Rutledge turned and went back to the motorcar, driving on to the house at Partridge Fields.
He walked through the grounds to the small garden with the horse fountain. It was dappled in shade, this early, a mysterious and inviting place to sit.
But he'd come not to sit but to look at the grass that surrounded the fountain, squatting to see if there was any sign that someone had stood here two nights ago. The grass was still dew-wet, and it was difficult to judge. No one had trampled the green blades, no one had left a tidy footprint in the moist soil of the shrubbery beds. Still, he'd have given odds that walking here in the dark would lead to a misstep at some point.
It took patience and careful, almost inch-by-inch inspection, but he found something that might have been the half print of a heel just where an edge of the grass walk met the soil.
Hamish said disparagingly, 'A bird scratching. A beetle trying to right itself. An owl after a mouse.'
Rutledge got to his feet. 'Possibly. But why haven't they scratched over here-or there?'
'It's no' solid proof.'
'No.'
He left the shrubbery and stood where he could see the windows of the master bedroom above the garden.
Here, at this house-in that room, for all he knew-lay the heart of a family's collapse.
It was as if each of the Parkinsons gave more energy to hurting than to healing.
For one thing, why had Mrs. Parkinson wanted her ashes buried here, if she'd been wretched at Partridge Fields? The answer to that was, she intended them to be a constant reminder to her husband of everything she'd suffered.
He had no idea what she'd had in mind-an urn set on a marble square by the horse fountain, or ashes scattered in the central circle of the French-style beds where the roses grew. It had been Rebecca's decision in the first anguished days after finding her mother dead to spread them throughout the gardens.
Neither mother nor daughter, set on their acts of revenge, had considered how difficult it might ultimately be for Sarah or Rebecca to live here. Punishing Gerald Parkinson was paramount, shutting out every other consideration, and Rebecca was left to reap the whirlwind she had sown.
Where had all this passionate need to hurt started?
There was Parkinson's obsession with his work, putting it before his family. And his wife's morbid fascination with the destructive nature of what he did. These must have led to violent arguments, to turn her thoughts to suicide. Or had she been unstable most of her married life?
In that case, why hadn't her daughters spared a moment's sympathy for what their father must have had to endure?
There must have been something else, to send a sensitive mind into a downward spiral of depression and finally despair.
Had Parkinson lashed out physically, when he'd felt his back was to the wall? Striking his wife would have erased any sympathy Rebecca and her sister might have felt.
Then why hadn't Rebecca mentioned it in defense of her anger? Or Sarah dwell on that as she remembered a kinder father?
Rutledge thought, It's time to ask Sarah what she remembers about her parents' relationship, not just her own with her father.
But he spared five minutes to walk to the kitchen garden and knock at the door. No one came to open it, and he finally gave it up and went back to his motorcar.
He had some difficulty finding the small house where Sarah Parkinson lived. It stood at the end of a country lane and was no larger than Pockets and far more isolated.
Over a slight rise, he could just see the roof of a barn and tall chimneys.
Why couldn't the sisters live together? It would have made sense. Especially if money was a problem. Rebecca was protective of Sarah, but there wasn't the closeness one might expect under the circumstances of their mother's death and their father's desertion. Had the ashes been the only problem?
Sarah Parkinson was surprised to see him. She had come to the door at the sound of the motorcar and now stood on the threshold trying to decide whether to tell him to go away or invite him in.
'Good morning,' Rutledge began. 'I've come to see if you're all right.'
'Don't worry, crying over the past won't lead me to do anything rash.'
'I expect not. Still. May I come in? I'd like to talk to you.'
He could watch the internal debate as she frowned, then said, 'I don't expect I have much choice about it.'
'We can stand here, if you'd rather.'
'No. Come in. But I won't take your hat. You won't be staying long.'
Rutledge smiled. 'I want to ask you about your parents. If I come in, are you prepared to answer my questions? Otherwise this will be a waste of time for both of us.'
She was disconcerted by his bluntness. 'If I don't like the questions, I'll tell you.'
'Fair enough.'
The house was old and had seen hard use. But Sarah Parkinson had tried to make it comfortable and pretty, adding paint to the walls and curtains to the bare windows. A fine French carpet lay on the floor, and some furnishings were a little out of date, as if she'd scavenged them from her parents' attics. They were far better quality than the walls that enclosed them.
'Yes, I've come down in the world,' she said, following his gaze. 'I only have this house through the courtesy of a friend. It was the best she or I could do.'
'I can understand that you don't want to live at Partridge Fields again. But what will you do with it?'
'It's the tomb of my mother. When Becky and I are gone, it can be torn down by people who don't know why we deserted it. Better that way.'
'The housekeeper still comes to see to it. Who pays her to clean and sweep?'
'My father, I expect. I can't afford to keep her there.'
'May I ask why you and your sister don't choose to live together? It would make sense.'
'I think we both prefer the silence. If we were together, we'd talk too much about the past. We wouldn't be able to help it.'
'Whose motorcar do you drive? Your own? Or Rebecca's?'
'It belongs to a friend of hers who went to France and came back without his legs. He didn't want to look at it any more, and told her she could drive it.'
'But you borrow it from time to time?'
'When I can.' She looked away from him, her gaze following a bee at the window. 'It's a long walk for both of us to go anywhere. We trade days. It's not the life I'd have chosen.'
'You're young. You'll marry in time and the past will seem less vivid.'
'After what I've seen of marriage,' she retorted, 'I want no part of it. It leaves you terribly vulnerable. And in the end you hate each other. My father killed my mother as surely as if he'd held her head under the gas and made her breathe it in. I've never understood why he couldn't love her enough to stop what he was doing. She was so softhearted she couldn't bear to see a bird suffer. He knew that, but it didn't matter. He turned his back on her feelings and did what he wanted to do anyway, and in the end she died. When he saw what he had done, it was too late.'
'Was it always that way? You remember your father being kind to you, but was he kind to your mother as well? When you were five, for instance, did you think they were happy?'
'I thought they were. More fool I. It must have been a pretense, for our sakes. I realize that now.'
'They couldn't have pretended so perfectly that you didn't see the strain of their trying. Children are very perceptive. Think about when you were six-twelve. Think about birthday parties and holidays and long winter evenings together.' He tried to suggest images that she could explore, and watched her face closely as she frowned, sorting through her memories.
'When I was four, we went to Cornwall for our holiday. I remember it well, it was the first time I'd seen the sea. And we watched moor ponies one afternoon, and in one of the harbors, there was a fishmonger with a tray of fish, silvery in the sun. We took our breakfast out to the rocks and watched the fishing boats coming in.'
'Did your parents laugh? Hold hands with each other? Seem comfortable with each other? Or was there
