Rutledge got to his feet. "Possibly. But why haven't they scratched over here-or there?"

"It's no' solid proof."

"No."

He left the shrubbery and stood where he could see the windows of the master bedroom above the garden.

Here, at this house-in that room, for all he knew-lay the heart of a family's collapse.

It was as if each of the Parkinsons gave more energy to hurting than to healing.

For one thing, why had Mrs. Parkinson wanted her ashes buried here, if she'd been wretched at Partridge Fields? The answer to that was, she intended them to be a constant reminder to her husband of everything she'd suffered.

He had no idea what she'd had in mind-an urn set on a marble square by the horse fountain, or ashes scattered in the central circle of the French-style beds where the roses grew. It had been Rebecca's decision in the first anguished days after finding her mother dead to spread them throughout the gardens.

Neither mother nor daughter, set on their acts of revenge, had considered how difficult it might ultimately be for Sarah or Rebecca to live here. Punishing Gerald Parkinson was paramount, shutting out every other consideration, and Rebecca was left to reap the whirlwind she had sown.

Where had all this pa.s.sionate need to hurt started?

There was Parkinson's obsession with his work, putting it before his family. And his wife's morbid fascination with the destructive nature of what he did. These must have led to violent arguments, to turn her thoughts to suicide. Or had she been unstable most of her married life?

In that case, why hadn't her daughters spared a moment's sympathy for what their father must have had to endure?

There must have been something else, to send a sensitive mind into a downward spiral of depression and finally despair.

Had Parkinson lashed out physically, when he'd felt his back was to the wall? Striking his wife would have erased any sympathy Rebecca and her sister might have felt.

Then why hadn't Rebecca mentioned it in defense of her anger? Or Sarah dwell on that as she remembered a kinder father?

Rutledge thought, It's time to ask Sarah what she remembers about her parents' relationship, not just her own with her father. It's time to ask Sarah what she remembers about her parents' relationship, not just her own with her father.

But he spared five minutes to walk to the kitchen garden and knock at the door. No one came to open it, and he finally gave it up and went back to his motorcar.

He had some difficulty finding the small house where Sarah Parkinson lived. It stood at the end of a country lane and was no larger than Pockets and far more isolated.

Over a slight rise, he could just see the roof of a barn and tall chimneys.

Why couldn't the sisters live together? It would have made sense. Especially if money was a problem. Rebecca was protective of Sarah, but there wasn't the closeness one might expect under the circ.u.mstances of their mother's death and their father's desertion. Had the ashes been the only problem?

Sarah Parkinson was surprised to see him. She had come to the door at the sound of the motorcar and now stood on the threshold trying to decide whether to tell him to go away or invite him in.

"Good morning," Rutledge began. "I've come to see if you're all right."

"Don't worry, crying over the past won't lead me to do anything rash."

"I expect not. Still. May I come in? I'd like to talk to you."

He could watch the internal debate as she frowned, then said, "I don't expect I have much choice about it."

"We can stand here, if you'd rather."

"No. Come in. But I won't take your hat. You won't be staying long."

Rutledge smiled. "I want to ask you about your parents. If I come in, are you prepared to answer my questions? Otherwise this will be a waste of time for both of us."

She was disconcerted by his bluntness. "If I don't like the questions, I'll tell you."

"Fair enough."

The house was old and had seen hard use. But Sarah Parkinson had tried to make it comfortable and pretty, adding paint to the walls and curtains to the bare windows. A fine French carpet lay on the floor, and some furnishings were a little out of date, as if she'd scavenged them from her parents' attics. They were far better quality than the walls that enclosed them.

"Yes, I've come down in the world," she said, following his gaze. "I only have this house through the courtesy of a friend. It was the best she or I could do."

"I can understand that you don't want to live at Partridge Fields again. But what will you do with it?"

"It's the tomb of my mother. When Becky and I are gone, it can be torn down by people who don't know why we deserted it. Better that way."

"The housekeeper still comes to see to it. Who pays her to clean and sweep?"

"My father, I expect. I can't afford to keep her there."

"May I ask why you and your sister don't choose to live together? It would make sense."

"I think we both prefer the silence. If we were together, we'd talk too much about the past. We wouldn't be able to help it."

"Whose motorcar do you drive? Your own? Or Rebecca's?"

"It belongs to a friend of hers who went to France and came back without his legs. He didn't want to look at it any more, and told her she could drive it."

"But you borrow it from time to time?"

"When I can." She looked away from him, her gaze following a bee at the window. "It's a long walk for both of us to go anywhere. We trade days. It's not the life I'd have chosen."

"You're young. You'll marry in time and the past will seem less vivid."

"After what I've seen of marriage," she retorted, "I want no part of it. It leaves you terribly vulnerable. And in the end you hate each other. My father killed my mother as surely as if he'd held her head under the gas and made her breathe it in. I've never understood why he couldn't love her enough to stop what he was doing. She was so softhearted she couldn't bear to see a bird suffer. He knew that, but it didn't matter. He turned his back on her feelings and did what he wanted to do anyway, and in the end she died. When he saw what he had done, it was too late. late."

"Was it always that way? You remember your father being kind to you, but was he kind to your mother as well? When you were five, for instance, did you think they were happy?"

"I thought they were. More fool I. It must have been a pretense, for our sakes. I realize that now."

"They couldn't have pretended so perfectly that you didn't see the strain of their trying. Children are very perceptive. Think about when you were six-twelve. Think about birthday parties and holidays and long winter evenings together." He tried to suggest images that she could explore, and watched her face closely as she frowned, sorting through her memories.

"When I was four, we went to Cornwall for our holiday. I remember it well, it was the first time I'd seen the sea. And we watched moor ponies one afternoon, and in one of the harbors, there was a fishmonger with a tray of fish, silvery in the sun. We took our breakfast out to the rocks and watched the fishing boats coming in."

"Did your parents laugh? Hold hands with each other? Seem comfortable with each other? Or was there tension, sometimes raised voices?"

"I-yes, I think everything was all right. I rode on my father's shoulders when my legs were tired, and Becky held on to his coattails. Mama laughed, calling us a dragon, three heads, six arms, six legs. And we made up stories about the dragon, how he could run faster than anyone else, and lift twice as much and see before him and behind him at the same time, and my father made silly noises, while Becky laughed so hard she fell down and the dragon came apart."

She looked away, seeing a day she had buried in the past. "I loved my father more than anything, then. I had forgotten."

"And later?"

"We went to Kent when I was six, to visit an aunt. She told us there was a ghost in her house, but it was only mice behind the walls. The next summer, Mama was very ill and kept to her bed. I remember we had to be quiet, and there were nurses coming in to look after her. My father was worried, he sat in his study and I think he cried. His face was wet when I came in to kiss him good night."

Her gaze came back to Rutledge, startled and confused. "I had forgotten. It frightened me to see Mama like that, pale and helpless, and I didn't want to think about it. I don't remember her laughing for a long time even after the nurses had left and she was well again. That was after my father had begun to use the laboratory in the garden. He said he had more freedom there than at Cambridge. She railed at him once, calling him a murderer. She was so distressed, and she threatened to burn down the laboratory. And he told her that if she did, he would leave her."

Sarah Parkinson put her hands to her face, reliving that scene. "It was never the same after that. Never. There were no more holidays. Mama told me that it was because my father refused to leave his precious laboratory long enough to take us anywhere. That it meant more to him than we did, and because he spent so much of his time there, I knew it to be true. Sometimes he had his meals brought to him there. And I'd hear him come up the stairs at night long after we were in bed. I always waited for him to come in and say good night, but he didn't. I thought perhaps he'd stopped loving Becky and me."

"Why was your mother ill? Do you know?"

"I was never told. I have no idea."

"But it changed her-and her feelings toward your father."

Sarah Parkinson bit her lip. "I can't answer that. Although she must have been happy when we were in Kent. She and my father took long walks together, and I watched them from the windows. I was a little jealous, I expect. I know I felt left out. Why are you asking me these things? I've worked hard to forget most of it."

Rutledge didn't want to tell her that he'd come to find out if her father had struck her mother in arguments over the laboratory. Sarah at least had no memory of that. Or had suppressed any she did have. "I never had the opportunity to meet your father. The man who died in Yorkshire is a mystery to all of us."

"Why do you keep telling me that my father died in Yorkshire?" There was an element of defensiveness in her question. "How do you know where he died?"

"All right. The man who was found dead in Yorkshire. He's your father, whether you wish to acknowledge him or not." He rose to leave. "No one wants to claim his body. He'll be buried in a pauper's grave, without a marker."

"You can put the name he used in those cottages on his stone. It was the one he chose, and it shut us out completely. Why should I care about him now?"

"You came back to the cottages," Rutledge said as he walked to the door. "Why?"

Her eyes were bright with tears. "I'm looking for something I lost. But I can live without it. I learned the hard way to do that."

She didn't see him out. He closed the door as he went.

Hamish said, as the motorcar turned toward the cottages at Uffington, "She willna' change her mind. But when she's old, she'll have regrets to overcome."

"Unlike her sister."

"Aye, the elder. She learned to hate at her mother's knee."

"Her mother's child. As Sarah might well have been her father's favorite."

"Looking into the past hasna' given you a solution."

"Not yet."

Rutledge arrived at the cottages and walked down the lane separating them, turning in at Mrs. Cathcart's door.

She was reluctant to open to him, but in the end, her innate politeness won. She said, "That other policeman has been here, asking me what I've seen, what I know, how Mr. Brady struck me. I don't spy on my neighbors and I didn't know Mr. Brady well enough to answer him."

"Do you think Mr. Brady spied on his neighbors? I'm told he spent most of his time sitting at his windows, looking out."

"I expect he was lonely. Most of us are, you know. He did seem more interested in Mr. Partridge than he was in the rest of us, but then it was Mr. Partridge's cottage he could see best. Of course Mr. Willingham was always accusing Mr. Brady of staring at him. I can't believe either of them is dead. Do you think Mr. Partridge is as well? If I had anywhere else to go, I'd leave this place. I don't feel safe here, I'm terrified of being murdered in my my bed." bed."

He wished he could tell her that she had little chance of that. "Keep your door locked. Don't open it at night to anyone, no matter what he may say to you."

"I'd ask Mr. Slater to be sure my locks couldn't be tampered with. But he's hurt his hand, and it must be very painful. Will you look at my door and windows?"

He agreed and followed her through the rooms of her cottage testing the latches on windows and the main door. "If you're afraid, keep a light on. It will be a comfort."

"Do you think Inspector Hill is capable of doing anything about these frightening events? I've not been impressed by him. He's a local man, after all. And he doesn't know anything about us."

"He's making every effort."

"I'm not sure that's good enough." She tugged at her earlobe, clearly upset. "For a very long time, now, I've been afraid of dying," she confessed. "I always believed my husband would see to it that I was quietly disposed of. Now it may be a complete stranger who makes him the happiest man in England."

Rutledge said, "Would you prefer to stay at The Smith's Arms for several nights, until this business is finished? You're the only woman here. You might be more comfortable."

She said, the strain apparent in her voice, "I've considered that. I'd do it, if I could afford it."

"Let me have a word with Mrs. Smith. I think it might be possible to arrange."

Mrs. Cathcart said, "Please? Let me go with you? I've only to put a few things into my overnight case. When the sun begins to set, I can hardly breathe for fear."

Rutledge took pity on her and said, "Yes, of course. I'll wait."

It took her less time than he'd expected. She came out of her bedroom with a worn leather valise and handed it to him. "I'm so grateful. You can't imagine. There's no one I can turn to. I could smell the smoke at Mr. Quincy's cottage in the night, and at first I thought it was mine. Even so, I sat here, wondering what would be worse, burning to death or walking outside into the arms of someone with a knife. They say he prefers a knife. I thought Mr. Brady confessed."

She paused on the threshold, stricken by a thought. "It isn't Mr. Partridge, is it? Coming back here and attacking us? I've heard people can be struck down by a brainstorm, and not know what they're doing."

"You don't have to fear Mr. Partridge. I don't think he'll be coming back to the cottages."

She locked her door behind her but didn't look back as he helped her into the motorcar. He could feel her worry drain away until she was light-headed from relief.

It took him five minutes to convince Mrs. Smith that he had no ulterior motive in paying for Mrs. Cathcart's room. He also made her promise to say nothing about who was taking care of the account.

Then, as Mrs. Cathcart stepped into the inn, Mrs. Smith smiled at her and welcomed her, saying, "I'll bring up a cup of tea after I've shown you your room."

Mrs. Cathcart cast a grateful glance at Rutledge and followed Mrs. Smith up the stairs, answering questions about the two deaths as they climbed.

He went into the pub, sat down in the window seat, and tried to shut out Hamish's voice. The large room was empty of custom, and in the quietness Rutledge considered a possibility that had nagged at the edges of his consciousness for several hours.

Which of his daughters had Parkinson started a letter to, only to crumple it up and toss it aside as if the words he wanted wouldn't come?

My dear...

If it was Sarah, then he must have held out hope of some sort of reconciliation.

If it was Rebecca, he might well be trying to make amends for what she felt he'd done to her mother.

Hamish said, "But he didna' send it. Which brings up the question of whether he'd ha' gone with ither one o' them, if they'd come to his door late at night. And it must ha' been late-no one saw what happened."