Perhaps you can tell me where I might find him?'
'Partridge, is it? I don't believe you. You never stopped at his door. First Slater, then Mrs. Cathcart, after that Mr. Quincy. But not Partridge. Not at all.'
'Yes, I'm afraid he's not there. That's why I didn't go to his door. Do you know him well, Mr…' He paused, waiting for a name.
'Willingham.' Grudgingly.
'Mr. Willingham. Do you know how I can find Mr. Partridge's solicitor? Or failing that, any of his family?'
'What are you selling?' Willingham eyed the folder.
'I'm not selling anything. This is a drawing-'
'Then why don't you go away and leave the rest of us alone? We don't trouble Mr. Partridge and we don't expect Mr. Partridge's visitors to trouble us.'
'Does he have visitors?'
'If he does, I don't stare out my window looking to see who they are. Now be off with you, Rutledge, or whatever your name is. We don't care for the likes of you here.'
'I'm afraid you'll have to put up with my presence, unpleasant as it may be, until you've answered my questions.'
'Then I'll summon the police and have you removed.'
'I am the police, Mr. Willingham. From Scotland Yard.'
Willingham stared at him. Then without another word, he turned on his heel and went inside his cottage, slamming the door in Rut- ledge's face.
For a man eager to summon the police, Hamish was pointing out, 'he was no' very happy to find one on his doorstep.'
'Interesting.'
Rutledge turned and walked back the way he'd come, climbing the hill of the White Horse and looking down on the cottages from the heights.
He wondered what Miss Tomlin would think of what had become of her charitable gift. She had considered it a sanctuary. And perhaps in a way it had turned out to be one after all.
But the question now was how to go about tracking down Partridge's daughter. Without going back to Martin Deloran and asking him for the information.
'He willna' tell you that,' Hamish warned him. 'It wouldna' be wise to ask in that quarter.'
Where had Partridge lived before coming here in the spring of 1918? What sort of work had he done, and where was his family?
There was the off chance his daughter might pay another call, but Rutledge thought it was unlikely after being turned away.
And so where to start?
If Sergeant Gibson at the Yard began making inquiries, it would attract attention in the wrong quarters.
Had Partridge been in the army? Was that Deloran's interest? He could have been drummed out for reasons even the army preferred to keep quiet. And that might explain the watcher, Brady. Whatever toes Partridge had trod upon, they were still very sensitive about what had happened. Better to let him die and be buried in Yorkshire as an unidentified victim of murder than bring the whole matter up again.
Did Partridge know about the watcher? Had he cared?
Was Gaylord Partridge, for that matter, his real name?
It was the first time Rutledge had considered that, although looking at Quincy's birds, he had been amused by the coincidence of 'Partridge' and an aviary. Perhaps this man had thought so as well, and on the spur of the moment, rechristened himself? It wouldn't be long before Brady reported the new name to London.
It would also explain why Deloran had felt so certain that it was safe to send Rutledge to Berkshire-it wasn't likely he'd learn more than he should know, while he was searching for 'Partridge.' And now, even if the other residents identified the face in the sketch as Partridge, that was as far as Rutledge could take the matter. Meanwhile Yorkshire would soon see the missing man into a pauper's grave. And there would be the end of it.
Gaylord Partridge would no longer be a problem for the War Office.
But he was still very much a problem for the police.
If Deloran had his way, the daughter would never be told what had become of her father. That might not matter to her now, but if there was a will to be sorted, in time her father's fate would become important legally.
Martin Deloran be damned-Partridge hadn't walked back to that cloister on his own, there was someone else involved. And whether the man died by accident or was killed, Rutledge was determined to get to the bottom of what had happened. If there was a murderer somewhere, who could say if he'd killed before this, or if he would kill again?
11
Where to begin a search? The only information Rutledge had at his disposal was the small photograph on the dead man's desk.
He had no way of judging who the man and boy were, or even if one of them was Partridge. The photograph was not clear enough to tell. For all he knew the two people in it were close friends or even cousins. The possibilities were endless.
And yet-out of everything he might have owned before coming to this place-Partridge had chosen to bring only one personal possession with him: a framed photograph. It had mattered to him in some fashion to have it there.
Where then was the square in which the photograph was taken? Not in Uffington, Rutledge thought, ruling it out immediately. None of the houses there resembled that background.
'Anywhere in England,' Hamish pointed out gloomily. 'No' sae verra easy to find fra' what could be seen in yon photograph.'
True. There were Georgian houses in Kent, to start with.
'the day we climbed the white horse…'
But not every market square in England possessed Georgian houses and a white horse cut into chalk that could be climbed on the same day as the photograph was taken in the town.
All right then, the second bit of evidence in hand. If the inscription was to be trusted.
What else was unique about this white horse, where he was standing? For one thing, it was the only one galloping with such elegant strides across its hill.
Most of the others he knew about looked more like cart horses.
What else, then?
Legend claimed that in the ninth century King Alfred had ordered this horse carved out of the hillside. It was, in fact, Iron Age workmanship, but the legend persisted.
There were any number of white horses in Wiltshire-it was famous for them.
Rutledge went down to his motorcar and dug maps out of the pouch on the door. He'd bought the set to serve him on walking holidays. Later he'd found it helpful driving.
He spread out the sheets for south England, found Salisbury Plain, and began running a finger up and down the adjacent squares in an orderly search, starting from the right.
When he came to the eastern boundaries of Salisbury Plain, he found a place to begin.
Westbury. The Bratton White Horse.
Which-legend said-King Alfred ordered to mark a victory over the Danes.
He had never been to Westbury. Did it have Georgian houses in its market square? It had been a wool town in its day, and made gloves as well, which meant there was money enough for handsome buildings to mark its success.
He shoved the maps back in the pouch, got out to crank the motorcar, and set off to the west, bearing south, stopping only for petrol. Along the way he scanned other town squares, but he saw nothing that would fit what he
