mourn him, then?'
'A good question,' Rutledge answered.
'I can tell you Mrs. Cathcart is taking it hard. And so is Mr. Allen. Death came too close last night for his comfort.'
'And the others?'
'Miller doesn't give a damn about any of it. If we all dropped dead in our shoes, he'd probably be pleased. Mr. Brady is trying to make himself very inconspicuous. He was drunk as a lord before he went to bed last night, and I doubt he'd have heard the angels' chorus after that. But he doesn't want it known to the world.'
'Did Mr. Partridge have better luck with Willingham? Did they talk, do you think?'
Slater shook his head. 'Where's a beginning for friendship? I expect I spoke with more of my neighbors than anyone else. I'm too thick to notice when I'm being ignored. Besides, I'm lonely sometimes.'
'No one ever came to call on Willingham?'
'If they did, I never saw them. Mrs. Cathcart is afraid someone might visit her. That's sad.' He looked down at his large hands, lying idle on his knees. 'I wish I hadn't grown so. But there's nothing I can do about it. Just as she can't help being afraid. And I don't know if Quincy is his first name or his last. I never feel right, calling him 'Quincy.' Mr. Allen is dying, and there's no one to comfort him. I expect he doesn't want to be comforted. There's something stoic in that. Mr. Partridge had demons, and didn't know how to rid himself of them. And Singleton wants to be a soldier still. You have only to look at his carriage and how tidy he is. Hair clipped short, clothes immaculate. Mr. Brady is tormented too, because this isn't where he most wants to be. And Mr. Miller is the strangest of the lot, because I think he wants to be here.'
It was an intriguing summation of the inhabitants of the leper cottages. Sometimes, Rutledge thought, a simple man saw more directly into the heart than one who was burdened with the sophistication of social behavior.
Slater got to his feet. 'You won't let them arrest me, will you? I don't want to be taken into Uffington and put in a cell, with everyone staring at me. I think I'd go mad, locked up, and tell the police anything just to be let go. Even lies.'
He went back down the stairs heavily, like a man carrying an enormous burden. Outside he turned to the Smithy, not back the way he'd come. It was odd how he seemed to find comfort and even acceptance there.
Slater hadn't been gone five minutes when Hill came looking for Rutledge.
He said, seeing the door open into Rutledge's room, 'I'd like to have your statement now, if you please.'
Rutledge turned to the desk and picked it up. 'It's ready. I wanted to put it on paper while my memory of events was still sharp.'
Hill took it and scanned it. 'Fair enough. Any thoughts on who might have done this murder?'
'I leave that to you. But I will say, if I were in your shoes I'd be no closer to an answer.'
'You were right, they're a stubborn lot. Won't come to the door, won't say more than yes or no when they do, and no one has seen anything. Granted, it was in the middle of the night, but I have the feeling that not much happens in those cottages that the rest of them don't know. I could feel the window curtains twitching like a palsy, eyes watching every move I make. Fairly gave me the willies, I can tell you. But if I had to pick one of that lot, it would either be the smith or the ex-soldier. Did you know he'd been cashiered from his regiment for dereliction of duty? Some years ago. That's the story I was given, anyway.'
'By whom? '
'One of my men had seen him about and heard something of the sort. I'll look into it, find out if there's any truth in it. As far as I can tell, there's nothing missing from the dead man's cottage. So I have to rule out housebreaking. Although that might have been the original plan, come to think of it.'
'Willingham's wrist was slashed,' Rutledge said neutrally.
'Yes, probably while fighting off his killer. You saw for yourself how the room was wrecked.'
'You don't think someone was trying to make the death appear to be a suicide?'
'No, no. Too preposterous. I talked to the man who calls himself Quincy. Seems a levelheaded sort. He thinks this murder is connected with Partridge's disappearance. He predicted they'd all be killed in their beds if I'm not quick.'
'Willingham by all accounts was an unpleasant man who had probably made himself a pariah long before he came to the Tomlin Cottages. His murderer could have come from his past.'
'I'd considered that too, and will be looking into it.' He'd been standing leaning against the doorframe, nonchalant as if Rutledge's opinion carried no weight with him. He straightened, preparing to go.
But Hamish believed his coming to the inn was a fishing expedition.
Rutledge tended to agree with that summation.
'You'll be returning to the Yard?' Hill asked from the head of the stairs. 'I'm of the opinion your man Partridge is dead. That's Mr. Brady's view as well.'
'I expect he may be right,' Rutledge answered.
'Well, at least I have a body to be going on with. That's more than you can say-so far.'
He turned and ran lightly down the stairs.
Rutledge watched Hill leave the inn and walk briskly back the way he'd come.
In the afternoon, he drove back to Pockets, to speak again to Rebecca Parkinson.
She was there, in the house. He could sense it. But she refused to answer his knock.
He tried to sense how she had responded to it-whether she was stock-still, waiting for him to go away, or hiding behind the stairs, where she couldn't be seen. Or lying on her bed, looking at the ceiling, telling herself that she didn't care.
And he found himself wondering if Meredith Channing, if she were standing next to him under the overhang of thatch, would have been able to tell him if he was right.
Unwilling to leave, Rutledge waited in his motorcar for over an hour outside the house. But it was a stalemate. He couldn't go in, and she couldn't come out.
Finally he gave up and drove away. The house at Partridge Fields drew him, and he went there to sit in the gardens for a time. This time the house felt empty, and he knew there was no one inside. He was about to leave when a motorcar turned in the gates and followed the drive round to the kitchen yard.
He realized it must be Rebecca Parkinson, and he walked swiftly toward the shrubbery, to catch her before she had gone inside.
But she must have seen him, or perhaps glimpsed his vehicle where he'd left it, behind a shed. She gunned the engine, swung the vehicle in a circle to turn it, tires spewing gravel and earth as they bit for a grip, and then sped away down the drive before he could stop her.
He stood there, winded from dashing after the motorcar, and swore.
It was useless, following her back to Pockets. By the time he retrieved his own motorcar and started after her, she would have a head start, enough to be safely inside again before he could get there.
But he was angry enough to try, and drove after her anyway, flying down the lane in her wake.
When he got to Pockets, there was no sign of the car or of Rebecca.
He realized that she must have expected him to follow her and instead of going directly home, as he'd anticipated, she had foxed him again and disappeared.
Rutledge drove back to Berkshire, his mood dark, and found the inn full of drivers stopping for dinner or the night.
Avoiding them, he went directly to his room. Tomorrow he would call Gibson again and see what, if any, information he'd come up with.
In the event, it was very little. Although Hill had been right about Singleton. He'd been cashiered from his regiment but not for dereliction of duty. He had lost his temper once too often, and been asked to resign after he'd struck a fellow officer.
The reason for the argument wasn't clear, but Gibson believed it was the excuse Singleton's commanding officer had been looking for.
Mrs. Cathcart's nasty divorce had been as bad or worse than she'd told Rutledge. Her husband, in Gibson's view, had set out to make her life wretched, and succeeded beyond his wildest expectations. After the divorce, he'd cut her off without a penny, and she had had to scrape a living as best she could. The rent at the cottages was cheap enough, and she had inherited just enough from an aunt to live there frugally.
