While Slater was preparing the tea, Rutledge watched his deft, sure movements, big hands handling the tea things with the same ease as he handled his tools.
The cup Slater offered him was thin porcelain, with cabbage roses around it. The man could have crushed it like eggshell, and it was lost in the large, callused hand.
'How is work on the silver teapot handle faring?' Rutledge asked, to open the conversation.
'Fancy you remembering that,' Slater answered, his face brightening. 'It's very well. Polish it and I'm finished.'
'I hope the church is pleased.'
There was a bitter smile now. 'I'm told I charge too much.'
'Who tells you that?'
'The sexton. He says he could have done it at half the cost.'
'Could he?'
'I doubt it. But he's one who opens his mouth and doesn't care much what harm he does with what comes out.'
'Tell them I've offered to buy the teapot myself. For twice the cost of repairs.' He couldn't stop himself from saying it. Or cursing the sexton for his callous cruelty.
Slater looked at him. 'What do you want with a teapot? It's not yours to start with. It belongs to the church service.'
'Yes, it does. And I'll make a gift of it back to them, so that it stays where it should.'
'You're mocking me.'
He had got off on the wrong foot unintentionally, and Hamish was already telling him as much. But Rutledge said, 'I'm mocking no one. You showed me that teapot, and I think the sexton is wrong. Good work deserves good pay, and I for one recognize that.'
'Well. It's not your problem. It's mine. What have you come for?'
'To show you a sketch, if you don't mind.'
'Of work you wish me to do?'
'Sorry, no. I'd like to ask if you recognize the person in the sketch. I'm looking for this man.'
There was instant hostility. 'What's he done, then?'
'Nothing that I'm aware of. But friends are anxious about him. I'd like to put their minds at ease.' If Deloran could be considered any man's friend…
'You're being fair with me?'
'Actually, I've told you the truth.'
'Why do you think I might know him?'
'Look at the sketch first. And then I'll give you the answer to that.'
He lifted the folder from the table and opened it.
Slater looked down at it, but his eye went first to the quality of the drawing. 'It's well done, this sketch. Who made it?'
'A young man in Yorkshire. He takes as much pride in his work as you do in yours.'
'And so it's a good likeness.'
'We hope it is.'
Slater didn't need to study the face on the paper. He said at once, 'Yes, I know him. As you know very well I do.'
'Who is he?'
'It's Mr. Partridge.' Slater looked up. 'He's dead, isn't he?'
The certainty of identification was what Rutledge had been expecting, but not the conclusion that Slater had drawn from the face in his hands.
Yet it was too easy. Deloran must surely have realized that, armed with the sketch, sooner or later Rutledge would learn who the dead man in Yorkshire was.
'He couldna' be sure you would come back here,' Hamish answered the thought. 'He's used to being obeyed.'
'Why do you think Mr. Partridge is dead?' Rutledge asked the smith, but he already knew the answer. Slater worked with his hands, he had a feeling for skill and observation and how to translate that to whatever he was creating. And it was true, the likeness caught something that perhaps the living man had lost.
'Because it's a good likeness, that's why. How could it be this good from memory?'
'The artist might have used a photograph.'
'No, I don't think he did. He saw the man. And Mr. Partridge isn't here, is he? Hasn't been for a bit. And you were here earlier, looking for him, weren't you? Somehow I have a feeling he's dead.'
'But how? And where?'
Slater shrugged. 'Ask a policeman to answer that for you.'
'I am a policeman,' Rutledge said slowly. 'Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard.'
There was a pause. Then Slater said, 'You have lied to us.' More than the words, his tone of voice and his face conveyed the sense of betrayal and dislike.
'I wasn't here as a policeman. I was here to see if there was an explanation for a man leaving his house and not coming back within a reasonable length of time. His motorcar and his bicycle are here. But he isn't. People don't disappear as a rule. When they do, there's always someone who wants to know why.' Even as he said the words, in his mind's eye he could see the bland face of Martin Deloran as he figuratively washed his hands of Gaylord Partridge. 'No, that's a lie as well,' Rutledge went on. 'I don't think, in the end, they really cared, these people, whether Partridge lived or died. What worried them was that he wasn't where he was supposed to be.'
'He has a minder. Why should they send you here?'
'A minder?' He had suspected as much. But hadn't expected confirmation.
'I'm not a fool,' Slater said, 'even though people believe I am. He drinks, does Mr. Brady.'
'The man in Number Four?'
'The first time Mr. Partridge went missing, he was beside himself. He'd got very drunk that night and passed out in his front garden. I put him to bed, and in the morning he must have thought he'd managed it alone. I never told him otherwise. He took his field glasses up the hill with the Horse, and searched everywhere. Even in the Smithy. But Mr. Partridge came home again, and all was well. Mr. Brady stayed sober for several weeks afterward, then went back to his drinking.'
'Where do you think Partridge went?'
'It's his own business, isn't it? If he'd wanted me to know, he'd have told me.'
'Still, if he's dead, it's no longer his business. It's a matter for the police.'
'He didn't die here. How could any of us be responsible?'
'How do you know where he died?'
'I don't. But if the sketch was made in Yorkshire, then it must be that he died there.'
Simple Slater might be, but stupid he was not.
'A good point. But the fact is, we don't know where he died. His body was found in Yorkshire. Hence the mystery. And the concern.'
Slater shook his head as Rutledge finished his tea. 'I've nothing to do with this. I'm sorry he's dead, he wasn't a difficult neighbor, though I didn't know him well, but I had nothing to do with his death.'
Rutledge set his cup aside and stood up. 'I didn't expect you had. But you're a man with clear eyes, and it was important to ask you. Thank you for the tea.'
He took up his sketch and walked to the door.
As he was opening it, Slater, behind him, said, 'I'd not ask the man in Number Seven about the sketch, if I were you.'
Rutledge turned. 'Why is that?'
Slater said, 'Whenever I see him, I feel the darkness in him. I try to stay out of his way.'
'I'll remember that. Thank you.' And with that, he closed the door.
Slater had identified the sketch, just as Rutledge had expected. Moreover, he believed the smith. What he needed now was information of a different kind. And for that he chose to call on Quincy next.
Quincy wasn't at home-or at least failed to answer his door-when Rutledge knocked. And so Rutledge moved
