'Where do they come from? South America, I should think.'
'Most of these are from Central America. The one with what looks like a worm in his beak is a three-wattled bellbird. Over there is the crimson-collared tanager. He was one of my first successes. The odd one with the large eyes isn't an owl, it's the common potoo.' He seemed to enjoy naming his prizes. Dublin had slipped in behind the two men and was staring at the array of color. Indeed, it reminded Rutledge himself of a feathered rainbow.
Hamish said, 'My granny would say he's bewitched.'
'What took you there? An interest in these birds?'
'Good God, no. I hardly knew one species from another. I went there to hire myself out as an engineer on the construction of the Panama Canal. The first try, the one that didn't succeed. In the end most of us came down with malaria or yellow fever, and we hardly knew what we were about.'
'But you stayed.'
'I stayed because there was nowhere else to go. I trekked through jungle looking for ruins and gold. I climbed volcanoes and dragged myself through caves. I reasoned that the Spanish couldn't have found it all. But they must have done. All the gold I saw was on the high altars of churches, great mountains of it, ceiling to floor. Nothing like it in England. I just stood and stared at the first one I came across. I worked for a time translating invoices and bills of lading for a coffee plantation outside a place called Antigua, then moved on to manage a banana company's plantation on the Caribbean coast. It wasn't a life I'd recommend.'
Rutledge said as Quincy reached out to smooth the wing of one of his specimens, 'With that background, you must have been in demand.'
'Oh, it wasn't as exciting as it may sound,' he went on dryly. 'Sometimes I guided people coming out to look at land. I learned to use a foot loom in a village on the side of a volcanic lake. Atitlan, it was. Whatever came to hand. By that time I was drunk most of the day and all of the night, and finally I went to see a shaman, to find a way to sober up. Saint Maximon, they called him. Only it wasn't a man, it was a lump of wood draped in shawls and wearing a black hat. They'd told me he was wise. I brought cigars and wine and a watch I'd stolen, as gifts. The room was dark, filled with incense and smoke, and I thought I'd suffocate before my turn came. The man who interpreted for him-it-told me that my salvation was in the colors of the rainbow. I thought him as mad as I was.'
Satisfied that all was well with the bird, he added, 'Then I remembered the birds, and the more I thought about them, the more the obsession grew. I went back into the jungle for them, and up and down the coast, and climbed into rain forests and sailed down rivers, looking for them.'
'What did you intend to do with them? Bring them back to a museum?'
Quincy laughed. 'Hardly that. No, I tell you it was an obsession. I just wanted them. And then one day I realized that they were all dead. Not flying about, not mating, not bringing up their young or foraging for food. They were dead. And I never touched another drop of whisky. I was stone-cold sober, and I had this enormous collection of dead things in my house, and I realized I wanted to go home. I sold most of them, kept these to remind me, and came back to England against all the odds.'
'And so the wise man's prediction that your salvation lay in a rainbow was right. After a fashion.'
'I don't know if it was his prediction or my liver. But I kept these to remember where I'd come from. And I've never killed anything since.'
It was a remarkable story. How much of it had actually happened?
'Did you know Partridge before you came here to live?'
'Never clapped eyes on him.'
It rang true, but Rutledge wasn't sure whether he believed Quincy or not. He thought, he's very likely a remittance man. Someone the family pays well to stay out of the country, where his behavior won't embarrass them. It would behoove him to lie if it meant trouble for the family.
And therefore the question might be, what had Quincy done before he left England that had to be hushed up?
But Rutledge said nothing of this, listening as Quincy rattled off the names of his precious birds, interspersing that with the story of his years in Central America.
It was as if the man had dammed up the past for so long that the pressure had been building behind it, the need to talk that sometimes made lonely people garrulous.
And Quincy seemed to realize this in almost the same instant, ushering Rutledge out of the room, picking up Dublin and taking her with him as he shut the door on his collection.
'Pay no heed to me,' he said, trying to cover his lapse. 'They were my salvation, those birds, and I'm fond of them.'
'Back to Partridge,' Rutledge said, and thought how appropriate the name was, in this house. 'I think it's time I spoke to someone in his family. There was a young woman, and you suggested she might be his daughter.'
'She favored him, although she was fair instead of dark. I have no idea where she lives. He didn't open the door to her when she came. From that you might reach the conclusion that there is no warmth between them.'
'Does she live in Uffington, do you think?' It was the nearest town.
'I've never seen her there, but of course that's not proof of anything.'
'I've also been told that he'd lost his wife.'
Quincy's brows rose. 'Indeed? Well, that could well explain why he's reclusive. And for all we know, when he disappears he's visiting her grave.'
'I appreciate the help you've given me.'
Quincy walked with him to the door. 'What had friend Partridge done, to get himself murdered? He'd gone missing before.'
'If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn't be here questioning his neighbors. He's an enigma. We know very little about the man.'
'You might speak to Mr. Brady, then. He's shown an inordinate interest in Partridge and his whereabouts on previous absences. Most of us here try to keep our private life private, but when Brady came, he asked questions. It wasn't well received, I can tell you. And he's a nosy sod, sitting by his window day and night as if there's nothing better to do.'
Not so much a helpful suggestion as a touch of revenge on Quincy's part?
'I'll bear that in mind.' Rutledge was on the threshold when another thought struck him. 'When is the post delivered here at the cottages?' He had seen no letters in Partridge's house, but that was not proof that none had come.
'In theory, around nine. But we seldom receive any mail, you see. Lepers don't. Nor do we write to anyone. Or if we do, it's posted in Uffington.' His voice was suddenly bitter, as if this were a reminder of how completely he'd been cut off from his family.
He shut his door almost on Rutledge's heels.
Rutledge looked at the neat half circle of cottages, and thought to himself that murder could be done here, and no one would know except the other residents, and they would refrain from summoning the police until the smell of decay overwhelmed them.
He considered calling on Brady, but decided that this was not the time. As Quincy had pointed out, he'd already spoken to Slater and Mrs. Cathcart. Everyone was prepared for a visitor now. Better to let the matter appear to drop.
But there was a man standing in his front garden, watching Rutledge leave Quincy's cottage. If Rutledge had kept to his original itinerary, Number 3, between Partridge and Brady, would be the next cottage to be visited. And it seemed that the owner was outside, prepared to confront the interloper in their midst. His expression was hostile.
Rutledge was of two minds about the best approach, but the matter was taken out of his hands.
'What is it you want?' the man called to him. His voice was tense, as if his concern outweighed his caution. 'Who are you? You were hanging about before, I've seen you.'
Rutledge walked toward him, covering the distance in unhurried strides.
An elderly man, tall and slightly stooped. Rutledge guessed his age to be seventy. Still vigorous, but already beginning to feel the tug of Time.
'My name is Rutledge,' he said, the folder ready as he chose his opening. 'I'm looking for Mr. Partridge.
