After a long while, Slater was back with a slim, dark man beside him in the motorcar.
They left the car by the road and walked toward the Willingham cottage.
'What's this?' the man said. 'I'm told someone is dead.'
'And you are…'
'Hill, Inspector Hill. You must be Inspector Rutledge.'
They shook hands, and Rutledge began to point out his observations, but Hill said, 'No, let me.' He held out a hand for Rutledge's torch and went inside the still dark cottage.
After a time he came out again. By then Singleton had walked back to his house. 'You were right to send for me. Any witnesses?' He looked in Singleton's direction, then focused his attention on Rut- ledge.
'None that I've found so far,' Rutledge answered.
'Yes, well, if he was killed at night, who would notice? Although Slater here tells me he was awakened by a cry.'
They turned as one to look at the other cottages.
'I've not had much call to come here,' Hill said. 'Peaceful enough little community. No problems.'
'Until now.'
'Until now,' Hill agreed. 'Slater didn't enter the cottage?'
'He came as far as the bedroom door. I sent him back out again.'
'Well, if it were he who did the deed, the struggle would have been shorter. Someone nearer Willingham's size, if not his age?'
'A startled man might fight with more strength than a frightened one.'
'I agree.'
Rutledge gave Hill a quick overview of the other inhabitants, ending with Partridge. 'He's not been seen for some time. The general view is that he's been away.'
'And what,' Hill asked, his eyes sharp on Rutledge's face, 'has brought the Yard to our doorstep?'
'I'd been asked to learn what had become of Partridge. By interested parties. He left without telling anyone where he was going or when he'd return.'
'I see. Very well. I'll take over here, if you please. No thoughts on who might have had it in for Willingham?'
'None. And I doubt you'll get much out of his neighbors. They haven't been very forthcoming about Mr. Partridge.'
'Yes, well, a man going about his own business is one thing. I'll have a chat and see if murder might sharpen their memories.'
Rutledge left him to it. He told himself that what had happened to Willingham most certainly had nothing to do with Parkinson. And yet a niggling doubt crept in.
Why would the killer try to make the old man's death appear to be a suicide? To silence him without creating a stir on the heels of Parkinson's murder? Willingham's windows looked down on the Partridge cottage at Number 2. Had he seen something he shouldn't have? Then why wait this long to dispose of him?
Hamish said, 'It would be as well to wait until yon inspector went on his way before asking too many questions.'
Rutledge was about to answer when he heard Mrs. Cathcart quietly call to him. Inspector Hill was busy questioning Slater, his back to them. She said, 'Will you come and tell me what's happened? I'm afraid.'
He turned to reassure her, and instead seized the opportunity offered him.
She let him in her door and shut it quickly.
'Mr. Willingham is dead,' he said, stepping into the sitting room. 'Did you know him well?'
'Oh, poor man! I don't think any of us knew him at all. He kept to himself. Was it illness?' She shivered. 'I shouldn't like to die alone. But it's likely I shall.'
'I'm afraid he was murdered, Mrs. Cathcart.'
That shook her badly. 'Murder? By whom? Why? Oh my God.'
'It was most likely a personal matter, Mrs. Cathcart. There's nothing for you to fear.'
'But his cottage could easily be confused with mine. It's happened before. A letter to me was taken to him by mistake. He kept it for a fortnight before he handed it to me. And another time, someone looking for me knocked at his door. What if the murderer thought he was coming into my cottage?'
She was genuinely disturbed, he could see it in her face.
'I don't think-' he began again, and she put a hand on his arm to stop him.
'No, you don't know my husband! He'd do anything to be rid of me. He lied to the court, he told them I was a terrible woman, unfit to be a mother, and he divorced me. He paid people to prove what he said was true. He kept the children from seeing me again and turned them against me. My son was killed in France, and I never knew he had enlisted. He was just a boy, and I never said good-bye to him.'
She began to cry, and he gave her his handkerchief. 'I'm sorry-'
But she went on, wrapped in her own despair. 'There's another woman now. I've seen their photographs in the newspaper in the last few months. What if she refuses to marry him, because she doesn't want the shame of a divorce in her family? It's quite a good family, they could object, and he'd not stop at having me killed.'
Rutledge took her arm and gently steered her into the sitting room, settling her in a chair. She was distraught, but when he turned away to bring her tea from the tray by the hearth, she clutched at him.
'I'm afraid to drink it now. What if someone slipped in and put something in the leaves? I'd never know until it was too late. I'll have to throw everything in the rubbish bin. I daren't trust my chances, don't you see?'
'Mrs. Cathcart, no one is trying to kill you. You've had a shock, that's all, and it frightened you. Mr. Willingham saw his killer. Whoever it was fought with him. There was no doubt that it was Mr. Will- ingham who was meant to die. This has nothing to do with you.'
She tried to stop shaking, her sobs choking in her throat. He went to the pot and felt it. Still quite warm. He poured a cup, drank from it, and said, 'You see, there's nothing wrong with your tea. Let me find you a fresh cup.'
He went into the kitchen, found a pretty white porcelain cup to match the one he'd used, and filled it. He added sugar and milk from the jug on the tray, then had to hold her hands around the cup to keep her from spilling it.
After a few sips, she sat back, a little steadier now.
'I've made a fool of myself,' she said, looking up at him in some embarrassment. 'I couldn't think of anything but dying alone and afraid in the night.'
'Why did your husband wish to divorce you?'
'He was tired of me. I wasn't exciting, the children mattered more to me than anything, and he was ambitious. He needed to be seen at parties and attend weekends in the country. He told me it was important to meet these people, that they could do so much for his career. He's a solicitor, you see, and wanted his own chambers. So he took away the only thing that mattered, and punished me for fighting him.'
She drank a little more of the tea. 'He's tried to do away with me. I'm convinced of it. I was on my bicycle, coming home from Uffing- ton, and someone ran into me and left me in the ditch. The driver never stopped, and it was Ronnie, I knew it was.'
Rutledge didn't know whether to believe her or not. But he sat opposite her, listening and offering what comfort he could.
She had been tormented to the point of convincing herself that her husband wanted her dead. And her son weighed heavily on her mind. She returned again and again to his loss, and the fact that she knew nothing of his death for months.
'Then someone sent me a cutting from the newspaper. Weeks old, the announcement of Harry's death circled in black. That was the letter that went astray, to Mr. Willingham. I think it must have been shoved under his door. There was no stamp on it. I wanted to kill myself when I read the cutting. And then I knew that's what he'd hoped I'd do. I wanted to die, but I wouldn't give him that pleasure, damn him.'
Rutledge said, 'Is there anyone I could bring to you? You're too upset to stay alone just now.'
She smiled, the hurt in her eyes very plain. 'I have no friends, Mr. Rutledge. They believed his lies and deserted me as well. 'Fair- weather friends' I call them. They couldn't withstand the storm. But it's kind of you to ask. I'll be all right, but I shall lock my door tonight and drag that table across it for good measure.'
