I've missed it, and it kept my fingers nimble. He had a very nice machine, but it was borrowed, he said, and must be returned on time.'
From the laboratory, very likely. But what had become of the paper? Knowing that Brady was watching him- and might even from time to time search the cottage-it would have been foolish for Parkinson to keep anything valuable there. And not at the house, where his daughters came and went. What would have felt like a safe place to him, where his work wouldn't be found?
It was possible that he'd long since taken the paper with him on one of his forays and put it in a bank vault or left it with someone he'd trusted. He hadn't had it with him in Yorkshire. And Rutledge hadn't found it in the cottage.
Hamish said, 'Why did he write whatever it is doon? Much less gie it to someone to type.'
A good question. A red herring? Or something Parkinson had been working on and hadn't quite finished, but knew that in time his earlier research might hold the key? A better way of killing armies was always a marketable commodity.
Miss Chandler was tiring. She made a little gesture with her hand, as if to apologize for failing him. 'That's all, really. I wish I could do something to help. Mr. Partridge must be beside himself.'
'It has been worrisome,' Rutledge answered, sidestepping the issue of Partridge. 'Thank you for seeing me, Miss Chandler. I wish you a pleasant evening.'
'You won't stay and have tea with us?' She looked around the sun- room at the other women seated there, avidly listening. 'We seldom have the pleasure of a young man's company.'
'I'm afraid I've a long drive ahead of me.'
'I have hoped against hope that someone from my cousin's family might come to England so that I can tell them how grateful I am to their father. But they haven't. I expect it's a long journey to make, just for an hour or so with an old woman.'
He damned Deloran in his mind, yet could see that this woman was pleased with her good fortune and would be bereft if told the truth, that it was the need for her cottage and not an interest in her well-being that lay behind the sums she'd been given. He wouldn't put it past her to refuse the money.
'I'm sure they wish you well, even if they can't visit.'
'How are my former neighbors?' she asked him then, searching for a reason to hold him there a little longer. 'Will you give my regards to Mr. Allen and Mrs. Cathcart in particular? I've missed them, please tell them that. Mr. Miller was always kind to me as well.'
'Yes, most certainly.' He had reached the door when he turned and asked a last question. 'Has anyone else come to ask you about the work you did for Mr. Partridge?'
'No one,' she answered him, 'knew about it. I've told you, he feared someone might steal his discovery.'
He thanked her again, and Mrs. Deacon followed him to the foyer. 'You can see that my guests haven't been cheated. Nor have I. I have my house still. And I would do it again, if I had to.' She looked around her at the high coffered ceiling of the foyer, the pineapples in each square flecked with gold, at the paneling on the walls and the parquet flooring. 'This is where I lived as a child. My brother inherited the house, you know. But he's dead, in the first fighting at Mons. I've been a widow for many years, and I longed to come back here. But his wife and I didn't see eye to eye.' A brief triumphant smile touched her face. 'It took every penny I possessed to buy her out. But I managed it. I don't know why I should feel required to defend myself to you. I expect it's because you doubted my motives. That was unkind of you.'
He was reminded of the sunroom, a comfortable place for old bones on an April day when the rain had brought damp with it.
He smiled in return. 'I misjudged the circumstances. I had reason to believe that perhaps Miss Chandler's good fortune was suspect. But I see it isn't. Do you remember the name of the solicitor who handled the inheritance for her? I should have asked.'
'There was no solicitor. I was told she received the money directly from the solicitors in Australia and put it in her account in the bank.' She held out her hand. 'Good day, Mr. Rutledge. You would have made a good policeman. If you aren't one already.'
He went through the door and she shut it behind him with a firm click.
Rutledge stood there for a moment. His work at the Yard, he thought, had made him overly suspicious of goodness. He had seen so much that was evil.
Hamish said as he walked back to the motorcar, 'Yon Mrs. Deacon is no' afraid of anyone. It's her strength.'
Rutledge was late arriving at The Smith's Arms. Mrs. Smith had set his dinner on the back of the stove to keep warm. He hung his wet coat over the other chair to dry and sat by the fire in the bar, only half listening to the gossip of the lorry drivers and the locals who came regularly to sit and drink.
Most of it was of no importance.
Then Hamish said, 'Hark!'
And Rutledge brought his attention back to the room in time to hear a farmer comment, 'They took the smith to the police station today. I always said he was a danger. I wouldn't let him play with my son, would I, when they were in school together. Too big by half, and didn't know his own strength.'
'It was a knife he used, not his hands,' his companion reminded him.
'Yes, well, he killed them, didn't he?'
What had happened to Brady's confession? Had Hill already discounted it? Rutledge finished his meal and went out into the night, directly back to the cottages.
There was still a light in Quincy's cottage, and Rutledge knocked at the door.
'Who's there?' There was an undercurrent of alarm in the query.
'Rutledge. I need to talk to you.'
'It's late.' But there was the sound of the latch being lifted, and Quincy stood in the opening. The light behind him struck him from the left, throwing that side of his face in stark relief while the other half was deeply shadowed. It gave him an oddly malevolent look. 'What's brought you here? Not another killing?'
'It's Slater. I heard at the inn that he'd been taken into Uffington by Inspector Hill.'
'Shows how wrong gossip can be. No, Hill took him there to the doctor. He was using a hammer while they talked, working on one of those kettles he makes sometimes. They sell well at the summer fair. And he smashed his knuckles. Slater nearly passed out from the pain, and Hill called one of his men to get Slater into a car.'
'Then all's well.'
'Why do you think he's not guilty?' Quincy asked with some curiosity. 'People like that often have a bad temper.' He turned his head to look at the cat asleep on her favorite chair. 'She's mine now, I expect. She didn't mourn long for Partridge. If I thought it would work, I'd make a gift of her to Mrs. Cathcart. God knows she needs something to calm her nerves.'
'She's afraid.'
'Aren't we all? But you're right, Mrs. Cathcart's fear is exacerbated by what happened in her life before she came here. She peers out the window at every newcomer. I've seen the curtains twitch. A pity, really. She'll die a tormented soul.'
Which is probably what her husband had in mind, Rutledge thought.
'Did you ever see Brady go in or come out of Partridge's cottage?'
'No. He stayed away from Partridge as far as possible, considering he lived here as well. Look, do you want some coffee? I developed a taste for it in Guatemala. If you aren't going away, then you might as well come in.'
'I'll take you up on the offer.'
Rutledge stepped inside and shut the door behind him. The room where the birds were kept was in darkness, but the flickering light of the fire on the hearth glanced off iridescent feathers and glass eyes. He took the chair next to Dublin's and sat down. The night was just chilly enough to make the fire comforting, and he felt a drowsiness steal over him. Quincy was busy in the kitchen, and the cat had begun to purr.
Hamish urged him to keep awake, prodding at him with words. Reminding him that the night watches in the trenches had meant life or death.
Rutledge asked him silently if he thought Quincy would poison the coffee, and Hamish gave him no answer.
