Together the two men, one of whom didn't exist, went back to the flat.
15
Frances was waiting, as she'd promised.
She said as he came through the door, 'The Yard sent someone. You are to come at once.'
Rutledge swore silently. There was never any time…
'Yes, I'll go. Shall I give you a lift home?'
'As far as Trafalgar Square, if you don't mind. Ian-are you all right? Do you want me to call the Yard and ask them to give you an hour or two?'
'Work,' he said bitterly, 'is its own panacea. But thanks.'
He stopped long enough to change clothes. And then he shut the flat door behind them as he led the way to his motorcar. He couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before he crossed his threshold again without remembering the news that had been waiting here today.
Frances kept him busy with trivial gossip until he put her down in the square, and she leaned across to kiss him before she got out.
He watched her walk briskly in the direction of St. Martin's in the Fields, and then turned toward the Yard. He hadn't mentioned seeing Simon Barrington. It hadn't seemed the right moment, and then too important to be a parting remark.
It was Simon's business and none of his, after all. As long as Frances wasn't hurt. But he thought she was going to be.
His eye was caught by a familiar figure walking toward him along the street. It was Meredith Channing, dressed in a becoming dark red coat and matching hat. She didn't look his way, but he could have sworn she had seen his motorcar and recognized it as quickly as he had recognized her.
Bowles was waiting for him at the Yard and almost as he walked in the door asked abruptly for his report.
'There's no time to write it out, but I want to know what's going on.'
Rutledge gave it orally, as Bowles stood fuming by the window.
When he'd finished, Bowles grunted, and Rutledge couldn't tell whether he was satisfied or still irritated. It was often difficult to read the man's moods.
'Stepping on toes is never prudent. I want you back in Berkshire tonight. I want to see the end of this business with Partridge or Parkinson or whatever his name is. Finish it as fast as you can, and report to me. Yorkshire is complaining we're playing merry hell with their inquiry, and giving them damn all in return. They still have that godforsaken body, and don't know what to do with it.'
Rutledge was as eager to leave London as Bowles was to send him away. But he said, 'If I get too close to the truth, Deloran will be knocking at your door, complaining.'
'And that's when I'll know you're doing your job. Get on with it.'
Rutledge had been driving for three days, but he said only, 'I'll be leaving within the hour.'
Somehow the road west seemed longer this time. But in the end Rutledge saw the familiar shape of the White Horse galloping silently across its grassy hillside. He drove on, passing it, then stopped in the darkness to look up at it.
What had it seen, this chalk horse? Why had it brought Parkinson here, and why had he died in Yorkshire, and not in Berkshire?
He got out and walked a little way up the hill. Somehow it seemed peaceful and comforting. The horse had been there since time out of mind. Rutledge squatted in the dew-wet grass and studied the dark, silent cottages.
Hamish said, 'No one wants this dead man.'
'Except to use him,' Rutledge answered aloud. 'A convenience. Sad, isn't it? The cottages are the end of the road for most of the people down there. A place to grow old and die without fuss. Did death come looking for Parkinson, or did he go out to find it?'
'It's a long way to Yorkshire fra' here.'
There was movement below. Rutledge could just make out the smith coming home. He slowed for an instant, as if he sensed being watched, then walked on toward his door.
A curtain twitched in Brady's cottage, a sliver of lamp light flashing briefly and then vanishing. The lane was quiet again.
Rutledge was content to sit here on the hill and listen to sounds of the night. His mind was tired, and even the puzzle of Parkinson's life and death failed to interest him. It could wait until tomorrow.
A cat-Dublin?-trotted across the open space between Quincy's cottage and Mrs. Cathcart's. A dog barked in a farmyard a long way off, the sound carrying without urgency.
For a moment Rutledge wondered why he had ever chosen to become a policeman and deal so closely with death. And he knew the answer even as he posed the question. It was still the same as it had been at eighteen, when he'd told his father that he intended to join the metropolitan force when he came down from Oxford. Tired he might be of death, yet he was still here to speak for the dead. Only it was proving more difficult to speak for Parkinson. It was possible, he thought, that Parkinson didn't want anyone to learn the truth about him. That he would be glad to lie in an unmarked grave and be forgotten.
Then, without warning, as if it had been busy this last quarter hour without his knowing it, his mind offered Rutledge a solution to the puzzle of Gerald Parkinson.
He had been working on the theory that the man had had something to hide, like the other residents of the Tomlin Cottages. And perhaps it was true. But the overriding factor behind what had brought Parkinson here was guilt. A strong sense of guilt.
And that was where to begin, if Rutledge expected to unravel the puzzle of this man's life and his death.
Rutledge stood up and walked back down the hill, cranked the motorcar, and drove on to The Smith's Arms. It took him several minutes to wake Mr. Smith and bring him down to unlock the door.
'Back again, are you? Your room's empty, if you want it. We'll settle on that tomorrow.'
'Fair enough.' Rutledge thanked him and followed him up the stairs in the wake of his flickering lamp. As he opened his door, the room smelled of lavender and fresh air, as if the sheets had dried in the sun.
He undressed in the dark and went to bed. fter breakfast, Rutledge drove on to Wiltshire, a good two hours
Tomorrow he'd find out why guilt had changed Partridge's life. one way, then found again the turning for Partridge Fields, the house where Parkinson had lived.
Once more there appeared to be no one about as he walked through the gate, leaving his motorcar in the lane.
The sun was slanting through the trees beyond the house and long shafts of golden light barred the lawns and gardens. It was a tranquil scene, and he wondered again why Parkinson had preferred the cottages to this place.
He went around the house, through the gardens and the shrubbery that shut off the kitchen yard, listening to a silence broken only by a bird calling from the miniature dovecote birdhouse in the kitchen garden. Was no one ever here?
Moving on, he was just on the point of taking the stone path through to the far side of the house, when a shrill voice stopped him in his tracks.
Hamish said, ''Ware!' in warning, and Rutledge turned slowly.
'Here! What are you about?'
A plump woman wearing an apron was standing in the door to the yard, arms akimbo and a frown on her face.
'I didn't think anyone was at home,' he said in apology, 'or I would have knocked. My name is Rutledge, and I've come down from London-'
'I couldn't care less where you're from. What are you doing here? '
