washed, while pans soaked in the sink. Guests for dinner, or was Willingham in the habit of washing up once a day?
The bedroom lay above the kitchen, and on the threshold Rutledge found splotches of blood, black in his torch's beam.
He stopped, flicking his light around the room.
Beyond, between the tall chest and the bed, Willingham lay on his side on the bare wood of the floor. His eyes were wide and empty, reflecting the light. Rutledge didn't need to cross the room to know that he was dead.
The bedroom still held a presence, malice and fear, as if the strength of the emotions that had ended in death still lingered. But there was no one else there.
Rutledge, used to scenes of violent death, quickly surveyed the bedroom, digesting what there was to see.
There had been a struggle-bedclothes pulled free and left trailing across the floor, the lamp broken and the oil spilling into a chair, soaking darkly into the green brocade upholstery. The nightstand was overturned as well.
Angered to find an intruder beside his bed, Willingham had apparently been galvanized to put up an energetic defense.
Walking into the room, Rutledge could see a slash on the left wrist and a knife, of the kind used to joint chickens, deep in Willingham's chest.
Stubborn and cantankerous to the end, Willingham had not died easily, and the killer must have suffered a shock.
Rutledge went down on one knee by the body. The cut on the wrist wasn't right, somehow. Not the sort of defensive wound he'd have expected to find. On the hands, perhaps, or on the arms, fending off the final blow, but not straight and deep into the wrist.
With that wrist wound alone, Willingham would have bled to death. The killer could have held him down in bed until it was over. Perhaps that had been the plan, to make this attack look like an old man's final retreat from a lonely and despairing life. Instead, it had been necessary to end the struggle violently before there was another outcry.
Hamish was saying, 'I canna' see what this has to do with Partridge.'
'I-'
He broke off as a footstep grated on the threshold, and flashed his light in that direction, tensing for an attack. Slater was outside, but the killer might still be within.
Just at that moment, someone said, 'Mr. Rutledge? Where are you? Are you all right?'
Slater had followed him, contrary to orders. The torch's beam struck him full in the face, making him blink and duck his head.
Damn the man!
'Go back outside,' he commanded sternly, and Slater hastily withdrew, moving quickly for such a large man.
Flicking off his torch to avoid attracting attention from the neighboring cottages, Rutledge followed him.
'I saw him. Willingham's dead, isn't he?'
Rutledge said quietly, 'Take my motorcar and drive into Uffing- ton. Ask the sergeant on duty at the police station to send someone here. Preferably an inspector. Tell them only that there's been a murder and someone should come at once.'
Slater repeated, 'He's dead then?'
'Yes. There's nothing we can do for him now.'
Slater nodded and turned to walk back to the motorcar. Then he paused and said, 'You'll be safe here alone?'
'I expect I will be. Thanks.'
The smith nodded and was gone.
Rutledge stood there watching the first fingers of rosy light-rosy- fingered dawn, Virgil had called it-spread from the eastern horizon toward the road.
As he had so many times in the trenches, when dawn had broken softly without the guns or the whistles or the shouts of men going into battle, Rutledge heard himself quoting O. A. Manning aloud. Hamish had been fond of the lines as well.
The first reaches of light out of darkness,
Pink with new birth,
And then gold,
Like apricots on silk,
And the morning was here.
The earliest riser, the man in Number 5, had stepped out his door and was staring in Rutledge's direction.
'What's that? Is there anything wrong?' Singleton asked. 'The old man hasn't taken ill, has he?'
'I've sent for the police. They'll be here shortly.'
'I thought you were the police.'
'The local people, then. It's their patch.'
Singleton nodded. 'Die in his sleep, did he? I always thought his heart would send him off. Choleric old fool that he was.'
'How well did you know him?'
He shrugged. 'How well do any of us here know one another? It's a morning greeting, a nod in passing, a good night before we shut our doors. And in the end, only what we can see from our windows.'
And the windows of Willingham's cottage had a clear view of Parkinson's.
They also looked out on Mrs. Cathcart's, and on Number 7, the man Miller's door.
Mrs. Cathcart opened her door a little, as if by recalling her name, Rutledge had summoned her spirit.
'Good morning, Inspector. Is something wrong with Mr. Willing- ham?'
'Do either of you know if he had a guest for dinner last night?'
'I shouldn't think so,' she answered. 'He was alone last evening when I saw him working in his garden. He seemed well enough then.'
Singleton said, 'I don't think I've ever seen anyone enter or leave his cottage.'
They stood there awkwardly, uncertain what to say, watching Rut- ledge to see if he would tell them what was wrong.
Quincy came out his door, and Dublin ran ahead of him, released for a day of hunting.
'What's up?'
'It's Mr. Willingham,' Mrs. Cathcart replied. 'Mr. Rutledge has sent for the police.'
Quincy disappeared inside his door and shut it firmly.
Allen was next to stick his head out. His face was pale, drained, as if he'd slept ill.
'Anything wrong?' he asked, nodding to Mrs. Cathcart. 'Can I help?' A coughing spell sent him almost to his knees, but when it had passed, he said again, 'Can I help?'
'There's nothing anyone can do,' Rutledge replied.
'Then I'm for my bed again. Not at my best in the mornings.'
He shut his door and they could hear him coughing again.
'He shouldn't be out at this hour,' Mrs. Cathcart was saying. 'The dampness…'
After a moment she herself went back inside, as if staying there and making conversation was more than she could cope with.
Singleton remained, standing with folded arms. Rutledge could see Brady's face at his window, staring with bleary eyes at the two men. Soon afterward, the sun's rays turned the window to brilliant gold, and Rutledge couldn't be sure if Brady was still there or not.
He had seen most of the residents now. Curiosity had got the best of them in one fashion or another, this break in the dull routine of their lives making them more willing to interact than they might have done otherwise.
Miller had yet to appear, but he could be a late riser, unaware of what was happening.
