had made, then looked in the desk. As Allen had told him, there was an envelope with the words 'To be opened after my death' written in the same hand as the list. Rutledge took it out and set it against a lamp, where Hill would notice it.
Slater was still outside, his face pale. Rutledge went out to him. 'I know. It was what he wanted, all the same.'
'What are we to do? I think these cottages are accursed. They shouldn't have been put here in the first place. It was a desecration.'
'Slater. If I were you, I'd sleep at your smithy tonight, not in your cottage.'
'I'm not afraid, if that's what you think.'
'If you aren't here, you can't be accused.'
The man's eyes widened. 'But what about Mr. Quincy, and Miller? And Singleton. You can't leave them.'
Inspector Hill came out of the cottage and cast a glance in the direction of Brady's where his men had been stationed. 'Why the hell didn't they come? Slater said you were here alone.'
'You'd better have a look.'
Hill gave him an odd glance, then set out for Brady's cottage at a trot. He went through the door without knocking, and even from this distance, Rutledge could hear him shouting angrily at his men.
He came back, still furious, and said, 'They thought it might be a trick. They were told to watch, and damn it, they watched, their eyes glued to the other cottages for any sign of trouble.'
'There wasn't anything they could do.'
'No. All right then, I'll take over here. Thanks.' And he turned to go back into the cottage.
Rutledge walked down the lane with Slater. 'Will you leave?'
'I'll think about it.'
'Good man.'
Quincy was standing in his doorway. 'Allen, was it?'
'Yes,' Rutledge answered shortly. He was still angry with Quincy for not coming to the man's aid.
'I'm glad you were there,' Quincy said, and went back inside.
Rutledge left then, knowing it was too late but driving anyway as fast as he dared toward Pockets, the house where Rebecca Parkinson lived.
When he got there, Sarah's motorcar was gone. He wasn't surprised, but she hadn't passed him on the road, and he thought he knew where else she might have gone.
And he'd guessed right. She was at Partridge Fields, sitting in the motorcar just outside the gates, crying.
He pulled up behind her and got out. She looked up, and said, 'You've done enough damage. Go away.'
'I'm sorry.'
'No, you're not. I went to Rebecca to ask what we were to do, she and I. And she said there was nothing we could do. If you arrested us, so be it.'
'A charge of murder is a very serious matter.'
He looked up. Rebecca Parkinson was peddling toward them on her bicycle. She hesitated when she saw Rutledge's car pulled in behind her sister's. And then she came on, resolute.
'Sarah? Are you all right? I was worried,' she said, ignoring Rut- ledge.
'Yes, I'm fine.'
'Come inside. It's one of Martha's days. She may still be here. She can make us some tea.'
'I'm not sure I want to go in.'
'Then why did you come?'
'There was nowhere else to go.' It was said with great sadness.
'I know. Come along in, and it will be all right, I promise you.'
Sarah cast a glance in Rutledge's direction. 'What about him?' she asked her sister. 'I don't think I can bear any more.'
'If he comes after us, I'll have him up on charges of trespassing.' Rebecca turned to Rutledge, challenging him to argue with her.
Leaving the motorcar where it stood in the middle of the road, Sarah opened her door and crossed to where her sister was still astride the bicycle.
Rutledge waited.
Sarah said, her back to him, 'There's something you've forgotten, Mr. Rutledge. In your concern for my father, and whatever justice it is you seem to want for him, you didn't have to live in this house all your life. We did. Push too hard, and we could choose the way out that our mother chose, because right now there isn't much left of our future. If you really want justice, what about a little for us? As for those men in the cottages, I'm sorry about them, but I didn't know them, and neither did Rebecca. I won't take their deaths on my soul.'
Rutledge said, 'Your father is dead. He doesn't care now what you think of him, what you owe him, or what he made you suffer. For all you know, his own life was as wretched as yours.'
Sarah started through the gate, still not looking at him. 'Then we're even, aren't we, he and the two of us.'
Rebecca followed her, propping her bicycle just inside.
There was triumph now in the glance she cast over her shoulder toward Rutledge.
Hamish said, 'She's got her sister under her spell.'
And they were gone up the path, walking side by side in silence.
Rutledge swore. It was as if they drew their strength from each other, secure in the knowledge that if neither of them confessed what they knew, there was nothing the law could do to them.
Hamish reminded him that one of the lorry drivers had seen a woman alone and crying in a motorcar drawn to the side of the road, near Wayland's Smith.
'I'll give you odds,' he answered aloud, 'that it was Sarah, while her sister returned their father's motorcar to the shed. Waiting to take her back to Pockets when it was finished.'
The timing would be about right, although it would be hard to prove exactly which night that was. Or find the lorry driver who had seen her.
It was late, but there was still one thing he could do. He drove back to the crossroads and began searching for a doctor's surgery. If Butler had been called to attend Mrs. Parkinson during her pregnancy, he must be near enough to summon at need. And whoever took over his practice might still have Butler's records.
In a village not two miles distant to the west, he found the first of them, and then another just a little farther to the east. A third was due north. But none of them had treated the Parkinson family, or knew what had become of Dr. Butler's records.
He kept moving, first down this road and then that, and as the sun began to set, he turned on his headlamps, determined to find what he was after.
Hamish said, 'They had money, the Parkinsons. They would ha' seen a London doctor.'
'Not for measles or a fall or a sore tooth. There would have been someone closer who could be called.'
'No' for the lost child. For the despair that followed.'
Rutledge considered that possibility. But he'd got the impression that for many years Mrs. Parkinson had withdrawn into herself, shutting out her husband, and would never have been persuaded to see a London doctor of his choosing. It would have been an admission that they shared a grief. Mrs. Parkinson had hugged it to herself instead, and in the end, used her death as the ultimate punishment.
He gave up after another two hours. He was too far afield.
He was halfway back to Partridge Fields when he saw a house well off the road, sheltered by a small copse. Its lights were burning in the dark and a drive wandered in their direction. It was just outside the first village he'd tried.
What had caught his eye, in a flash of his headlamps, was not a doctor's board but a small, elegant stone pillar at the end of the drive. He'd almost passed by it a second time when he realized that the scrolled name inset into the pillar was THE BUTLERS. He backed up and turned into the drive, pulling up by the door.
The knocker was a worn brass caduceus, and he felt his hopes soar.
A woman answered, her face framed in soft waves of reddish- brown hair, and behind her, peering around an inner door, was a girl of about twelve.
