by Charles Todd
Rutledge looked at Bowles. “You know none of this is true.”
“I don’t care if it’s true or not. I’m not going to fight him or I’ll be brought down with you. I’ve told him that you went to Berkshire against my advice and I wash my hands of you.”
“You told me that the Yard doesn’t take orders. That murder was murder, wherever it occurs.”
“So I did. It was a mistaken belief. You’ll take your medicine like a man and not cause more trouble. That’s an order.”
Rutledge stood there, hearing what Bowles was saying. If you think Deloran is a bad enemy, drag me into this and you’ll discover what kind of enemy I can be.
Rutledge took his time replying. “I understand,” he said, and left the room.
This time Bowles didn’t stop him from going.
He walked out of the Yard and debated bearding Deloran in his den. But it was no use.
He went back to his flat. The mail had arrived in his absence, and he looked through it quickly before dropping it on the table by the door. And then he went back again to the large manila envelope that he’d glanced at and passed over. The return address was Slater, Andrew, Tomlin Cottages, Uffington, Berkshire.
He turned it over in his hands several times before opening it.
Hamish said, “Ye ken, he tried to tell you.”
And I ignored him, Rutledge answered.
He set the packet on his desk and went into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea, then changed his mind and came back to take it up again.
Inside there was no letter of explanation. Only a sheaf of paper that Miss Chandler had taken such pride in typing.
Rutledge read through it, following the chemistry as best he could.
Here was Parkinson’s new discovery, with the admission that he hadn’t completely worked out the formula to his satisfaction.
Another gas, this one deadlier than anything used in the war.
Rutledge saw Rebecca Parkinson’s face, and then thought about Deloran’s retribution for defiance.
By rights these pages should go to Deloran. For some reason Parkinson hadn’t delivered them himself. Because of his wife’s suicide, two years ago? Instead he’d had them typed, then had deliberately given them to Slater to keep for him, where Brady couldn’t find them. And Slater had kept them faithfully until he knew for certain that Partridge was dead. Then he had passed them on to the only person he trusted.
Hamish said, “He’ll be pleased, will Deloran. Ye’ll be given your promotion after all.”
Rutledge considered that.
Still holding the pages, he went into the kitchen, struck a match, and over the sink burned them to ash.
Parkinson knew what was in these sheets, and still he’d withheld them. It was enough for Rutledge.
Hamish said, “That was no’ wise.”
“It isn’t a matter of wisdom.” He watched the ash cool and turn gray-white. “Or spite. I’ve killed enough men to last me a lifetime.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
It is a fact that most of the gas stockpiled until the 1950s was based on the World War I models. But in World War II the Germans were on the brink of new types of poison gas that were far more lethal than anything used in the trenches. And the Allies were quick to scoop them up and see where they led. We’ve been cursed with variations of them ever since.
Was it possible, scientifically, to be close to the same formulas as early as 1917? The answer is yes, that a clever mind accustomed to playing with poisons from around the world could have stumbled over something that didn’t disable armies, it killed them fast and in great numbers. The amazing thing is not that it was possible then but that it took thirty years, once the can of worms was opened at Ypres.
Of course, early attempts might also have led to another dead end. Who can say?
The what-ifs of history can be fascinating.
About the Author
CHARLES TODD is the author of nine Ian Rutledge mysteries—A False Mirror, A Long Shadow, A Cold Treachery, A Fearsome Doubt, Watchers of Time, Legacy of the Dead, Search the Dark, Wings of Fire, and A Test of Wills—and one stand-alone novel. They are a mother-and-son writing team and live in Delaware and North Carolina, respectively.
WWW.CHARLESTODD.COM
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ALSO BY CHARLES TODD
A Test of Wills
Wings of Fire
Search the Dark
Watchers of Time
Legacy of the Dead
A Fear some Doubt
The Murder Stone
A Cold Treachery
A Long Shadow
A False Mirror
Credits
Jacket design by James L. Iacobelli
Jacket illustration by Michael Trevillion/Trevillion Images
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A PALE HORSE. Copyright © 2008 by Charles Todd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition November 2007 ISBN 9780061748936
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