'No. At least they've never said anything. Once when I'd done some baking I came back and found half my lemon cake gone. It wasn't all that long ago either. I expect Miss Rebecca was sharpish after working in the gardens.'
'Mrs. Parkinson's illness?' he reminded her.
'I wasn't here then, as it happened. I left service to go and marry a scoundrel, and when I came back, looking for work, she took me on again. The interim housekeeper had just left without giving notice.'
'Do you know why?'
'I was told she hadn't counted on being a nursemaid, but it was more than that, I think. Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson weren't getting on. He was spending more and more time in that laboratory of his, and she didn't leave her bed for a good two months after I came back. She'd lost her will to live, I thought, and I tried everything I could think of to bring her back to her old self. It wasn't until Miss Sarah caught the scarlet fever that Mrs. Parkinson got herself up and dressed and stayed up night and day with the child. I think that was the saving of her, but Mr. Parkinson, when I mentioned it to him, said that even great sorrows don't last forever. I took that to mean that Mrs. Parkinson had lost a child she was carrying. I don't know why I thought that, except it was just the sort of thing that would break a woman's heart. No one ever said, in so many words. But they'd have liked a son, I'm sure, to carry on the name.'
Hamish said, 'Truth or only wishful thinking?'
It was something neither parent would discuss with a young girl, but a loss that would send the father to bury himself in his work and leave the mother to mourn for what might have been.
'Do you know if the doctor who cared for Mrs. Parkinson is still in practice? '
'My goodness, no, Dr. Butler died six years ago of a heart condition. His son was going to take over the practice, but then the war came along.'
So much for verifying her supposition.
He drank his tea as the housekeeper rattled on about her work and the family she had served, small anecdotes that she had taken pleasure in remembering through the years.
'I don't expect you've ever seen a photograph of her. When they was first married, Mr. Parkinson said he'd like to have her painted. She was such a pretty thing, Mrs. Parkinson. Fair hair and blue eyes, a real English rose, you might say. It was a pleasure to look at her when she was all dressed up for a party or to travel up to London. Blue was her color, it brought out the softness of her skin, but she could wear most anything. They made a handsome pair, I can tell you. Him dark, her fair…'
When he'd finished his tea, he thanked her and rose to leave.
'I shall have to mention to Miss Rebecca and Miss Sarah that you were here,' she told him as she saw him to the door. 'If they ask. And if you could see fit to forget anything I may'uv said out of turn, it would be a kindness. But you being a policeman and all, it's not like gossiping with the greengrocer's wife, is it?'
He promised to respect her confidences, and walked back to his motorcar, thinking about what she'd told him.
A miscarriage could change the relationship of husband and wife. Most certainly if the doctors had told her she mustn't have another child. The emotional impact of loss and grief could have frightened children who didn't understand what had happened. They would certainly have felt the great distress wrapping their parents in shared sorrow, and they might have felt left out of it. Something like that could shake the safe world a child was accustomed to living in.
It went a long way toward understanding the sisters' anger and even explained to some extent why Mrs. Parkinson had finally killed herself, if she had never quite come to terms with her grief. But it didn't explain patricide.
Hamish said, 'She died many years later.'
'I don't know that time has anything to do with grief, but yes, it must have added to her burden.'
He'd spoken aloud from habit, and caught himself up.
Hamish said, 'Aye, ye can pretend I'm no' here, but you canna' turn around to see for yoursel'.'
It was true, the one thing Rutledge dreaded was seeing the face of a dead man. However real Hamish was, he was lying in his grave in France. And if he was not… it didn't bear thinking of.
The housekeeper, Martha, might not have believed in ghosts, and for that matter, neither did Rutledge. The voice in his head had nothing to do with dead men walking. It was there because Hamish had died, and there was nothing he could do to change that. It was his punishment for killing so many of his own men, for leading them over the top and across No Man's Land and coming back without a scratch on him, while they fell and cried out and died. He'd had the courage to die with them, but Fate had decided to spare him, and scar him with the knowledge that his very survival mocked him.
22
When he got back to The Smith's Arms, Rutledge was surprised to find that the ex-soldier, Singleton, had come to the bar and was there drinking heavily.
It was Mrs. Smith who told him, her voice pitched not to carry but her concern very real.
'I don't want Smith to throw him out, it isn't good for business, and besides, he's likely drunk enough to take exception to it, and then where will we be? And for that matter, poor Mrs. Cathcart is in her room frightened of her own shadow, with him shouting down here.'
As Hamish warned him to stay out of it, Rutledge pushed through the door and found Smith behind the bar, standing there grimly watching Singleton. He was talking with a lorry driver, and the man had pushed back from the table to escape the intensity of Singleton's vehement certainty that the world was going to the dogs, and before long they'd all be murdered in their beds.
Walking over to the pair, Rutledge greeted them with a nod and then said, 'Singleton. I'd like to have a word, if you don't mind.'
The ex-soldier looked up at him. 'If it's about the murders, I have nothing to say. It's not a military matter, is it?'
'You're right. Still, you've more experience than most of the residents there at the cottages.' He sat down, moving his chair slightly so that he could watch Singleton and his irate companion at the same time.
'Experience in what?' It was a low growl, as if Rutledge had accused him of the killings.
'Dealing with men. What if Hill is wrong, and Brady couldn't have killed himself or Willingham? Who do you think might be capable of it?'
Singleton shook his head as if to clear it. 'Blame it on Partridge, if you like. It's as good a guess as any. Why else did he run off, and bring the police prowling about like ants?'
'Hardly like ants. Hill and his men have tried to be discreet.'
'Yes, well, I'd had enough. I came here for a little peace. If Mrs. Cathcart can flee the scene, so can I.'
'She's a woman, and nervous.'
'I intend to stay the night.'
'Mrs. Smith doesn't have a free room.'
'Then I'll sleep here. All I need is a pillow and a blanket.'
'I'm afraid that's not possible. Let me drive you home. You'll be safer in your own bed.'
'Safe has nothing to do with it. There's no peace there any more. I wish Willingham had never died, or Brady for that matter, though I didn't like him at all. Smelled of trouble, the moment I saw him.'
'He never disturbed you, to my knowledge,' Rutledge pointed out.
'I'd have dealt with him if he had.'
The lorry driver cleared his throat and started to get up. Singleton told him shortly to sit down and mind where he was. 'You're drinking my round, and you'll finish it out of courtesy.'
But the lorry driver said, 'I've had all I can drink and still drive. You don't have another fifty miles to travel before you're done.'
'I want company,' Singleton retorted. 'I've never liked to drink alone.'
'You've got company,' the driver pointed out but subsided in his chair, casting a pleading glance at
