"Interesting about the cars," Rutledge said. "The body was transported in Partridge's. Which suggests that the daughter without the car that night was the one who killed him."

"It's a long way on foot for ither o' them."

"A friend could have driven them to Uffington. It's an easy walk from there."

But what if the unfinished letter was simply a first draft, and Parkinson had after all sent what he'd written?

What if he had intended to sell Partridge Fields? Would that threat be the last straw for Rebecca?

My dear Rebecca, I am writing to tell you that I've decided that the time has come to sell the house and grounds. If there's anything in the house that you wish to have, please make arrangements to remove the item before I put the property on the market....

And that would have brought Rebecca storming to his door in the middle of the night after struggling for hours to find a way to stop him.

Or look at it another way round.

The letter might have been very different.

My dear Rebecca, I'm writing to tell you that I've decided to move back to Partridge Fields now. I've made arrangements for the house to be refurbished and the gardens cleared and replanted....

All that was necessary was to persuade their father to spend one night in the house while they argued over his plan. The rest would have been simple. Drug him, turn on the gas, and let him die while he slept.

But why then remove Parkinson from the house and carry his body to Yorkshire? Why not leave him there for the housekeeper to find, and let him be buried in the churchyard with his ancestors?

Perhaps they had left Parkinson where he died-and it was Deloran who had ordered the body moved, so that both Parkinson and Partridge were disposed of in one neat solution.

21.

It was late, but Rutledge went back to Rebecca Parkinson's house. And even though she refused to answer the door, he stood outside and called her name.

"Miss Parkinson, I know you can hear me. If you won't come out, then we can conduct our business this way. I want you to give some thought to what is happening in Uffington. Inspector Hill has a confession that was found next to the body of a man Dreadnought set to watch your father for two years. In that confession, there's an admission by the dead man that he killed your father and then murdered another resident who might have seen this man going into your father's cottage the night he disappeared."

He waited, but Rebecca Parkinson neither came to the door nor answered him from inside.

Hamish said, "Ye're wasting your breath. If she didna' kill her father, she's verra' glad someone did."

Rutledge answered him in the silence of his mind. "We must have a family member make a positive identification of that body, even if we must exhume it. It's the only way I can think of to persuade either sister to take that step. We'll worry about murder after that. It's what every case is built on, the ident.i.ty of a body."

Aloud, he said, "I'm bound to tell you, Miss Parkinson, that Inspector Hill isn't completely satisfied that the confession is in the dead man's handwriting. That must be verified. But if it is, and the confession is allowed to stand, there will be matters you and your sister must deal with. We've already found evidence that your father's motorcar was used to transport his body north, before being returned to the cottage. We'll need to prove once and for all that the man in Yorkshire is one Gerald Parkinson, not g.a.y.l.o.r.d Partridge."

Still there was no answer.

Rutledge began to doubt that Rebecca Parkinson was in the house after all. She could easily have gone out through the kitchen yard and walked away.

"Whether you like it or not, you will be faced with other issues. Who will pay the housekeeper's wages if your father is dead and his estate is left unsettled? Who will pay for repairing the drains and rooting out worm in the wood, and seeing to the roof? Are you prepared to stand and watch the house fall down for lack of money? Whether you want to touch your inheritance or not, you will find it will make a difference in what becomes of you and your sister, and the house at Partridge Fields."

He had hoped that that would be a telling argument in persuading her to identify the body. But the silence lengthened.

"At least give me the name of your father's solicitor, Miss Parkinson. I shall have to contact him. Meanwhile, you're letting your anger blind you. I think your mother would want to know that you and your sister were provided for."

But the bait was ignored.

No response, no angry outburst, no confrontation in the failing light, where he could try to read Rebecca Parkinson's face and define her reactions.

He'd learned long ago that when people could be persuaded to talk, even about something as simple as the weather, he had a better chance of building a bridge to the truth. Silence worked in favor of the suspect-if there was no conversation, there would be nothing to stumble over later.

Hamish said, "Ye ken, ye said fra' the start, this sister couldna be persuaded to work wi' the police."

Please G.o.d, Sarah would be a different sort. Certainly she was the more emotional of the two women. And probably the less stubborn.

In the end he left, driving back to Berkshire in the waning light of a spring evening.

It was just dark when he reached The Smith's Arms. Tired and dispirited, he had listened to Hamish for miles, and he wished only for peace.

As he walked into the inn, he stopped short.

Sitting quietly in the chair by the window, where sometimes he had eaten his breakfast, was Meredith Channing.

The surprise was so complete that he simply stood there, unable to imagine what had brought her here, how she had found him. Even Hamish hadn't warned him. And then he remembered that she was a friend of Frances's, and he asked quickly, "Is anything wrong?"

She rose to greet him, something in her face that frightened him. But then she said, "I thought it best to come and tell you about Simon Barrington. For your sister's sake."

"How did you find me?"

"I asked a friend to call the Yard. Sergeant Gibson was kind enough to give me your direction." She looked around, listening to the sounds of laughter and someone's harmonica making rowdy music in the bar. "Is there anywhere that we can be private?"

"The night is mild enough. We can walk, if you'd like."

She preceded him through the doorway, and said, "I pa.s.sed the White Horse as I was coming in. It's amazing. One of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. There's something about it that is-I don't know-rather fearsome. And yet not at all frightening."

"I've always admired it."

They turned in the direction of Wayland's Smithy. He said, "I saw Simon when I was in Lincoln. With another woman. I didn't know who she was."

"Yes, well, she's his sister, and she's been having an appalling time. He goes north every weekend, even midweek if it's necessary. He hasn't told anyone but his closest friends, people who know her too. Her husband's dead, you see, and she's ill, rather a dreadful illness I'm afraid, and he takes her to the doctor in Lincoln for treatments. I expect he doesn't know how long she may have to live, and if she does, how long she will need to convalesce."

"Why tell me this? Why not speak to Frances directly?"

"If I tell her, I'm betraying a confidence from a friend. But Frances came to me for answers, and I know how wretched she is. I'm hoping you'll find a way to a.s.sure her that it isn't personal."

"I'll do my best." He hesitated. "Is she in love with Simon, do you think? Or is this a pa.s.sing fancy? I've been busy, and there hasn't been time to find out."

"I think she's lonely, and sometimes that palls. Simon is single, attractive, and of her own social set. If she isn't in love with him, she may believe she ought to be. And that could go a long way toward explaining her unhappiness."

He hadn't considered that possibility. It put matters in a different light.

They had reached the Smithy and stood beside it, gazing at it but not really seeing it. He thought that Frances was not the only problem that Mrs. Channing had brought with her.

After a moment she said, "I shouldn't have come. This could have waited."

"I'm glad you did."

In the darkness her face was a pale blur framed by her hair. "Ian. I only just heard about Jean Montroy's death."

He took a deep breath. "It was a surprise." Inadequate, but that was all he could manage.

"Yes, it must have been. I'm sorry."

Rutledge turned away, listening to the roar of Hamish's voice in his ears, and not understanding any of what he was saying.

"What did the poet say? That the saddest words of tongue or pen were what might have been? It's true. If we'd been married in the summer of last year, the child might have been mine. But it wasn't, and if she was happy, I'm glad. Her happiness was brief enough." He walked a short distance, then came back. "Who told you?"

"It was in the Canadian newspapers, of course, and a friend sent me the cutting. I wondered if you would like to have it."

He considered that, and in the end, said, "Thank you. No. At least not at present."

"Of course." She put her hand on one of the stones that formed the Smithy and said, apropos of nothing, "Whoever was buried here must have been famous in his day. I wonder what his life was like, and his death."

"I don't suppose there's any way to know. Although the local smith will tell you that there's still treasure to be found inside."

"Perhaps he's right. Well, it's late, and I must be on my way. I'm staying with friends a few miles from here, and they'll be wondering what's become of me."

They walked back to the inn in a comfortable silence, and he found it soothing. "Where is your motorcar? I didn't see it when I came in."

"I left it in the kitchen yard. Mrs. Smith thought it best." He could hear the amus.e.m.e.nt in her voice. "I don't think she quite agrees with women driving."

He turned the crank for her and said, as she pulled on her driving gloves, "Thank you for coming."

"I wasn't sure it was the right thing to do. Good night, Ian." And with that she drove out of the inn yard and went on her way.

He watched the rear light disappearing down the road before turning back to the main door and going inside.

Rutledge didn't sleep well. He was awakened by the sound of guns firing in the distance-artillery, German, he could tell-and realized after the first startled instant that they were in his head. He'd been dreaming about the Front, and it had stayed with him even though he had awakened from it. The inn was quiet around him, and he lay there listening to the night.

In the darkness he heard Hamish saying, "Why did a friend send yon widow a cutting aboot your Jean?"

It hadn't occurred to him to question that at the time, but it struck him as odd now. Why had she really come? To see how he was mourning Jean? Or to be certain that the news hadn't eroded his narrow margin of safety, his tenuous grip on sanity? He wasn't sure how much Meredith Channing knew about his war. Sometimes it seemed that she guessed more than he was prepared for anyone to know. But then she'd been at the Front, a nurse in the forward aid station closest to his section. She had seen men in every state between living and dying and somehow managed to keep her own sanity intact. There was a well of something there, understanding perhaps or sympathy, even knowledge. But no pity. He couldn't have borne that from anyone.

A rooster crowed in the distance, and Rutledge reached for his watch, lighting his lamp long enough to glance at it. Dawn would be breaking soon.

And with it, what? Another murder? Another day of chasing a truth that didn't want to be discovered?

Sometimes he thought that Gerald Parkinson would be happier in an anonymous grave rather than one where he wasn't wanted.

After a time he drifted again into sleep, his last thought one that had grown out of his conversation with Meredith Channing.

A murderer would have put Parkinson's body in Wayland's Smithy and called his death a suicide.

When he came down the next morning, Mrs. Cathcart was eating her breakfast at the table that was usually his, but he made no move to join her. She seemed to be in better spirits, and Mrs. Smith had been carrying on a running conversation with her as each dish was brought in. The subject under discussion was affairs at the cottages, and they had reached the point of debating whether Partridge was one of the victims or not.

"He's not been seen for some time. But the police were there, in his cottage, and nothing was said about finding him," Mrs. Cathcart was saying.

"He would come here sometimes to talk with the lorry drivers. The distance to this place or that, what accommodations might be had, what kind of weather he might expect. I didn't know for the longest time that he was from the cottages-I thought he'd come in from Uffington. Horrible to imagine him murdered. Are they quite sure of that?" Mrs. Smith asked over a rack of toast.

Rutledge asked, "Did he ever talk about his visit to Liverpool?"

It was Deloran and his men who had tracked Parkinson there. And Rutledge had never been satisfied that Parkinson hadn't lured them there, to keep his watchers from guessing what he'd really done during his brief absences.

But neither Mrs. Cathcart nor Mrs. Smith could answer that question.

Mrs. Smith was called away by two drivers just in, and Mrs. Cathcart was still sitting over the last of her tea when he left the inn.

Hamish said, "She believes her husband willna' think to look for her here."

It was true-The Smith's Arms was hardly a place where the Mrs. Cathcarts of this world spent their days. But she seemed less anxious this morning, as if she had slept well enough.

Rutledge drove as far as the foot of the lane and pulled the motorcar to the verge. The sun was watery as he walked up to the cottage occupied by Mr. Allen. The smith had fashioned a wrought-iron SIX SIX in a Gothic script for Allen's door, giving it a distinction the other cottages lacked. in a Gothic script for Allen's door, giving it a distinction the other cottages lacked.

The curtains twitched in the front window before the door was opened to Rutledge's knock.

"Taking precautions," Allen said in explanation as he moved aside to let Rutledge inside the small entry. "I'm dying but have no interest in hurrying the process."

"Miss Chandler, who once lived in Brady's cottage, sends you her regards. She was pleased to hear that you're still alive."

He smiled. "She didn't belong here. But beggars can't be choosers. I'd wondered if her good fortune was truly that."

"It appears to have been."

"I wish I were well out of here myself. This business of murder practically on one's doorstep is not good for any of us, I expect. I've found it hard to sleep. I spoke to Miller this morning, and he agrees, if we had anywhere else to go, we'd be off. I'm not up to travel, sadly. I'll have to take my chances."

"What does Miller think about events?"

"He's a rather timid man, and he overcomes it with bl.u.s.ter. Once you get past that, he's all right. Though I don't count him a friend, you understand. He's not convinced that Brady is our man. He favors poor Slater, telling me that he'd not be predictable in taxing situations. Miller says he grew up with one such and there was murder done because of a misunderstanding that got out of hand. I can't say that I agree. I've never seen Slater violent."

"That leaves you, Singleton, and Quincy to be cast as murderers."

Allen smiled. "I daresay I'm not in Inspector Hill's sights, given my health." The smile faded. "What's become of Mrs. Cathcart? I haven't seen her today. Has someone looked in on her?"

"Yes, she's fine. She was enjoying breakfast earlier."