"Yes, it does. And I'll make a gift of it back to them, so that it stays where it should."

"You're mocking me."

He had got off on the wrong foot unintentionally, and Hamish was already telling him as much. But Rutledge said, "I'm mocking no one. You showed me that teapot, and I think the s.e.xton is wrong. Good work deserves good pay, and I for one recognize that."

"Well. It's not your problem. It's mine. What have you come for?"

"To show you a sketch, if you don't mind."

"Of work you wish me to do?"

"Sorry, no. I'd like to ask if you recognize the person in the sketch. I'm looking for this man."

There was instant hostility. "What's he done, then?"

"Nothing that I'm aware of. But friends are anxious about him. I'd like to put their minds at ease." If Deloran could be considered any man's friend...

"You're being fair with me?"

"Actually, I've told you the truth."

"Why do you think I might know him?"

"Look at the sketch first. And then I'll give you the answer to that."

He lifted the folder from the table and opened it.

Slater looked down at it, but his eye went first to the quality of the drawing. "It's well done, this sketch. Who made it?"

"A young man in Yorkshire. He takes as much pride in his work as you do in yours."

"And so it's a good likeness."

"We hope it is."

Slater didn't need to study the face on the paper. He said at once, "Yes, I know him. As you know very well I do."

"Who is he?"

"It's Mr. Partridge." Slater looked up. "He's dead, isn't he?"

The certainty of identification was what Rutledge had been expecting, but not the conclusion that Slater had drawn from the face in his hands.

Yet it was too easy. Deloran must surely have realized that, armed with the sketch, sooner or later Rutledge would learn who the dead man in Yorkshire was.

"He couldna' be sure you would come back here," Hamish answered the thought. "He's used to being obeyed."

"Why do you think Mr. Partridge is dead?" Rutledge asked the smith, but he already knew the answer. Slater worked with his hands, he had a feeling for skill and observation and how to translate that to whatever he was creating. And it was true, the likeness caught something that perhaps the living man had lost.

"Because it's a good likeness, that's why. How could it be this good from memory?"

"The artist might have used a photograph."

"No, I don't think he did. He saw the man. And Mr. Partridge isn't here, is he? Hasn't been for a bit. And you were here earlier, looking for him, weren't you? Somehow I have a feeling he's dead."

"But how? And where?"

Slater shrugged. "Ask a policeman to answer that for you."

"I am am a policeman," Rutledge said slowly. "Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard." a policeman," Rutledge said slowly. "Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard."

There was a pause. Then Slater said, "You have have lied to us." More than the words, his tone of voice and his face conveyed the sense of betrayal and dislike. lied to us." More than the words, his tone of voice and his face conveyed the sense of betrayal and dislike.

"I wasn't here as a policeman. I was here to see if there was an explanation for a man leaving his house and not coming back within a reasonable length of time. His motorcar and his bicycle are here. But he isn't. People don't disappear as a rule. When they do, there's always someone who wants to know why." Even as he said the words, in his mind's eye he could see the bland face of Martin Deloran as he figuratively washed his hands of g.a.y.l.o.r.d Partridge. "No, that's a lie as well," Rutledge went on. "I don't think, in the end, they really cared, these people, whether Partridge lived or died. What worried them was that he wasn't where he was supposed to be."

"He has a minder. Why should they send you here?"

"A minder?" He had suspected as much. But hadn't expected confirmation.

"I'm not a fool," Slater said, "even though people believe I am. He drinks, does Mr. Brady."

"The man in Number Four?"

"The first time Mr. Partridge went missing, he was beside himself. He'd got very drunk that night and pa.s.sed out in his front garden. I put him to bed, and in the morning he must have thought he'd managed it alone. I never told him otherwise. He took his field gla.s.ses up the hill with the Horse, and searched everywhere. Even in the Smithy. But Mr. Partridge came home again, and all was well. Mr. Brady stayed sober for several weeks afterward, then went back to his drinking."

"Where do you think Partridge went?"

"It's his own business, isn't it? If he'd wanted me to know, he'd have told me."

"Still, if he's dead, it's no longer his business. It's a matter for the police."

"He didn't die here. How could any of us be responsible?"

"How do you know where he died?"

"I don't. But if the sketch was made in Yorkshire, then it must be that he died there."

Simple Slater might be, but stupid he was not.

"A good point. But the fact is, we don't know where he died. His body was found in Yorkshire. Hence the mystery. And the concern."

Slater shook his head as Rutledge finished his tea. "I've nothing to do with this. I'm sorry he's dead, he wasn't a difficult neighbor, though I didn't know him well, but I had nothing to do with his death."

Rutledge set his cup aside and stood up. "I didn't expect you had. But you're a man with clear eyes, and it was important to ask you. Thank you for the tea."

He took up his sketch and walked to the door.

As he was opening it, Slater, behind him, said, "I'd not ask the man in Number Seven about the sketch, if I were you."

Rutledge turned. "Why is that?"

Slater said, "Whenever I see him, I feel the darkness in him. I try to stay out of his way."

"I'll remember that. Thank you." And with that, he closed the door.

Slater had identified the sketch, just as Rutledge had expected. Moreover, he believed the smith. What he needed now was information of a different kind. And for that he chose to call on Quincy next.

Quincy wasn't at home-or at least failed to answer his door-when Rutledge knocked. And so Rutledge moved on to the next cottage, where he'd seen a woman's face at the window on his earlier visit.

She opened the door only, he thought, because after he knocked he stood there waiting.

Through the crack she said, "Yes?" As if he had come to sell brushes or produce from a barrow. He couldn't see her face clearly. But he could tell from her eyes that she was frightened.

"My name is Rutledge. I'd like to speak with you."

"You were here before. Who sent you?"

"Sent me?"

"Was it my husband? He only sends someone if there's bad news."

"I can't bring you bad news," Rutledge answered her quietly. "I don't even know your name."

"It's Cathcart," she answered him. "Maria Cathcart."

"I'm sorry if I frightened you, Miss Cathcart-"

"It's Mrs. Was and still is, whatever he may tell you."

"Mrs. Cathcart. I'm here to ask if you recognize the man in a sketch I'd like to show you. Would you mind if I came in? I'll only stay for a moment, I promise you."

Grudgingly she let him in. The cottage was obsessively neat, as if she had nothing better to do than keep it that way. House-proud? And yet she didn't seem to be the sort of woman who would do her own cleaning. As if she came from different circ.u.mstances than he found her in here. Tall and slim, tired and afraid. It was the only way to describe her. The circles under her troubled blue eyes indicated sleepless nights.

She didn't ask him to sit down. Instead she said with some anxiety, "Show me this man's face."

He opened the folder and held it out to her. She didn't take it, just glanced at the sheet of paper inside, seemed relieved that it was not the person she'd been expecting, and said, "Mr. Partridge, I think. I don't know him well. But I daresay that's him."

"He's been away for some time. Do you have any idea where he might have gone? Or why? Or with whom?"

"I'm not his keeper, nor is he mine," she answered him.

Rutledge said, "Did he have family? Friends who came to call? You can see his cottage well from your windows. You might have noticed who came and went."

"I might have," she agreed. "But I didn't. He was of no concern to me. I doubt we said good morning more than a dozen times all told."

"You never saw anyone at his door?"

"Once when I was in my garden I saw a young woman come to his door. But if he was in the house, he didn't answer her knock. And shortly afterward she left."

"What did she look like?"

"A well-dressed, fair-haired young woman. I couldn't see her face. I made no effort to try. It had nothing to do with me."

Was this the same woman Quincy had seen and a.s.sumed was Partridge's daughter?

"How long have you lived here, Mrs. Cathcart?"

"For fifteen years, this June."

"Which means you were living here when Mr. Partridge first came. Do you remember when that was?"

"Of course I remember. It was during the war. The spring of 1918."

"And he made no effort to be friendly with his neighbors?"

"He was polite. We all are. But we have no desire to befriend one another."

He wondered why she lived here, alone and with no interest in her neighbors.

"And so there's nothing more you can tell me about Mr. Partridge that might help us find him or learn what's become of him?"

"I have no idea what he did with his time or where he went when he wasn't here. I've told you."

"We have reason to fear he may be dead."

She heard him but seemed untouched by the news. "I'm sorry to hear it," she said, but it was perfunctory, good manners coming to the fore. "I've answered your questions. Good day, Mr. Rutledge."

Rutledge accepted his dismissal, but said on the threshold, "Did you know-or hear-what Mr. Partridge did for a living?"

"He appeared to be unemployed. That's all I can tell you."

Rutledge thanked her and left.

He went back to Quincy's cottage and knocked again.

This time the man came to the door and stepped aside to let him in. "Making the rounds of the neighborhood, are you?"

"In a way," Rutledge answered him. Dublin got up from a pillow by the fire and stretched before eyeing Rutledge with suspicion. "I see you're still feeding Partridge's cat."

"She doesn't bother me, nor I her."

Rutledge opened the folder. "Is this Partridge?"

Quincy looked at the sketch. "Yes. Yes, it is. You've found him then. If that's what you came for before."

"We think we might have, yes. He's dead. His body was lying in an old ruin, left for the caretaker to stumble over. There's a possibility that he was murdered."

"Good G.o.d!" He seemed genuinely shocked.