Rutledge.
'Singleton. I'll ask Smith to give us a bottle and we'll finish it at the cottage.'
Singleton considered him. 'I told you, I wanted to get away from there.'
'This is hardly the place to drown your sorrows.'
'But it's where I am.'
'Partridge is dead. His body was found some distance from here. It's likely he was murdered as well. But not necessarily by the same hand as Brady and Willingham.'
Singleton's eyes sharpened. 'You're lying. You can't have two murderers prowling the same patch.'
'Why not? Murder is as individual as the man or woman who resorts to it. You've killed, you know that's true.'
'What do you mean, I've killed?'
Rutledge thought, He's beyond reasoning with.
And Hamish said once more, ''Ware!'
'All right, Singleton, we're leaving.' Rutledge got to his feet and pushed his chair back to the table. 'Are you ready to come with me?'
It was not the conversational voice he'd been using, but the tone of an officer expecting his men to obey on the spot.
Surprisingly Singleton responded, standing and then gripping the edge of the table to steady himself.
'Give me a shoulder, man!' he appealed to Rutledge, and together they walked out of the bar. Mrs. Smith, standing in the shadows by the stairs, watched, and up on the landing, Mrs. Cathcart had wrapped her arms about her body as if to stop shaking. Rutledge got Singleton outside and into the motorcar.
They drove back toward the cottages, and Singleton was silent, brooding.
As Rutledge turned up the lane toward his cottage, the ex-soldier said, 'It's Quincy, if you're looking for one of us to be the murderer. He's half mad anyway, with all those damned birds. Someone should fire the cottage with him in it.'
'Someone did try. He got a shotgun barrel in his face.'
'Then you've only to look at any one of us to see who it was.'
'Quincy fired through the door. Apparently scaring the hell out of someone but not hitting him.'
'I told you he was mad.'
'Yes, probably you're right. Do you want me to come in with you?'
'No. You're not drinking my whisky and telling me lies.'
'Suit yourself. Good day, Singleton.'
He waited while Singleton made up his mind. After a moment, the man clambered down, threw a mockery of a salute in Rutledge's direction, and said, 'It's the pain that gets to you after a while. It drives you mad.'
'Were you wounded?' Rutledge knew Singleton had served in India.
'The disgrace, damn you. It turned my father against me, I'll tell you that. He never spoke to me again. His only son, disgraced before his regiment. And mine. But I didn't care any more. And he did.'
He walked with surprising steadiness to his door and went inside. As Rutledge turned the motorcar, he was close enough to Number 7 to see Miller standing at his window.
What if Miller had been telling the truth, or part of it, that someone had brought Partridge's motorcar back to the cottage to make it appear that Partridge hadn't used it?
With the tab of the respirator found in the vehicle and Miller's story-if true-to show that the motorcar had been returned late at night by an unknown driver, the pieces of the puzzle were falling together. But Rutledge still hadn't determined where Parkinson had died. If it was in his own house, then the sisters were involved. If not, then it could have been Brady, or if Deloran didn't trust him, another of his minions. He hadn't died in the cottage. Had someone overpowered him while he stood in the trees looking up at the White Horse? It would have been easy, quiet.
Rutledge had come to know Rebecca and Sarah Parkinson. Letting their father die the same way their mother had killed herself smacked of a certain justice. If he took them into custody, and a jury found them guilty, he'd have to be present when they went to the gallows. And he was fairly certain that Rebecca would protect her sister to the end, claiming that she alone had carried out the murder, even if it had taken two of them to drag their father's body to the motorcar and drive it to Yorkshire.
The newspapers would make a sensation out of the trial. Parkinson's daughters would be vilified in print, their family's secrets dragged out into the open and dissected over tea and the butcher's counter and in the pubs.
He had better be damned certain that his facts were irrefutable before he tossed two young women to the wolves.
But for Parkinson's sake, his murderer or murderers had to be brought to justice. Even if he would have railed at the police for doing it.
Rutledge thought, I've always spoken for the victim. This time the victim might well prefer to see me fail.
Rutledge drove to Sarah Parkinson's house, waited at the door while she decided whether or not to answer his knock, and when she came at last, he went straight to the point.
'You have a choice, Miss Parkinson. Come with me to Yorkshire and identify your father's body, then help us solve the mystery of where and how he died. There have been two other deaths among the residents of the Tomlin Cottages, and so far we've managed to keep the two inquiries separate. But the fact remains that both of the dead men, Mr. Willingham and Mr. Brady, had a very good view of your father's cottage. We've been told by another witness that your father's motorcar was returned after he went missing. This witness saw one person driving it, and since your father wasn't there the next morning, we have to believe that it was his killer who brought the motorcar back. Both Mr. Willingham and Mr. Brady were closer to the shed than our third witness. They could very well have seen the driver more clearly. If the police can't prove otherwise, then a connection will be made between your father's death and the other murders.' He could see the color draining from her face. 'It's been my experience, Miss Parkinson, that murdering another human being is easier after the first time. If you didn't kill those men, then we must assume it was Rebecca, trying to protect you.'
'My sister did nothing of the sort! You're trying to frighten me. Go away.'
'You can shut the door, if you like, and I'll leave. But what I've told you won't leave with me. It will echo in your head until you come to your senses and act to protect yourself. She's your sister, Miss Parkinson, but she's placed your own life at risk. Can't you see that?'
'You're wrong,' she told him resolutely. 'You are wrong-'
'Then tell me what the truth is and let me deal with it.'
'There's nothing to tell.' Her voice held a world of sorrow. 'This business at the cottages has nothing to do with us. And you said yourself that my father's body-if it is his-was found a long way from here.'
'Miss Parkinson, listen to me. Whatever happened, you must find the courage to speak out. If you're afraid of your sister, we'll protect you-'
'Why should I be afraid of her? She's done nothing. Nothing at all. And this talk about murders to cover up what witnesses saw is wild guessing, nothing else. Let this witness meet me face-to-face and tell me I was there. I was not'
'But you can't speak for Rebecca, can you? If you weren't there, you can't prove or disprove that she might have been. Come in and give us a statement, tell us what you know. Let us set the record straight.'
'If I sign a statement, you'll use it against Becky. She's the only family I have left. Do you think my mother would ever forgive me if I did something that would hurt Becky? Do you think I could forgive myself? My father is dead. There's nothing more I can do to hurt him, and nothing more he can do to hurt me. Let it go.'
'Murder isn't something I can walk away from. When I leave here, I'm going to take a statement from the witness who saw your father's motorcar return three nights after your father left. The motorcar is there still. But in the rear seat I found something that you or your sister overlooked. It's a tab from the respirator he was-'
She moved so quickly he couldn't have forestalled her. The door was slammed, and he could hear on the other side the rasp of the bolt as it was shoved into place.
He had planted the seeds of doubt about her sister in Sarah Parkinson's mind. It was what he had come to do. But he felt unclean now.
'It was a cruel thing ye did.'
