'You see, your righteous defense of your mother is all very well. But if you killed your father, you are a murderer as surely as any other murderer in the dock. Your excuse may seem important to you, but it never is enough. Death is a very final solution, Miss Parkinson, and no matter how you try to excuse it, if you took a life without provocation, you will hang as surely as the man who killed two people back at the cottages. No better, no worse. The same.'
He suddenly realized that he'd lost track of where he was, where the motorcar was heading. The darkness through which he'd spoken began to recede and nothing was familiar, nothing as it should be. But then he recognized the tower of a distant church and knew he was on the right road.
Miss Parkinson was opening her door. He braked quickly to keep her from falling out into the road.
'I'll take my chances with the bicycle,' she said, tears on her face. 'I should never have trusted you to keep your promise.'
Rutledge said, 'You were the first to speak, if you remember. You were the one who said I didn't understand.'
'It doesn't matter. I've had enough,' she said, getting out as the motorcar came to a stop.
'Go look at yourself in your mirror, Miss Parkinson. And ask yourself if your mother will be avenged by letting your father be buried in a pauper's grave. It will be on your soul and not hers, if that's what you do.'
He brought out her bicycle for her and set it on the road.
She took it, mounted, and pedaled off, her shoulders hunched, her head down.
This time he watched her go, not making any effort to stop her again.
Hamish said, 'It wasna' well done.'
'I think I'll stay here a while, and see who comes back. Sarah Parkinson or her sister.'
He pulled the motorcar to the verge, staring across the fields at the rooftops of the next village, trying to interest himself in the people there. But all he could think of was what he'd said to the young woman disappearing in the distance.
It was all true. But who was he to judge her? Who was he to set his torment against someone else's and make comparisons? He'd known Sarah Parkinson for a matter of days. It wasn't his place. It wasn't his duty.
He waited some time, thinking she might come back this way. It was useless trying to talk to Sarah when her sister was present and he could see no point in continuing on to Pockets to confront the two together.
Rutledge drove back to the inn, abandoning his decision to drive to London. He couldn't remember the last meal he'd eaten, but he wasn't hungry.
Upstairs in his room he stood by his window, looking out at nothing that was visible.
Hamish said, 'What if you're wrong about Singleton?'
'Then I'm wrong. The drawings were not Willingham's style. I'll stand by that.'
'Aye. But of the lot, there's the man with the birds.'
'There is. If I'm wrong about Singleton, then I shall have to look at Quincy more closely. It isn't his style either.'
'Ye're no authority on drawing. There's a darkness in him.'
It was true. He'd grasped his jeweled treasures in desperation, and he kept them with him because they were a talisman, in his eyes. Without hope, men go mad…
Small feathered defenses against the family that didn't want him and enemies that wanted to see him dead.
Which brought Rutledge back to Parkinson. Two men, Madsen and Deloran, had tried to use his body for their own ends. Parkinson's two daughters refused to claim it. And until they did, the case couldn't be closed.
There were heavy clouds in the sky, shortening the day, and as the light faded, Rutledge considered turning on his lamp. And then decided against it.
Three lorry drivers were pulling in as another edged his vehicle back on the road. The men called to their departing colleague and then walked toward the inn, looking for food and something to drink. One of them was the man Rutledge had defeated at darts. Laughing, they made their way through to the bar.
In the distance he thought he saw a flash of lightning, but he could hear no thunder afterward. If there was a storm, it was far to the west still.
Hamish said, 'Ye canna' sit here in the dark and pity yoursel'.'
It wasn't pity but a need for peace, he thought. In a little while, he would have to decide what to do next.
He hadn't seen Sarah Parkinson pass along the road again on her way to her house. He thought it odd, by this time, unless she had decided to wait out the storm with her sister.
Rising, he went down the stairs and started through the door. One of the drivers was leaving, his lorry backing out of the yard and moving off down the road. Rutledge watched him go, then set out on foot for the White Horse. All was well there, lamps lit in the cottages belonging to Miller, Quincy, and Mrs. Cathcart, and a thin trail of wood smoke rose from her chimney. Singleton's cottage was dark. Then Slater came up from the village and went in his door.
The White Horse offered ambient light, and Rutledge walked its lines, as he had done with his father. Then he turned and went back to the muzzle, standing there watching the sky.
He thought it was nearly simultaneous, the flickering of fire he could see in Willingham's windows and Brady's. Then Partridge's were suddenly bright, with Singleton's not far behind. They were burning-
Rutledge raced down the hill, shouting for Slater and Quincy, but he knew it was useless. The five of them could do nothing to stop the cottages from burning.
He cursed himself for not bringing his motorcar, then remembered that Partridge's was in the shed next to the house.
Slater finally came to his door to see what the commotion was about, and Rutledge pointed. The smith turned to stare, then wheeled back to Rutledge.
Rutledge shouted, 'Partridge's motorcar. Go for help, fast as you can.'
Quincy had heard the shouting and came out to look. Then he was back inside, his door shut.
Hamish said, 'He'll protect the birds.'
Mrs. Cathcart answered his knock and was frightened when she saw the smoke and flames. Miller came out just then and swore as he realized that his house was in danger.
Rutledge knocked on Singleton's door, and waited, then opened it and went inside.
It was burning as well, but there was no sign of the ex-soldier.
Where had he gone?
Partridge's motorcar kicked over on the third try, and Slater was backing out, on his way to Uffington. Rutledge took Mrs. Cathcart with him, and called to Miller to come down as well, but he stubbornly stayed where he was. Quincy was occupied in the room where he kept his collection, and Rutledge pushed Mrs. Cathcart through the door, saying, 'Help him.'
It would keep her busy.
That done, he began to run toward the inn, thinking about his own motorcar standing there in the yard. Singleton was no fool. Under the cover of the fire he must have slipped away, and his best chance of putting some distance between himself and any pursuit was to go fast and far.
The motorcar was still in the yard when Rutledge, his heart hammering and his lungs burning, reached the inn. He wouldn't have put it past Singleton to take it. Another of the lorries was pulling out, and he shouted to the driver to wait. He was ignored. There was still one of the lorries left and he dashed inside, calling to Smith. But he stopped short in the bar.
Two lorry drivers were still there-and only one vehicle remained in the yard.
He said, forcing the words out, harsh and curt, 'There's a fire at the cottages. Take your lorry to Uffington, pick as many men as you can and bring them back to help.'
The drivers were on their feet, heading for the door, and then he heard shouting.
Rutledge said to Smith, 'Have you seen Singleton?'
Smith shook his head. 'I'll fetch something to drink. They'll be needing it. Is it bad, over there?'
'The fire may spread to the occupied cottages. Tell Mrs. Smith that she may need to make up beds for tonight.'
And then he was gone, cranking his motorcar with such energy that the motor almost missed fire, then
