was searching for.
But when he drove into the center of Westbury, he had no doubt that he'd made the right guess. He not only found the marketplace but the exact building facing him in the late afternoon sun.
He had had no lunch and missed his tea as well, but he pressed on.
The main problem to solve now was how to go about proving he was right.
If he went to the police station, there would be questions. He wasn't ready for them. For that matter, what could he say? That he was giving his imagination free rein in a case that didn't exist? At least, not officially.
If he began asking about a man called Partridge in the shops, gossip would spread like wildfire. Perhaps to the wrong ears.
And the post office had rules.
That was still the best place to begin.
He arrived just in time to see the elderly man behind the grill putting up a sign.
CLOSED.
Rutledge called to him, and he reluctantly set the sign aside, mouth turned down, eager to be off to his late tea and comfortable chair.
Behind him on the floor lay a large, nondescript dog. Clearly both companion and bodyguard, because he lifted his head to stare up at Rutledge, sniffing the stranger's scent. Satisfied that all was well, he lowered his head to his paws once more and sighed, for all the world commenting on the delay in departure.
'The name's Rutledge. I've come down from London to find a Mr. Partridge. We haven't been able to reach him, and I wonder if you can tell me whether or not he's moved.'
The postmaster regarded him sourly. 'Moved, you say?'
'Yes. It's the only explanation we can come up with.'
'I don't know of a Mr. Partridge hereabouts.'
He reached for his sign again, but Rutledge said quickly, 'I think we have the name right. I have a sketch here, perhaps you'd be willing to look at it?'
'What do you have that for?' The man's tone was suspicious.
Rutledge brought up the file without answering the postmaster and opened it.
'That's not Mr. Partridge.'
'I thought you said Mr. Partridge didn't live in Westbury.'
'I never said that. I told you I didn't know of a Partridge hereabouts.'
'Then how can you be so certain this isn't Partridge's likeness?'
'Because it isn't. I just told you.'
Rutledge was losing patience.
'Quite,' he said. 'Then perhaps you know the name of the man in this sketch.'
'I do.'
'Will you kindly direct me to his house?'
'You never told me why you have a drawing of him.'
Rutledge had never been so tempted to take out his identification and tell the postmaster that this was police business and none of his. 'I expect that's a family matter. No one could find a recent photograph.'
'Then you should have said so.'
'I should like to find Mr. Partridge this afternoon, if that's possible.'
'I told you he wasn't Mr. Partridge.' The postmaster's expression was smug. He was quite enjoying being bloody-minded.
'Who, pray, is he?'
'That's Mr. Gerald Parkinson, and he doesn't live in Westbury.'
'Parkinson? Where does he live?'
'Between here and Dilton.'
'Get to the point, if you will. Where shall I find him?' Rutledge's mounting anger must have shown in his face or his voice. The dog lifted his head again and stared.
The postmaster said, 'Here, now, there's no call to be rude. Follow the main road south, and halfway to Dilton, there's a turning to the left. Take that for three miles, and you'll see the gates of the house.'
'Thank you.'
Rutledge turned on his heel and left. He took ten minutes to find himself a sandwich and a cup of tea, and then, blessing April's longer evenings, drove south out of town.
He found the turning, no more than a lane and not clearly marked, as if it led nowhere in particular. But it was reasonably well made, indicating traffic, and he passed first one and then another house-neither with gates- whose windows were golden in the early evening sunlight. The next house was surrounded by a low wall with a pair of white posts and a graceful white gate where the drive came down to the road. The gate was firmly shut.
There was a placard set into the right post, bronze, he thought. It said PART RIDGEFIELDS in elegant script.
Rutledge stopped the motorcar, and Hamish startled him as he spoke.
'You will no' trespass.' It was the British outrage at a stranger's encroachment. 'The gate is closed.'
'But apparently not locked. I'll walk up to the house and knock at the door, as any guest would. All very civilized.'
Hamish was silent. Rutledge opened the gate and started up the drive. As in the other houses on this lane, tall shrubs lined the way, cutting off a view of the house. But when he reached the end of the plantings, he found himself in a circular drive before a Georgian brick house. There was a semicircular portico held up by slender fluted columns and a black paneled door reached by three shallow steps. He went up them, lifted the brass knocker, and let it fall.
It seemed, as he stood there, that it echoed through an empty house beyond, and no one answered the summons, though he stood there for a good five minutes, waiting.
He went down the steps and looked up at the shining windows, wondering if someone was there, looking down at him. Then he turned to his right and started around the house. There was a terrace on this side, French doors leading down to a French-style garden of roses and perennials. Beyond the garden was a square shrubbery of boxwoods, and he could see wrought-iron benches and a stone fountain inside the small sheltered garden they created. Inside the bowl of the fountain was a horse, head to one side, tail and mane flying. It was a lovely thing, but no water splashed over it. The fountain was dry.
He went on to the back of the house, and saw that the kitchen door was shut. No signs of servants going about their duties, the kitchen garden more than a little overgrown compared to the formal plantings, and the outbuilding doors were barred.
The house, for all intents and purposes, was closed up.
Rutledge came back to the French doors and stood with his hand shielding his forehead, trying to look inside. Dust sheets covered the furnishings, and even the small chandelier was swathed in what looked to be a pillowcase.
Why had Partridge-Parkinson-left behind this jewel of a house to live in a tiny cottage in the middle of nowhere?
Hamish had had enough of trespassing. Rutledge turned to go, with one last look over the gardens. Someone kept them up, though not the kitchen garden, and came here often enough to see that no weeds marred the symmetry of the beds or weather damaged the plants. There wasn't so much as a twig underfoot on the small well- mown lawns at the far side of the house, ringed by flowering trees. A croquet lawn? It was smooth enough for that. And a long pair of windows from what appeared to be a study looked out over the green carpet. There the draperies had been drawn and he could see nothing.
He took one last look at the house. It seemed to be standing there waiting for its owner, and if he was right, that the dead man in Yorkshire was Parkinson, then its owner could never come again.
Hamish said, 'He lost his wife.'
And that might have explained the man's exile-too many memories here to let him heal.
But it didn't explain his death.
Rutledge drove back to The Smith's Arms, too late again for his dinner. Mrs. Smith was waiting up for him, as if half afraid that he wasn't coming back, his account unsettled.
