She said, 'There, you're in. I was just tidying up a little. I'll be off to bed, then.'
Saying good night, she mounted the stairs, and he looked into the bar before following her. It was already shut and dark.
He went up to his bed and stretched out fully clothed, too weary for more than that.
Why had Partridge-Parkinson-changed his name? To fit into his surroundings without attracting attention? But then that was the name that Deloran had given him too. Either Deloran was content to go along with Partridge's need for anonymity or it suited the War Office very well.
Who was he? What sort of man had he been before the spring of 1918? And what was it that had triggered this abrupt change in his life? Losing his wife, yes, that would account for much.
How had he made his living, to be able to afford a house of that size with well-kept gardens? Even if he was independently wealthy, he must have held some position during the war years. In industry, perhaps, or in some capacity with the military. Men with certain skills worked at code-breaking, others at perfecting aircraft and weaponry or translating documents. There was always a need for clever minds. Stage designers had turned their talents to creating camouflage patterns for ships and gun emplacements and even trenches as spotter planes flew longer sorties over enemy lines. The list was endless.
Was that why the army was concerned about his whereabouts? Had he worked in something that was still under wraps, and therefore his erratic behavior had drawn attention to the need to keep an eye on him? It seemed far-fetched.
This was April 1920. The war had ended in November of 1918. According to Mrs. Cathcart, Parkinson/Partridge had moved into his cottage in the spring of 1918. What might have seemed important in the waning months of the war when the outcome was still in doubt wouldn't explain Deloran's secretiveness now.
Rutledge gave it up and lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the night sounds, an occasional vehicle passing on the road, a dog barking in the distance, and then the sudden patter of rain on the roof.
The fine weather had broken.
It was still raining when Rutledge woke up in the morning. Sometime in the night he'd changed out of his clothes and gone to bed, only half awake as he fumbled with the sheets.
Mrs. Smith was serving breakfast when he came down, and he discovered just how hungry he was. The warm charger she set in front of him was demolished in short order, and he sat there drinking his tea and eating the last of the toast.
The door opened and the thin man-Will, wasn't it?-with whom he'd played darts earlier in the week stepped into the inn and shook the last of the rain off his hat.
He nodded a greeting to Rutledge and went to find Mrs. Smith. Rutledge could hear their conversation over the banging of pots and pans.
When he came back, he had a Thermos of tea in one hand and a cup in the other. He sat down at Rutledge's table with a polite, 'D'you mind?'
'Not at all,' he answered. 'Driving all night, are you?'
'More or less. The rain wasn't so bad at first, but by dawn it was heavier. I've stared at the road for longer than I like. It was coming to look the same, every curve and straightaway. Played darts since that night?'
'No opportunity.'
'If my mother hadn't taught me my manners, I'd wonder aloud what a man of your stripe is doing here at The Smith's Arms.'
'It's convenient.'
'To what?'
'To nowhere.'
The man smiled. 'I know when to stop. She taught me that as well.'
'I came here to solve a riddle,' Rutledge said. 'And it's not likely to be solved as easily as I'd hoped.'
'About the White Horse? There's a legend, you know. That on certain nights it comes down to the Smithy to be shod.'
'Indeed.'
'There's more than a few say they've seen it. But I reckon they were not as sober as they claimed to be. Are you here to keep an eye on us? The lorry drivers?'
Rutledge laughed. 'Hardly that. Should I be?'
'A man gets an itch between his shoulder blades sometimes and looks around to see who might be watching.'
'Watching for what? Surely you can't be smuggling this far inland?'
'Smuggling? No. The war put an end to that, as a matter of fact. Ships couldn't put in to a small cove and off- load goods there. Likely to find a submarine staring back at them as they up-anchored. Or a coastal warden coming to see what they were up to.'
He finished his tea and prepared to go. 'I'm off.'
'Ever see anything strange here at the White Horse? On nights you or your mates were driving through?'
Will grinned. 'Like seeing it come down to be shod?'
'No, more human agency than spectral.'
He shook his head. 'It's quiet through here, which is why some of us choose this way. Better time, with the roads so empty.' He walked to the door, then paused. 'I was told not long ago that a fair woman in a motorcar was stopped at the side of the road, and she was crying. Close by Wayland's Smithy. The driver drew up alongside her motorcar and asked if there was aught wrong. And she said no, she was fine. He drove on, but he told me later he'd seen that motorcar before, and it wasn't a woman driving then.'
'Where had he seen it?'
'Here. Outside the inn.'
'How long ago did this happen?'
The driver shrugged. 'A fortnight? More or less.'
'Interesting story.'
'I think it must be true. He's not the sort given to lying. He said she didn't look like a whore. Who knows? Since the war, they're bolder, aren't they? Not enough men to go around, like.'
And he was gone, his lorry roaring into life and rolling down the road, spray from the tires throwing up mud and muck like a brown bow wave.
Rutledge watched him out of sight.
Now he had a second report of a fair-haired woman in the vicinity of the Tomlin Cottages. Difficult to connect this one with the woman who had knocked at Parkinson's door. Still-it could mean that she'd come back to try again and encountered him along the road, where no one else saw the meeting. And the interview hadn't gone well.
Any query through Sergeant Gibson at the Yard about Parkinson's family would surely jangle tins on the wires that directly or indirectly reached Deloran. And then Deloran would have Rutledge back in London and on the carpet.
It was one thing to pursue a man who didn't exist. Quite another to look into the past of one who not only existed but was also safely dead.
What, then, were his choices?
Hamish said, 'Return to London.'
That made sense. He hadn't been able to contact Sergeant Gibson to see what had turned up about Henry Shoreham. And there was still the nameless victim on Inspector Madsen's hands to be officially identified. Not to mention the mystery of why Partridge or Parkinson had died in Yorkshire. The best place to draw these threads together was in London.
Hamish said, 'A man could bribe a lorry driver to take away a body. It wouldna' be the first time sich a thing was done.'
'If Partridge had been found by the road, I'd agree. But what lorry driver would risk carrying a dead man deep into Fountains Abbey's ruins, and setting him down by a cloister wall?'
'Ye ken, it would depend on how much the man was offered to take sich a risk.'
And if that was the case, the driver had long since vanished into a new life.
'There has to be some trace. Somewhere.'
He hadn't been aware he'd spoken aloud. Mrs. Smith stuck her head around the door and said, 'More toast,
