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It was dark when he reached The Smith's Arms. Rutledge left the motorcar in the yard, then walked down to Wayland's Smithy. It was a far better place to leave an unwanted body than an abbey cloister in Yorkshire.
Who had decided that it was time Parkinson should die? That's what it all came down to. Not where the body was left, but who had chosen to end one man's life now. It was useless to speculate, but who had become the bedrock of the case.
The heavy stone slabs that had created this ancient tomb caught his attention, and he thought about the numbers of men it would have taken to build this place for a dead chieftain or priest.
We spend our energies in different ways, he thought, standing there. How many aeroplanes and tanks and artillery caissons had it taken to end the Great War? Not to count the rifles and helmets, respirators and machine guns, the number of boots, the tunics and greatcoats and the tins in which we had brewed our tea or the casings of the shells fired. A nation's fortune surely, greater than any man possessed in the centuries since this tomb was new and raw and the dead shut into it was still honored by those who had carried him here.
It was depressing to think about.
There was always a new weapon, something to kill greater numbers of the enemy than the enemy could hope to kill on one's own side. Parkinson must have been more than a pair of hands in the work he was doing on poisonous gases. Men like Deloran wouldn't have wasted an hour's thought on the whereabouts of a minor chemist who carried out tests and wrote reports. The housekeeper had said that Parkinson was pleased with something new that would help end the war sooner. Had he left with that work unfinished or at a critical stage?
If that had been the case, someone would have moved heaven and earth to get Parkinson back into the laboratory as quickly as possible.
Had he discovered a conscience when his wife died and decided that he was finished with what had always been his life's work? Had he been frightened by the man he'd become, and walked away?
Rutledge brought to mind the face in the sketch, and tried to probe behind it.
All he could find was an ordinary man, despite what he had done in his laboratories, nothing in his features to mark him, nothing that could have caught one's eye on the streets of London or Canterbury, nothing that would reflect what this person had chosen to do with his life. Neither evil nor good, just a man with no calluses on his hands and no scars, no means of telling him from a half-dozen others his size and weight and coloring.
Then what had happened to him if he was so ordinary?
Rutledge turned back toward the inn and asked Mrs. Smith if he could have his dinner brought to his room. After eating it by the window, he went on sitting there in the darkness even after the yard was silent and the road in front was empty.
Trying to picture Jean's face, the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand, he found it was difficult. He had loved her, or believed he had, and grieved for what might have been when the engagement ended.
Now, with her death, a door had closed. She was the last link with the bright summer of 1914, and happiness, and a world that was going to be his to grasp.
After a while he got up and readied himself for bed without lighting the lamp.
He had expected to lie there awake, listening to Hamish in his head. In the morning, he would go to the cottages and find out who might have wanted the death of one Gerald Parkinson, or if they had wanted to kill Gaylord Partridge.
Instead he'd drifted into sleep without dreams.
Best-laid plans have a way of going astray.
Someone was knocking on his door before the first light of dawn had penetrated his room, summoning him urgently.
He fought his way back from a deep sleep and answered.
Smith said, his voice husky, "There's been trouble at the Tomlin Cottages. You'd best come."
16
Rutledge dressed swiftly, asking questions as he worked. But Smith knew nothing more. In the lobby he found Slater standing there, pale and agitated. "What kind of trouble?" he asked the smith. "I don't know. I heard a cry. And after that, nothing." "From the Partridge cottage?" "There? No. Please hurry!"
Rutledge went at once into the yard and Slater followed, going to the bonnet and bending to turn the crank with his massive hand. Smith was calling after them, "Shall I come as well?" "Not yet. You may be needed later."
He got behind the wheel, and Slater slid into the other seat, a hulking shadow in the light of the innkeeper's lamp. "Which cottage?" Rutledge asked. "Mr. Willingham's. Number Three, just above Mr. Partridge." The old man, then.
They drove the short distance to the cottages in silence, but Rutledge could feel the anxiety in the man at his side, and reaction setting in.
"I didn't investigate," Slater said as the cottages came into view. "I've never heard anything like that. I fear there's murder done, Mr. Rutledge. Sure as God's above."
"Can you be certain he wasn't calling for help? Taken ill suddenly in the night-a fall?"
But he knew it must be more than that, to frighten Slater so badly. Slater walked the night and was of a size that brooked no interference. It wasn't fear that had shaken him, it was something closer to a primordial response to horror.
Slater said nothing, hunched in his seat, willing the motorcar to move faster.
They arrived at the cottages soon enough, and Rutledge left his motorcar beside the smith's door, rather than destroy any tracks or other evidence nearer Willingham's.
He reached for his torch, closing his eyes from habit because it was in the rear where Hamish sat. Groping he found nothing, and then suddenly his hand touched the torch, as if Hamish had pushed it nearer. He flinched, then gripped the cold metal, turning toward the cottage.
The windows were dark, the door closed, nothing to mark forced entry, but the question was, did Willingham lock his doors of a night or leave them off the latch?
Rutledge started toward it, and Slater made to follow him. Rut- ledge held up a hand. "No. Wait until I call you."
Slater argued, "You may need help. I'm stronger than you."
Rutledge said, "Then better to be outside than in."
The door was indeed unlocked. Inside, Rutledge's torch seemed to pierce the darkness like a spear. He moved it without moving himself, until he had a feeling for the furnishings and the shape of the room. It was very similar to other cottages he'd been in, but the placement of chairs and tables was different.
The sitting room just beyond the door showed no signs of disturbance. A rug before the hearth, a chair to one side, a shelf of books on the other. A small table by the window, with two smaller chairs, and a footstool by the winged chair under the lamp. An empty glass rested on the stand next to it, with a book open beside it.
The kitchen, tiny even by cottage standards, was tidy, but a stack of plates and cups stood waiting to be washed, while pans soaked in the sink. Guests for dinner, or was Willingham in the habit of washing up once a day?
The bedroom lay above the kitchen, and on the threshold Rutledge found splotches of blood, black in his torch's beam.
He stopped, flicking his light around the room.
Beyond, between the tall chest and the bed, Willingham lay on his side on the bare wood of the floor. His eyes were wide and empty, reflecting the light. Rutledge didn't need to cross the room to know that he was dead.
The bedroom still held a presence, malice and fear, as if the strength of the emotions that had ended in death still lingered. But there was no one else there.
Rutledge, used to scenes of violent death, quickly surveyed the bedroom, digesting what there was to see.
There had been a struggle-bedclothes pulled free and left trailing across the floor, the lamp broken and the oil spilling into a chair, soaking darkly into the green brocade upholstery. The nightstand was overturned as well.
Angered to find an intruder beside his bed, Willingham had apparently been galvanized to put up an energetic defense.
Walking into the room, Rutledge coul
d see a slash on the left wrist and a knife, of the kind used to joint chickens, deep in Willingham's chest.
Stubborn and cantankerous to the end, Willingham had not died easily, and the killer must have suffered a shock.
Rutledge went down on one knee by the body. The cut on the wrist wasn't right, somehow. Not the sort of defensive wound he'd have expected to find. On the hands, perhaps, or on the arms, fending off the final blow, but not straight and deep into the wrist.
With that wrist wound alone, Willingham would have bled to death. The killer could have held him down in bed until it was over. Perhaps that had been the plan, to make this attack look like an old man's final retreat from a lonely and despairing life. Instead, it had been necessary to end the struggle violently before there was another outcry.
Hamish was saying, "I canna' see what this has to do with Partridge."
"I-"
He broke off as a footstep grated on the threshold, and flashed his light in that direction, tensing for an attack. Slater was outside, but the killer might still be within.
Just at that moment, someone said, "Mr. Rutledge? Where are you? Are you all right?"
Slater had followed him, contrary to orders. The torch's beam struck him full in the face, making him blink and duck his head.
Damn the man!
"Go back outside," he commanded sternly, and Slater hastily withdrew, moving quickly for such a large man.
Flicking off his torch to avoid attracting attention from the neighboring cottages, Rutledge followed him.
"I saw him. Willingham's dead, isn't he?"
Rutledge said quietly, "Take my motorcar and drive into Uffing- ton. Ask the sergeant on duty at the police station to send someone here. Preferably an inspector. Tell them only that there's been a murder and someone should come at once."
Slater repeated, "He's dead then?"
"Yes. There's nothing we can do for him now."
Slater nodded and turned to walk back to the motorcar. Then he paused and said, "You'll be safe here alone?"
"I expect I will be. Thanks."
The smith nodded and was gone.
Rutledge stood there watching the first fingers of rosy light-rosy- fingered dawn, Virgil had called it-spread from the eastern horizon toward the road.
As he had so many times in the trenches, when dawn had broken softly without the guns or the whistles or the shouts of men going into battle, Rutledge heard himself quoting O. A. Manning aloud. Hamish had been fond of the lines as well.
The first reaches of light out of darkness,
Pink with new birth,
And then gold,
Like apricots on silk,
And the morning was here.
The earliest riser, the man in Number 5, had stepped out his door and was staring in Rutledge's direction.
"What's that? Is there anything wrong?" Singleton asked. "The old man hasn't taken ill, has he?"
"I've sent for the police. They'll be here shortly."
"I thought you were the police."
"The local people, then. It's their patch."
Singleton nodded. "Die in his sleep, did he? I always thought his heart would send him off. Choleric old fool that he was."
"How well did you know him?"
He shrugged. "How well do any of us here know one another? It's a morning greeting, a nod in passing, a good night before we shut our doors. And in the end, only what we can see from our windows."
And the windows of Willingham's cottage had a clear view of Parkinson's.
They also looked out on Mrs. Cathcart's, and on Number 7, the man Miller's door.
Mrs. Cathcart opened her door a little, as if by recalling her name, Rutledge had summoned her spirit.
"Good morning, Inspector. Is something wrong with Mr. Willing- ham?"
"Do either of you know if he had a guest for dinner last night?"
"I shouldn't think so," she answered. "He was alone last evening when I saw him working in his garden. He seemed well enough then."
Singleton said, "I don't think I've ever seen anyone enter or leave his cottage."
They stood there awkwardly, uncertain what to say, watching Rut- ledge to see if he would tell them what was wrong.
Quincy came out his door, and Dublin ran ahead of him, released for a day of hunting.
"What's up?"
"It's Mr. Willingham," Mrs. Cathcart replied. "Mr. Rutledge has sent for the police."
Quincy disappeared inside his door and shut it firmly.
Allen was next to stick his head out. His face was pale, drained, as if he'd slept ill.
"Anything wrong?" he asked, nodding to Mrs. Cathcart. "Can I help?" A coughing spell sent him almost to his knees, but when it had passed, he said again, "Can I help?"
"There's nothing anyone can do," Rutledge replied.
"Then I'm for my bed again. Not at my best in the mornings."
He shut his door and they could hear him coughing again.
"He shouldn't be out at this hour," Mrs. Cathcart was saying. "The dampness…"
After a moment she herself went back inside, as if staying there and making conversation was more than she could cope with.
Singleton remained, standing with folded arms. Rutledge could see Brady's face at his window, staring with bleary eyes at the two men. Soon afterward, the sun's rays turned the window to brilliant gold, and Rutledge couldn't be sure if Brady was still there or not.
He had seen most of the residents now. Curiosity had got the best of them in one fashion or another, this break in the dull routine of their lives making them more willing to interact than they might have done otherwise.
Miller had yet to appear, but he could be a late riser, unaware of what was happening.
After a long while, Slater was back with a slim, dark man beside him in the motorcar.
They left the car by the road and walked toward the Willingham cottage.
"What's this?" the man said. "I'm told someone is dead."
"And you are…"
"Hill, Inspector Hill. You must be Inspector Rutledge."
They shook hands, and Rutledge began to point out his observations, but Hill said, "No, let me." He held out a hand for Rutledge's torch and went inside the still dark cottage.
After a time he came out again. By then Singleton had walked back to his house. "You were right to send for me. Any witnesses?" He looked in Singleton's direction, then focused his attention on Rut- ledge.
"None that I've found so far," Rutledge answered.
"Yes, well, if he was killed at night, who would notice? Although Slater here tells me he was awakened by a cry."
They turned as one to look at the other cottages.
"I've not had much call to come here," Hill said. "Peaceful enough little community. No problems."
"Until now."
"Until now," Hill agreed. "Slater didn't enter the cottage?"
"He came as far as the bedroom door. I sent him back out again."
"Well, if it were he who did the deed, the struggle would have been shorter. Someone nearer Willingham's size, if not his age?"
"A startled man might fight with more strength than a frightened one."
"I agree."
Rutledge gave Hill a quick overview of the other inhabitants, ending with Partridge. "He's not been seen for some time. The general view is that he's been away."
"And what," Hill asked, his eyes sharp on Rutledge's face, "has brought the Yard to our doorstep?"
"I'd been asked to learn what had become of Partridge. By interested parties. He left without telling anyone where he was going or when he'd return."
"I see. Very well. I'll take over here, if you please. No thoughts on who might have had it in for Willingham?"
"None. And I doubt you'll get much out of his neighbors. They haven't been very forthcoming about Mr. Partridge."
"Yes, well, a man going about his own business is one thing. I'll have a chat and see if murder might sharpen their memories."
Why would the killer try to make the old man's death appear to be a suicide? To silence him without creating a stir on the heels of Parkinson's murder? Willingham's windows looked down on the Partridge cottage at Number 2. Had he seen something he shouldn't have? Then why wait this long to dispose of him?
Hamish said, "It would be as well to wait until yon inspector went on his way before asking too many questions."
Rutledge was about to answer when he heard Mrs. Cathcart quietly call to him. Inspector Hill was busy questioning Slater, his back to them. She said, "Will you come and tell me what's happened? I'm afraid."
He turned to reassure her, and instead seized the opportunity offered him.
She let him in her door and shut it quickly.
"Mr. Willingham is dead," he said, stepping into the sitting room. "Did you know him well?"
"Oh, poor man! I don't think any of us knew him at all. He kept to himself. Was it illness?" She shivered. "I shouldn't like to die alone. But it's likely I shall."
"I'm afraid he was murdered, Mrs. Cathcart."
That shook her badly. "Murder? By whom? Why? Oh my God."
"It was most likely a personal matter, Mrs. Cathcart. There's nothing for you to fear."
"But his cottage could easily be confused with mine. It's happened before. A letter to me was taken to him by mistake. He kept it for a fortnight before he handed it to me. And another time, someone looking for me knocked at his door. What if the murderer thought he was coming into my cottage?"
She was genuinely disturbed, he could see it in her face.
"I don't think-" he began again, and she put a hand on his arm to stop him.
"No, you don't know my husband! He'd do anything to be rid of me. He lied to the court, he told them I was a terrible woman, unfit to be a mother, and he divorced me. He paid people to prove what he said was true. He kept the children from seeing me again and turned them against me. My son was killed in France, and I never knew he had enlisted. He was just a boy, and I never said good-bye to him."