask Allen to make a statement identifying Parkinson as the neighbor he’d known as Partridge.

  It wasn’t strong enough to overturn what Parkinson’s own daughters told the court, but it might serve to cast doubt on their motives.

  But when Rutledge arrived on Allen’s doorstep, the man shook his head. He seemed to have aged in a matter of hours, the color of his skin mottled and his hands trembling. “I must rest. Come back this afternoon, if you please.”

  When Rutledge expressed concern, Allen reminded him, “There are good days and bad. And this hadn’t been one of my better ones. They’re farther and farther apart now. My doctor warned me, but of course one always supposes he’ll be wrong. He wasn’t.”

  He closed his door and Rutledge heard the click of the bolt as he locked it.

  Rutledge walked away, thinking that Allen would have a difficult time when it came to giving evidence at a trial. But he would be believed, he was that sort of man. And the view of the jury might well be that a dying man had nothing to gain by lying.

  The next statement he wanted was Miller’s. Rutledge was surprised when the man answered the door. He explained what he needed.

  Miller said, “I told you what I saw. I don’t see any point in writing it out.”

  “What you told me is evidence in a murder inquiry. I can corroborate what you’ve said, but I can’t speak for you. It was you who saw the motorcar come back. It was you who saw Brady go into the Partridge cottage. If both events happened the way you described them to me, you have nothing to fear.”

  “I’m not much for what follows, appearing in court.”

  “You’ll be summoned to give evidence, whether you wish to or not. It’s out of my hands.”

  “Oh, very well,” Miller replied grudgingly. “Come again in half an hour, and I’ll give it to you.” He said, almost as an afterthought, “What was it you were badgering Allen about? Did he see something as well? Let him give you a statement in my place.”

  “It doesn’t work that way, Miller.”

  Rutledge went to Quincy’s cottage and at first thought that Quincy might not open his door. But he did, saying, “The minders, those two constables in what was Brady’s cottage. What are they supposed to do? Arrest our killer as soon as he strikes again? They’re not fit enough to run a man down.”

  A hot, spicy aroma filled the air behind him, distinctly un-English.

  “They’re Hill’s men, here to keep the peace.”

  Quincy snorted. “Well, they’re a damned sight too late for Willingham and Brady. And if Brady did the killing, what are we in need of minders for, tell me that? It’s the fire setter who worries me.”

  “Early days yet, to be certain it was Brady.” His curiosity got the better of him. “What are you making?”

  “It’s something I learned to cook in Mexico. Chili with chocolate cooked in it. Not bad. I admit to homesickness now and again. At least for the food. I’ve grown fond of a bit more flavor than boiled cabbage and boiled potatoes and boiled beef. I gather you’re looking for something other than culinary lessons. And if it’s character references you want, Dublin will do.”

  “Have you told me everything you could? Or is your fear of your brother finding out you’re back in England locking up your tongue?”

  “I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you. I kept the cat when he wasn’t here. We spoke from time to time and that was it.”

  “He never gave you anything to keep for him, while he was away?”

  “Like state secrets, do you mean?” He grinned. “Hardly. He knew he couldn’t trust me for the simple reason that I put myself above all else. I’ve a comfortable life here, and I’m not interested in setting it at risk. The kettle’s on, if you want a cup of tea.”

  Rutledge followed him inside, and as Quincy worked, went into the room with the birds.

  “You were lucky the cottage didn’t burn down with you in it,” he told his host. “It was a near thing.”

  “And I haven’t got rid of the smell yet. Did you notice it? I expect that’s why I decided to make chili. I brought spices back with me when I came to England, and they’re running out. I need to find a way to stock them in again.”

  “Surely you left behind friends who could oblige you.”

  Quincy came back with the tea. “No, I didn’t. I burnt those bridges. I didn’t want someone showing up in England to surprise me. Here you are. What fascinates you about my birds?”

  “How you killed them, before you mounted them.”

  “That’s what Partridge asked me as well. Sorry to disappoint you, but I had others do it for me. I didn’t like that part of it. But birds live and die, either by the hand of a small boy with a slingshot or in the jaws of a predator stalking them on the jungle floor. I knew what birds I wanted, and I paid to have them brought to me. I’ve told you.”

  So he had. But Rutledge still had his doubts.

  Quincy said as he passed Rutledge sugar for his tea, “I borrowed the sugar from Allen, by the way. I knew you’d come calling again. All right, let’s look at the broader picture. If I’d killed Willingham and Brady, I’d have done it more efficiently. Taken my shotgun and seen them off quickly and with a minimum of fuss.”

  “And a maximum of noise.”

  “There’s that,” Quincy acknowledged. “But I’m not one for carving up my enemies with a knife. It’s a favorite weapon in Central America, but I never took to it. The same holds for why I didn’t kill these birds myself. I don’t have to feel guilty every time I look at them for how they may have died.”

  “Everyone here has secrets. You said as much yourself. I know most of them now, and none of them appears to be worth a murder. Much less two.”

  “Yes, well, there are secrets and secrets.”

  “And yours might be that if your brother demands that you leave England again, you don’t dare show your face in Central America.”

  Something flickered in his eyes, but Quincy said, “The world is wide, and there are other places to hide.”

  Hamish said, “He canna’ return. Or he wouldna’ ha’ risked coming home.”

  Rutledge smiled. “There are ways to find out if there are warrants out for your arrest.”

  “I’m not so worried about the police, damn it. There’s a family out for my blood and likely to have it if I’m not careful. It’s easy to hire an assassin where people are poor and desperate. I’d never know the face of my murderer until he was on me. And so I paid a few bribes of my own and got out.”

  It had the ring of truth.

  But that left Allen and Miller and Singleton. As well as Rebecca Parkinson.

  “Ye forgot the smith,” Hamish warned Rutledge.

  He had. Finishing his tea, he asked, “What secrets did Willingham have?”

  “That made him a victim? Who knows? If you caught the rough edge of his tongue, you might want to kill him on general principles.”

  Rutledge rose to leave. “But you were
nearly a victim as well. After Brady died.”

  “Yes. We might need to ask ourselves, what set something in motion that can’t be stopped? And that’s why I sleep with the shotgun to hand. If he comes in here, I’ll be ready for him.”

  It was an interesting remark, and it stayed with Rutledge after he left Quincy’s cottage.

  We might need to ask ourselves, what set something in motion that can’t be stopped?

  He climbed the hill and sat down on the chalk edge of the great horse’s foreleg.

  Secrets within secrets…Something set in motion that can’t be stopped.

  What had changed in this tiny hamlet of nine cottages over the past two years?

  Partridge had come to live here, and then Allen had unwittingly given him away to someone who passed the news of Parkinson’s whereabouts to Deloran. Brady had then taken over the cottage vacated by Miss Chandler, after her fortuitous “inheritance” from a cousin had allowed her to move elsewhere.

  That had covered what, the space of a few weeks or months?

  And after that, nine people had lived together in peace if not in harmony until Partridge went away and failed to come back.

  He’d have thought, Rutledge mused silently, that the first death ought to have been Brady’s. But Partridge had accepted his watcher and very likely proceeded to play with him by disappearing at intervals. Better the devil you know…

  Partridge’s death had stirred up something here.

  Or was it Rutledge’s appearance on the scene to find out where he’d gone and why?

  That was more to the point. Whatever Inspector Hill wanted to believe.

  Hamish said, “Else, someone came looking for what yon old lady had typed. When you didn’t find it.”

  But Rutledge couldn’t believe that Parkinson would have trusted anything of value to a curmudgeon like Willingham. Then again, why not? The least likely place might have been the most secure.

  That still wouldn’t explain Brady’s death, even if Brady had gone to search Number 3 while he thought Willingham was asleep.

  It all came round to what they’d seen the night Partridge vanished.