Rutledge kept his eye on the Brady cottage, saw the rain running hard off the roof and cascading onto the path and spreading out into the garden, only trickles at first, and then tiny lakes that came together and separated as the wind pushed them back.
By the time Inspector Hill came dashing in from the motorcar, his hair shining with rain, the shoulders of his coat dark with it, the clouds were thinning, the worst of the cloudburst passed.
He shook himself like a dog as he crossed the threshold, and said, 'All right, I'm here. I'll deal with Brady. The rest of my men are following.' He looked up into Rutledge's face and said, 'You seem to bring death in your wake.'
'You have it the wrong way round,' Rutledge answered mildly.
'Too bad the rain has washed away any sign of footprints along the walk. But there may not have been any if we've got a suicide. Still, better safe than sorry, keep an open mind and all that.'
'I looked, before I left the cottage. It was hard to pick out any print in particular. Too much traffic.'
Hill grunted. 'I hope the rain is finished before we go inside there. As it is, we'll be tracking in half the garden.'
'Where's Slater?'
'He's still in your motorcar. I think he's half afraid I'm about to arrest him on the spot. Early days yet. I don't know whether to take it as a sign of guilt or just his way of looking at things.' Suddenly he could hear himself speak. The rain had stopped. 'All right, I'm off. You'll stay here?'
It was more a statement than a question.
He went out and splashed quickly up the lane to Brady's cottage, stopping on the threshold for a time and then disappearing inside, shutting the door behind him. He was in the cottage for several minutes, his men collecting at the bottom of the lane, awaiting instructions. Then he hurried back to Slater's cottage just as the sun broke hazily through the thinning clouds.
In his hand, protected by his coat, Hill held what appeared to be the sheet of paper that had fallen from Brady's table. He came inside and offered it to Rutledge. Rutledge scanned the words written there. Willingham called me worthless and a disgrace. I don't stand for that from any man. I killed Partridge as well, patronizing sod that he was. I don't regret either of them. Find Partridge if you can. If you can't, you'll find me in hell. I won't hang, I've no taste for it. A knife is faster and cleaner. Bury me where you will. I don't care. It's over, and I'm just as glad.
There was no signature.
Rutledge looked up. 'Can you be sure this is Brady's handwriting?'
'There are papers and notes all over the floor, but whether they can tell us conclusively or not that this is his, I don't know.' He took the letter back. 'Looks as if Brady were keeping a diary. Dates and times scribbled down.'
Would Deloran wash his hands of Brady as easily as he had of Partridge?
Hamish replied, 'He willna' care to have it known that this was his man.'
Hill might believe what was in the note, but Rutledge did not. What struck him was the reference to Partridge, but no admission that the body had been left in Yorkshire.
Half a confession…
Hamish said, 'If Partridge's murder and Willingham's are solved sae easily, who will be best pleased wi' that?'
A very good question. Deloran for one.
And what about the two sisters?
Rutledge said aloud to Hill, 'Do you think Brady killed Willing- ham? I'm not sure I can accept the admission that he killed Partridge.' For one thing, Parkinson hadn't been killed with a knife.
Hill frowned. 'That's the problem. Where's Partridge's body? Brady must have taken it away.'
'Have you searched Partridge's cottage?'
'Not yet, but I'll see that it's done.'
'I'd like to be there when you go in.'
'I'm not certain-'
'It will be easy enough for me to obtain the necessary permission.'
Hill grudgingly agreed, then asked, 'What's this man Partridge to you? Did you have a suspicion that he's been murdered? Is that what brought you here in the first place?'
Rutledge chose his words carefully. 'My instructions were to discover where he could be found, if he didn't return in a reasonable period of time.'
'And he hasn't. Which may mean that what's on this sheet is the solution to your problems as well.' He was probing.
'If I'm lucky,' Rutledge agreed.
In the background, Hamish was reminding him that once more someone was using Partridge's disappearance for his own ends.
'I'll see to searching the Partridge cottage later in the day,' Hill went on. 'I'll set my men to asking the other cottagers when they last saw Brady. I doubt it'll be much use to me, but there you are. Has to be done.' He rubbed his chin, as if something were on his mind, then thought better of speaking of whatever it was. 'All right then. The doctor is on his way. The question will be whether or not Brady could have used that knife on himself. And after that I must ask myself why, if we had no inkling that he was involved with Willingham's murder, he felt compelled to confess.'
Rutledge answered neutrally, 'A very good question. Especially since you showed considerable interest in Slater, rather than the other residents. Brady was in the clear, still. But I'm told he was often drunk and not always thinking very clearly.'
'True enough.' Hill turned as a constable tapped lightly on Slater's door.
He nodded to the silent Rutledge. 'The doctor is here,' he informed Hill.
Slater finally brought himself to get out of the motorcar. He crossed to where the men were standing in his doorway and said, 'Where will it end?'
'I'm not sure.' Rutledge turned back to the room as Hill walked away. 'I think we could use a cup of tea.'
Slater came inside and began to prepare it. Rutledge quietly asked him, 'Who lived in Brady's cottage before he moved here?'
'It was an elderly woman. Miss Chandler. A lawyer came to tell her a cousin had died and left her a goodly sum in his will. She didn't remember this cousin, but it wasn't surprising. She was a little daft, her mind going. Still, she thought she could recall her father telling her that someone in the family had gone to Australia to seek his fortune. I expect that was who died.'
Quite a convenient windfall…
'Where did she go from here?'
'There's a nice home run by a Mrs. Deacon in the Cotswolds. She's well known for taking in elderly ladies without families. A bit pricey, but Miss Chandler could afford it now, couldn't she? She was very pleased. And she'd hardly got the good news when Mr. Brady came round asking about a cottage. They must have come to an agreement, because she left him most of her furniture.'
'What did he offer as a reason for coming here to live?'
Slater brought in the tea tray. 'How should I know? But she told me he was looking for a quiet life.'
Deloran had been very clever. First the sizable bequest, and then someone there to take the cottage off Miss Chandler's hands at the right moment.
Rutledge took his cup from Slater, and said, 'Did Partridge have any contact with Miss Chandler?'
'Fancy your asking that. I'd quite forgot. She was a typist, and the week before she left, he took her a handful of papers to type up for him. He had a machine and she told him she knew how to use it.'
'Do you know the direction for Mrs. Deacon's house?'
'It's in the Cotswolds, a small manor house just outside Fairford. It's called Thornton Hall. I took Mrs. Chandler there in my cart, with her boxes and trunks. Why are you interested in what she typed for Mr. Partridge? Why is it important?'
Rutledge finished his tea. 'There's no way of telling what's important and what isn't. Until all the information is in hand.'
