"Would you betray your sister?"

"The circ.u.mstances here are different." But even as he denied it, he knew how much he loved Frances and would protect her.

"No' sae different in my view," Hamish said dryly, as if he'd read Rutledge's mind.

"You had no sisters or brothers. How can you be so sure what you'd have done in my shoes?"

"Aye, it's true. All the same, you'll no' get anywhere with this la.s.s."

He had a strong feeling Hamish might be right. In the end, they could very well get away with murder if they could prove they hadn't touched Willingham or Brady.

And while it was essential to his evidence that they go to Yorkshire and positively identify Inspector Madsen's nameless body, they might decide to accommodate him, let him take them there, and in front of witnesses deny that it was Gerald Parkinson.

He was surprised that Rebecca at least hadn't considered doing just that. If she ever separated her anger from her best interests, it might still happen that way and her father would be buried as g.a.y.l.o.r.d Partridge. And as surely as the sun rose every morning, Martin Deloran would be delighted to support her testimony.

It was time to put his case in writing. Rutledge drove back to the cottages to ask Allen to make a statement identifying Parkinson as the neighbor he'd known as Partridge.

It wasn't strong enough to overturn what Parkinson's own daughters told the court, but it might serve to cast doubt on their motives.

But when Rutledge arrived on Allen's doorstep, the man shook his head. He seemed to have aged in a matter of hours, the color of his skin mottled and his hands trembling. "I must rest. Come back this afternoon, if you please."

When Rutledge expressed concern, Allen reminded him, "There are good days and bad. And this hadn't been one of my better ones. They're farther and farther apart now. My doctor warned me, but of course one always supposes he'll be wrong. He wasn't."

He closed his door and Rutledge heard the click of the bolt as he locked it.

Rutledge walked away, thinking that Allen would have a difficult time when it came to giving evidence at a trial. But he would be believed, he was that sort of man. And the view of the jury might well be that a dying man had nothing to gain by lying.

The next statement he wanted was Miller's. Rutledge was surprised when the man answered the door. He explained what he needed.

Miller said, "I told you what I saw. I don't see any point in writing it out."

"What you told me is evidence in a murder inquiry. I can corroborate what you've said, but I can't speak for you. It was you who saw the motorcar come back. It was you who saw Brady go into the Partridge cottage. If both events happened the way you described them to me, you have nothing to fear."

"I'm not much for what follows, appearing in court."

"You'll be summoned to give evidence, whether you wish to or not. It's out of my hands."

"Oh, very well," Miller replied grudgingly. "Come again in half an hour, and I'll give it to you." He said, almost as an afterthought, "What was it you were badgering Allen about? Did he see something as well? Let him give you a statement in my place."

"It doesn't work that way, Miller."

Rutledge went to Quincy's cottage and at first thought that Quincy might not open his door. But he did, saying, "The minders, those two constables in what was Brady's cottage. What are they supposed to do? Arrest our killer as soon as he strikes again? They're not fit enough to run a man down."

A hot, spicy aroma filled the air behind him, distinctly un-English.

"They're Hill's men, here to keep the peace."

Quincy snorted. "Well, they're a d.a.m.ned sight too late for Willingham and Brady. And if Brady did the killing, what are we in need of minders for, tell me that? It's the fire setter who worries me."

"Early days yet, to be certain it was Brady." His curiosity got the better of him. "What are you making?"

"It's something I learned to cook in Mexico. Chili with chocolate cooked in it. Not bad. I admit to homesickness now and again. At least for the food. I've grown fond of a bit more flavor than boiled cabbage and boiled potatoes and boiled beef. I gather you're looking for something other than culinary lessons. And if it's character references you want, Dublin will do."

"Have you told me everything you could? Or is your fear of your brother finding out you're back in England locking up your tongue?"

"I don't know anything more than I've told you. I kept the cat when he wasn't here. We spoke from time to time and that was it."

"He never gave you anything to keep for him, while he was away?"

"Like state secrets, do you mean?" He grinned. "Hardly. He knew he couldn't trust me for the simple reason that I put myself above all else. I've a comfortable life here, and I'm not interested in setting it at risk. The kettle's on, if you want a cup of tea."

Rutledge followed him inside, and as Quincy worked, went into the room with the birds.

"You were lucky the cottage didn't burn down with you in it," he told his host. "It was a near thing."

"And I haven't got rid of the smell yet. Did you notice it? I expect that's why I decided to make chili. I brought spices back with me when I came to England, and they're running out. I need to find a way to stock them in again."

"Surely you left behind friends who could oblige you."

Quincy came back with the tea. "No, I didn't. I burnt those bridges. I didn't want someone showing up in England to surprise me. Here you are. What fascinates you about my birds?"

"How you killed them, before you mounted them."

"That's what Partridge asked me as well. Sorry to disappoint you, but I had others do it for me. I didn't like that part of it. But birds live and die, either by the hand of a small boy with a slingshot or in the jaws of a predator stalking them on the jungle floor. I knew what birds I wanted, and I paid to have them brought to me. I've told you."

So he had. But Rutledge still had his doubts.

Quincy said as he pa.s.sed Rutledge sugar for his tea, "I borrowed the sugar from Allen, by the way. I knew you'd come calling again. All right, let's look at the broader picture. If I'd killed Willingham and Brady, I'd have done it more efficiently. Taken my shotgun and seen them off quickly and with a minimum of fuss."

"And a maximum of noise."

"There's that," Quincy acknowledged. "But I'm not one for carving up my enemies with a knife. It's a favorite weapon in Central America, but I never took to it. The same holds for why I didn't kill these birds myself. I don't have to feel guilty every time I look at them for how they may have died."

"Everyone here has secrets. You said as much yourself. I know most of them now, and none of them appears to be worth a murder. Much less two."

"Yes, well, there are secrets and secrets."

"And yours might be that if your brother demands that you leave England again, you don't dare show your face in Central America."

Something flickered in his eyes, but Quincy said, "The world is wide, and there are other places to hide."

Hamish said, "He canna' return. Or he wouldna' ha' risked coming home."

Rutledge smiled. "There are ways to find out if there are warrants out for your arrest."

"I'm not so worried about the police, d.a.m.n it. There's a family out for my blood and likely to have it if I'm not careful. It's easy to hire an a.s.sa.s.sin where people are poor and desperate. I'd never know the face of my murderer until he was on me. And so I paid a few bribes of my own and got out."

It had the ring of truth.

But that left Allen and Miller and Singleton. As well as Rebecca Parkinson.

"Ye forgot the smith," Hamish warned Rutledge.

He had. Finishing his tea, he asked, "What secrets did Willingham have?"

"That made him a victim? Who knows? If you caught the rough edge of his tongue, you might want to kill him on general principles."

Rutledge rose to leave. "But you were nearly a victim as well. After Brady died."

"Yes. We might need to ask ourselves, what set something in motion that can't be stopped? And that's why I sleep with the shotgun to hand. If he comes in here, I'll be ready for him."

It was an interesting remark, and it stayed with Rutledge after he left Quincy's cottage.

We might need to ask ourselves, what set something in motion that can't be stopped?

He climbed the hill and sat down on the chalk edge of the great horse's foreleg.

Secrets within secrets...Something set in motion that can't be stopped.

What had changed in this tiny hamlet of nine cottages over the past two years?

Partridge had come to live here, and then Allen had unwittingly given him away to someone who pa.s.sed the news of Parkinson's whereabouts to Deloran. Brady had then taken over the cottage vacated by Miss Chandler, after her fortuitous "inheritance" from a cousin had allowed her to move elsewhere.

That had covered what, the s.p.a.ce of a few weeks or months?

And after that, nine people had lived together in peace if not in harmony until Partridge went away and failed to come back.

He'd have thought, Rutledge mused silently, that the first death ought to have been Brady's. But Partridge had accepted his watcher and very likely proceeded to play with him by disappearing at intervals. Better the devil you know... Better the devil you know...

Partridge's death had stirred up something here.

Or was it Rutledge's appearance on the scene to find out where he'd gone and why?

That was more to the point. Whatever Inspector Hill wanted to believe.

Hamish said, "Else, someone came looking for what yon old lady had typed. When you didn't find it."

But Rutledge couldn't believe that Parkinson would have trusted anything of value to a curmudgeon like Willingham. Then again, why not? The least likely place might have been the most secure.

That still wouldn't explain Brady's death, even if Brady had gone to search Number 3 while he thought Willingham was asleep.

It all came round to what they'd seen the night Partridge vanished.

And-both deaths occurred after Rutledge had made himself known to Parkinson's daughters. That ought to have been included in his time line.

"Speak of the devil-" Hamish began.

Below Rutledge a motorcar went speeding by, and he recognized it-it was one that Sarah Parkinson borrowed from her sister.

It looked as if the things he'd said to her only this morning had sent her headlong to confer with Rebecca.

Rutledge went down the hill fast, reached his own motorcar, and set out in pursuit.

He wanted to be there when the sisters met.

Halfway down the hill he stopped. The door to Allen's cottage had swung open, and Allen himself stood there for an instant and then went sprawling head first into the front garden.

Rutledge changed course, and shouting for Slater or Quincy, raced to Allen's aid. No one came to help him. Not even the constables Hill had left on watch.

When he reached Allen, he could see that there was no need for help. The man was dying. Rutledge turned him over and lifted the thin shoulders into his arms, holding him.

Allen looked up, squinted at the sky, then slowly brought Rutledge's face into focus. "It's you," he said. "You won't get your statement after all. Sorry."

He lay back, trying to breathe. After a moment he said, "I don't regret going this way. I'm just grateful that I'm not alone. I always worried about that, you know. Silly, when I chose to live here by myself."

Rutledge said, "Is there anything I can do? Anyone you want me to contact?"

"It's all there, in my desk. You're a good man, Rutledge. Thank you for coming."

Allen began to recite the Twenty-third Psalm, breathless and yet not hurrying, as if he knew he had time. When he'd finished he said, "I didn't live a blameless life. But I never did anyone any harm. I expect G.o.d will take that into account."

Rutledge had seen men die, most of them young, and had held more than one frightened boy until it was over. Allen, worn and frail, had reached the end of a normal life span, but it made no difference. Watching was difficult. But he spoke quietly, steadily, to the dying man, and Allen answered as long as he was able. And then he was quiet, but still breathing. After an interval he said, quoting King Charles II, "I seem to be an unconscionable time a-dying." His chuckle caught on a small cough, and then he was gone, the light fading from his eyes.

Rutledge said, "Rest in peace. I hope you have found it wherever you are."

He could feel his leg cramping but went on holding Allen for some time, until Slater, returning from the direction of Uffington, saw them there and came on the run.

"What's happened?" he called as he reached them.

"Allen is dead. Time caught up with him, I think."

"Yes, he told me once that the doctor had given him six to eight months, but he was determined to live longer. And so he did."

He reached down and gathered the man's body in his arms, lifting him gently and carrying him into the cottage where he laid Allen on his bed.

Rutledge, working out the cramp in his leg, followed them.

"I'll go for Inspector Hill. Will you stay here?" Slater asked.

Rutledge thought of the sisters meeting, the danger that Sarah might stand in. It was already too late to get there in time.

He answered, "Go on. I'll wait."