by Charles Todd
Slater called to him as he was walking home from the village, and Rutledge went to meet him.
"You were wrong. Nothing happened last night."
But Hill had left a message earlier at the inn for Rutledge, saying that he'd collected a sample of handwriting from each of the surviving inhabitants, and the results were unclear. The message ended with "Whoever wrote this confession must have tried to emulate Brady's hand or, at the very least, tried to disguise his own. Hard to say which."
"Nothing happened," Rutledge agreed. "But why take the risk? I'm not convinced Brady killed anyone."
Slater looked up at the horse. "I spent much of the night thinking about Mr. Brady. If he'd killed Mr. Willingham, he'd have tried to bluff his way out. He was that sort. Good at making excuses."
"Perhaps the point was to kill Willingham, and see that Brady took the blame."
"Willingham was free with his tongue, I grant you. And he never cared who he hurt," Slater agreed. "And if that's what's behind this business, he invited his own death. He's called me a simpleton and witless often enough. But I'm used to it. I've been called names all my life. I can't kill every man or woman who hurts my feelings."
"The attempt to burn down Quincy's cottage was probably a sham, to throw us off the scent. The question is, did Quincy set that fire himself?"
Slater said, "They should all be burned down. They were never meant for us. But then I'd have nowhere to go."
He went inside and shut his door, a lost and lonely man who would always draw spite because he was different.
Hill arrived just then, and said, "There's been a development."
"I got your message."
"Yes, well, the doctor says now that Brady couldn't have killed himself, no matter how it was made to look. The angle of the thrust is wrong. He conferred with a colleague."
"So two murders, and an attempted one, if you count the fire at Quincy's. I was just going up to speak to Miller. Would you like to join me?"
Hill shook his head. "It's Slater I'm interested in. That man's got the arm to wield a knife like that, and whatever he says, I think he was pushed over the edge."
"I'd like to look through Willingham's cottage."
"My men have been thorough."
"I'm sure they have. It won't do any harm to add another pair of eyes."
"Go ahead. All you'll find will be the sketches. Constable Smith saw them before I did. Nasty piece of work, but it explains, doesn't it, why we were so ready to believe that Brady had killed the man."
"What sketches?"
Hill said with a grin, "Didn't you know? He took aim at all his neighbors. Quite Hogarthian, really. Still, he knew his way around pen and paper-"
But Rutledge was already on his way, swearing under his breath.
Hamish was pointing out that it wasn't his case.
Rutledge ignored him.
There had been a constable on duty the first day, but he was gone now. Rutledge let himself in, shutting the door behind him.
It wasn't hard to locate the sketches. They were in the desk drawer in a folder tied by string.
He unwound the string and brought out a dozen or more pen- and-ink drawings that were as vicious as any he'd ever seen. Each one showed one of the residents involved in a scene that was often crude and at the same time close to the mark. Singleton as a soldier, Miller in the dock and later standing by the hangman, Mrs. Cathcart drunk in public, Allen craftily using his illness for pity, Quincy paying ragged children to bring him his birds, Slater creating teapots without handles, offering them for sale at a market fair, the sign below them reading STOLEN FROM CHURCHES.
Partridge was there, wearing a mask that was what the artist must have seen as his true self. It was goatlike, the real man cringing behind it. Scapegoat? Only Brady was missing from the collection, presumably because he would have taken his sketch when he killed Willing- ham. only he hadn't killed anyone.
Rutledge stood there studying them. Hill was right, the draftsmanship was excellent, the content exceedingly vicious, and most certainly the work of a man who cared nothing for the feelings of others.
He was a recluse by habit and inclination. Charles Dickens might have used him for the model of half a dozen unsavory characters. Whatever had embittered him in his youth, he had slowly become a man to avoid. A nasty piece of work, indeed.
But had he created these sketches?
There was an imagination at work here that didn't fit Willingham as Rutledge had seen him. These had taken time to draw in such detail, and from Willingham Rutledge would have expected more dash and less drama. His temper flared too easily. These were secretive, closet vengeance, a pleasure taken in private, so that no one knew he'd been savaged on paper.
"A coward's work," Hamish said.
Quincy, for instance, could have taken pleasure in skewering himself and his neighbors. But there would have been more dark humor, Rutledge thought, not such earthy attacks, if it had been his hand holding the pen. There was no whimsy here.
Rutledge went on searching the desk, but couldn't find more of the paper that the artist had used nor the nibs that were necessary to carry out the design.
He went back through the drawings, remembering how Mark Benson had worked on the face of a dead man, the strokes, the intensity of concentration. Mrs. Cathcart was too emotional. Allen couldn't have killed either Willingham or Brady, no match for them physically. Slater worked with his hands, but not with ink or charcoal. It was a very different skill, a very different brain.
That left Singleton or Miller.
He considered the two men, then went back to the portrayal on paper. Miller in the dock. Yes, that went along with what Rutledge himself had suspected. It could be proved. The portrayal of Singleton was more like the recruiting posters Rutledge had seen at the start of the war-the Hun bayoneting innocent Belgian women and children and committing other atrocities. It had made excellent propaganda, men had volunteered in droves. And like most propaganda, there was not much basis in fact to support it. The emotional impact was all.
Hamish said, "He was trained to kill."
"So he was. But why should he attack Willingham or Brady, suddenly and without apparent warning?"
Rutledge put the drawings back in their folder and shoved them out of sight in the desk.
"We'll start with Mrs. Cathcart. Her cottage is near enough to have heard any exchanges."
She was reluctant to talk to him about Willingham. "He's dead, we should respect the dead."
"He was murdered, Mrs. Cathcart. There's a difference."
"There's that." She took a deep breath, then answered with a self- deprecating gesture. "He would say the cruelest things. I tried not to listen. He told me once that I was a self-centered woman with nothing to offer any man. That was when he was very angry because I'd had someone come and repair my roof. It was a noisy business, and he shouted at them to stop."
"And Quincy? "
"They got into a shouting match once, because Willingham called him a ne'er-do-well who had never worked a day in his life."
"Who else took the brunt of his tongue?"
"Mr. Miller, of course. Willingham called him a liar and a scoundrel, and said he should be locked up."
"What was that about?"
"I'm not really sure. Mr. Miller told Quincy it was because Will- ingham thought he'd seen Mr. Miller's photograph in a London newspaper. Some scheme to defraud. It was Mr. Singleton he annoyed the most, called him a toy soldier, a disgrace to the uniform. Mr. Singleton ignored him, but I saw his face, sometimes, and it would be twisted with his fury."
"Any truth to the charges?"
"I don't know. It hurts most when they're true, doesn't it? Hearing them shouted about like the town crier. I don't think anyone would have blamed Singleton if he'd taken on Willingham and beaten him until he took back every word." She flushed at her own vehemence. "I'm sorry, I could never like the man, though I wouldn't have wanted him killed."
"It might have
been the only way to stop him."
"Yes, there's that. A pity, wouldn't you say? But I thought it was Mr. Brady who'd killed Willingham. Why are you interested in the rest of us?"
"Making sure we've got the right man," he said, and thanked her.
Hill was waiting. "What was that all about?"
"Mrs. Cathcart had heard some of Willingham's shouting matches. Did you find the Brady sketch in his cottage?"
"No, but then he'd have burned it, wouldn't he? If he'd been guilty."
"I don't think Willingham drew any of them. There was no paper, no special ink, no pens in his desk. How had he done them without the proper tools?"
"Look, Rutledge, we're doing our best. If you want to point a finger, then get on with it. If not, leave us to our work."
"Start with Singleton. He and Brady were both in the army. There might have been something there. Singleton might not have known that in the beginning. Brady kept his past to himself, I should think. When the truth came out, Singleton might have thought that Brady knew more than he should."
"Singleton makes no secret about being cashiered."
"He didn't, did he? Perhaps it was too late when he realized he'd been better off keeping his mouth shut."
"Then why kill Willingham first?"
"Willingham irritated everybody. Kill two birds with one stone, and put the blame on Brady before setting up his death."
Hill glared at him. "You're not serious."
"Do you have any better suggestion? Go talk to him, but watch your back if you're going to make accusations."
Hill looked at the cottages, the way they were set out, to give each one maximum privacy. "Willingham could have seen anyone going into Brady's cottage, couldn't he? A good soldier would have taken him out, then launched his main attack."
Rutledge walked back to his motorcar and said as he took up the crank, "Good luck."
Hill was dragging his feet. "I'll ask the army for information," he said. "I've been wrong once already. I don't relish a second time."
"Your decision," Rutledge agreed, and drove off.
Hamish said, "He doesna' believe you."
Rutledge answered, "I think he does. He's just covering his back."
He turned the car and went to call on Sarah Parkinson, on his way back to London.
24
Sarah Parkinson was just leaving her house when Rutledge drove up. She was riding the bicycle today.
"Miss Parkinson-"
"No. Go away." She mounted the bicycle and pushed off, leaving him there.
Rutledge turned the motorcar and caught up with her, slowing his speed to a crawl to match hers.
"I haven't come to talk about your father."
"I'm uncomfortable being hunted this way. Is this what the police do, drive you to distraction until you can't sleep or eat or think?"
"Put your bicycle into my motorcar and I'll take you to your sister, or to Partridge Fields. Wherever you're setting out to go."
He could see her hesitate. She wasn't as skilled with the bicycle as her sister, and she had wobbled once or twice.
"I can manage very well, thank you."
"You can't. Get down before you're hurt. I swear, I won't ask you any questions on the way."
The front wheel jerked and almost threw her into a bank of late thrift, where the road narrowed a little.
Rutledge sped up and cut her off.
Getting out, he said, "You shouldn't be riding this in your state of mind. Go on, let me put the bicycle into the back. I've given you my word."
She stopped just inches from where he stood.
"I may be your enemy," he said gently, "but accepting a lift from me doesn't convict you of anything but good sense."
"I hate you, did you know that?" she said with some force, but when he reached for the handlebars she dismounted and let him have the bicycle. He set it in the back, more concerned about invading Hamish's space than anything else, his hands shaking as he maneuvered it to fit.
Hamish chuckled derisively, saying only, "When I'm ready to be seen, ye canna' hide."
Rutledge got back behind the wheel, his mind on Hamish, and nearly choked the motor.
Sarah Parkinson said tartly, "You're no better driver than I am."
She was goading him, and she'd succeeded, but Rutledge kept his promise, only asking where she wanted to go.
"To Pockets, my sister's house."
He took off the brake and set out. As they passed the cottages, she shivered, as if her father's death were still too raw a reminder.
He said nothing, letting the silence grow heavy between them. Finally Sarah Parkinson said, "If you will let me out a mile before her house, I'll pedal the rest of the way."
"As you like."
It was almost as if the silence accused her. Again she broke it first. "You weren't there when my mother died. You can't even imagine how we felt. And my father standing over her, after we'd summoned him, and saying that it had been a long time coming. Then why hadn't he tried to prevent it? Why hadn't he made her happier when it mattered?"
He didn't answer her.
"Sometimes in the dark while I'm trying to fall asleep I can see all of it again. People talk about nightmares, but this was real, and it happens over and over again until I'm half sick, my head aching, my mind struggling to forget. You have no idea what that's like. You must sleep well at night, duty done, and you have no idea what it's like"
But he did. He wanted to tell her that she was wrong, others suffered as she did, and that his hovering spirits were as fearsome as hers.
She must have read something of it in his face, for she snapped, "Oh, don't sit there, pretending you can't hear me."
"Then I'd have to ask you if you killed your father to stop your nightmares. If it helped at all, to punish him for what he'd done to your mother and to you. I'd like to know. I can't kill my ghosts, you see. I left them all on the battlefield in France."
She stared at him. "You were in the war?"
"I was in France, yes." He fought to get himself under control. "It was worse than anything you can imagine. Worse, even, than finding your mother dead. And it went on for four years, relentless, without respite. And there was no one to kill except the Germans, and even that wasn't as easy as we'd thought. In the night sometimes you could hear them singing. Men's voices, homesick and as frightened as we were. And the next day you were firing at them, trying to make every shot count, and using your bayonet when you had to, and trying to stay alive one more minute, one more hour, and after a while, you didn't even care about that, only about not letting your men down, shaming them in the face of the enemy, trying to set a good example that they could follow. And the worst of it was, they trusted me, and I led them to slaughter as surely as if I'd been the judas goat at an abattoir. If you want to compare nightmares, Miss Parkinson, you've chosen the wrong man."
She sat there stunned, her face pale, and her hands shaking in her lap, the gloves she wore bicycling clenched into fists to stop it.
"You see, your righteous defense of your mother is all very well. But if you killed your father, you are a murderer as surely as any other murderer in the dock. Your excuse may seem important to you, but it never is enough. Death is a very final solution, Miss Parkinson, and no matter how you try to excuse it, if you took a life without provocation, you will hang as surely as the man who killed two people back at the cottages. No better, no worse. The same."
He suddenly realized that he'd lost track of where he was, where the motorcar was heading. The darkness through which he'd spoken began to recede and nothing was familiar, nothing as it should be. But then he recognized the tower of a distant church and knew he was on the right road.
Miss Parkinson was opening her door. He braked quickly to keep her from falling out into the road.
"I'll take my chances with the bicycle," she said, tears on her face. "I should never have trusted you to keep your promise."
Rutledge said, "You were the first to speak, if
you remember. You were the one who said I didn't understand."
"It doesn't matter. I've had enough," she said, getting out as the motorcar came to a stop.
"Go look at yourself in your mirror, Miss Parkinson. And ask yourself if your mother will be avenged by letting your father be buried in a pauper's grave. It will be on your soul and not hers, if that's what you do."
He brought out her bicycle for her and set it on the road.
She took it, mounted, and pedaled off, her shoulders hunched, her head down.
This time he watched her go, not making any effort to stop her again.
Hamish said, "It wasna' well done."
"I think I'll stay here a while, and see who comes back. Sarah Parkinson or her sister."
He pulled the motorcar to the verge, staring across the fields at the rooftops of the next village, trying to interest himself in the people there. But all he could think of was what he'd said to the young woman disappearing in the distance.
It was all true. But who was he to judge her? Who was he to set his torment against someone else's and make comparisons? He'd known Sarah Parkinson for a matter of days. It wasn't his place. It wasn't his duty.
He waited some time, thinking she might come back this way. It was useless trying to talk to Sarah when her sister was present and he could see no point in continuing on to Pockets to confront the two together.
Rutledge drove back to the inn, abandoning his decision to drive to London. He couldn't remember the last meal he'd eaten, but he wasn't hungry.
Upstairs in his room he stood by his window, looking out at nothing that was visible.
Hamish said, "What if you're wrong about Singleton?"
"Then I'm wrong. The drawings were not Willingham's style. I'll stand by that."
"Aye. But of the lot, there's the man with the birds."
"There is. If I'm wrong about Singleton, then I shall have to look at Quincy more closely. It isn't his style either."
"Ye're no authority on drawing. There's a darkness in him."
It was true. He'd grasped his jeweled treasures in desperation, and he kept them with him because they were a talisman, in his eyes. Without hope, men go mad…
