"Why leper houses? Was leprosy a problem here?"

She paused on her way back to the kitchen. "It was a Miss Tomlin, they say, who was set on them, having been a missionary and seen her share of suffering. And there's a leper in the Bible, you know. I expect that was what put her in mind of doing something for them. She sold off another parcel of land her grandfather had left her and sent for a builder to make cottages where the poor things could live without being tormented. But she never found any 'children of G.o.d' as she called them, and she died not long after."

"At least she cared enough to try."

"Well, there's that, I expect. Or a guilty conscience. The fact is, she could have done more good with her money in other directions, in my opinion. A touch of the sun, it's what my granddad always said. Too much sun and too long in heathen lands. She'd lost sight of what truly needed doing in England England. And I've dishes to see to. My husband's gone to market, and the girl who dries for me has a bad thumb, so I'm on my own. Give me half an hour, and there'll be a room for you."

She was gone, leaving him to the hearty breakfast.

Afterward she showed him to a small room that seemed Lilliputian, and he remembered the young man on the road. He'd have played the very devil getting himself into this box, He'd have played the very devil getting himself into this box, he thought. he thought.

And the cramped s.p.a.ce sent his claustrophobia reeling. The first order of business was to open the only window, which looked out on the road. He stood there breathing in the morning air and fighting an urge to run back down the stairs after Mrs. Smith, begging for something larger. But there weren't any larger rooms, given the size of the building.

Fatigue overtook him after a few minutes, and he lay down on the narrow bed, asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. The fragrance of sun-dried sheets folded with lavender was the last thing he remembered.

It was late morning when he drove back to the White Horse and climbed the hill. His legs were longer than they had been at age nine, and he made short work of it now. As a child he'd huffed and puffed in his father's wake, trying to keep pace but stumbling as he tried to see everything at once.

Hamish, unhappy with this heathen horse, kept him company with a vigorous objection to having any part of it.

When one stood on the crest of the hill looking down at the figure, it was difficult to pick out what the expanse of white chalk represented. Aware of what the design was, it was possible to identify the flowing tail, the legs stretched in a gallop, the reared head. But the ancient people who had cut the turf here to create the figure must have had someone standing on the ground below, guiding them.

As, he realized, someone was standing now, looking up at him.

He began to walk back the way he'd come, and the man stayed where he was. It wasn't the young giant from early this morning, but an older man with gray in his hair and a lined face. His eyes, when Rutledge was near enough to see them, were brown but the whites were yellow.

Malaria.

Rutledge had seen troops from the Commonwealth, especially India, with just such yellowing.

"Good morning," he said to the man, for all the world a traveler taken with the local sight. "It's quite a piece of work, isn't it? I expect it was dug with wooden mattocks or antler horn. I wonder how long it took to create the full figure."

"Don't ask me, I don't know a d.a.m.ned thing about it. And care less. Is that what brought you here, the horse?"

Warily, Rutledge said, "Should there be another reason?"

"Well, Partridge has gone missing again. There's generally someone from London looking in on him or waiting for him to come back when he's on one of his walkabouts."

It was an Australian term, and the man seemed to use it as if from habit.

"How do you know he's-er-gone missing?"

"I feed his cat, don't I? When he's not to home, she comes to my door. That's the arrangement we have. And I don't mind, she's a good mouser."

Rutledge held out his hand and introduced himself.

"Quincy," the other man said, briefly. "Well, since you're down, you'll want to come for a spot of tea."

"Thank you, Mr. Quincy."

"No, just Quincy," he retorted, turning on his heel to lead the way to the cottage across from the one with the white gate.

Rutledge bent his head to follow his host inside. The rooms were small but of a size for one man to manage well enough. Or one woman. He'd glimpsed a woman's face peering out at him from her windows as he had turned from the road into the lane that linked the cottages.

"That chair's got better springs," Quincy said, pointing it out.

Rutledge sat down and looked around. From the sitting room/ parlor, he could see a kitchen in the back where Quincy was busy, a second room across the entry from this one, its door shut, and in the middle of the house, stairs up to a loft.

"Quite comfortable here, are you?" Rutledge asked.

"If you like small places," Quincy answered, putting on the kettle. "I've had to store some of my belongings under the bed upstairs. Where did you drive from?"

"London," Rutledge answered and they talked until the kettle whistled about the city, which Quincy seemed to know, although his information was often more than a little out of date as if he hadn't been there for some time.

The closed door creaked, a paw came out and around it, followed by a long gray cat with orange eyes. Behind her, Rutledge could see a burst of color in the room, as if tins of paint had been splattered everywhere.

"Dublin!" Quincy, catching sight of the cat, swore and came to scoop her up to put her outside. But first he'd shut the inner door quickly as if not wishing Rutledge to know what was in the room beyond.

But Rutledge had already guessed. Birds, in every hue, every size, all naturally posed. And all quite dead.

He said nothing, accepting the cup of tea he was offered. "These cottages are interesting. What's their history?"

"Not much," Quincy told him bluntly. "Built at a guess some fifty years ago by a woman who had more money than sense. Comfortable enough, but I need a bicycle to go anywhere. It's out back."

"And how did Partridge get around?"

"He had a motorcar. It's in the shed behind his house. I expect he wasn't going far and left it in favor of his own bicycle."

"Does he usually wander off like this?"

"He's mad as a hatter," Quincy responded sourly. "Goes where the wind blows."

"And who comes here looking for him?"

"Business a.s.sociates. So they tell me. It seems he worked for a firm in London before he was put to pasture, and apparently someone there still cares what becomes of him."

"That's thoughtful," Rutledge answered.

"Not thoughtful, careful. I expect he was someone important enough that they didn't want the world and its brother knowing he's gone balmy."

"When was the last time he left?"

"February, it was. The man here when Partridge came back told me he'd been spotted on a street corner in Birmingham, preaching peace and harmony to the world."

"That's cold work in February."

"Yes, well, I don't think he cares. I don't think he cares for anything except Dublin, the cat. A young woman came here once and he wouldn't let her in. I expect it was his daughter. There was a resemblance, at least."

"His wandering off must worry her."

"Most of the time it's only a day, a day and a half that he's away. Occasionally it's a longer period of time. Someone told me, I forget who it was, that he must have another house elsewhere. That that's where he goes. But he's never spoken of it, so my guess is that it isn't true. Gossip is not always reliable. And in his case, not always helpful."

"And his daughter never came back?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"A pity. It sounds as if Partridge needs her."

"He doesn't need anyone when he's right in his head. Which is most of the time. You're very interested in him, for a pa.s.serby."

"Yes, well, I've time on my hands. And people intrigue me. Partridge's walkabouts as you call them. Your birds." As a diversion, it worked beautifully.

"Seen them, did you? Well, there's no law broken in having them."

"None that I know of."

Rutledge had finished his tea, and stood up. "Thank you for your hospitality."

"If you're needful of seeing in the cottage, Partridge never locked it."

Surprised, Rutledge said, "I have no right to trespa.s.s on his privacy."

"The other watchers weren't so particular about that."

"Yes, well, as it happens, I'm not one of the other watchers. Thank you again, Quincy."

"I'll see you about. Watcher or not."

Rutledge left. The woman who had been peering out her window at him was in her back garden, hanging a morning's wash on the line. He wondered if it was to see who he was and what he did next. A better vantage point than the window.

He walked back to his motorcar to find the young man he'd met earlier with his head deep in the bonnet.

He jerked it out as he heard Rutledge approaching, and said, "I like mechanical things. Engines. Whatever. Do you mind?"

"Not at all. The name's Rutledge."

The other man held out his hand, saw that it was filthy and drew it back again. "Andrew, Andrew Slater."

"I've been admiring the White Horse," Rutledge said as Slater dove back into the inner workings of the engine.

"I saw you this morning. Asleep on the road."

"Yes-" He let it go at that.

"We don't get many visitors this time of year," Slater went on, voice m.u.f.fled. "The horse is most popular in the summer. People bring baskets and spread out a cloth and have their lunch or their tea there. I don't think the horse much cares for that."

"I needed to get away from London," Rutledge said. "This was as good a place as any. Why should the horse care?"

"Someone put him there, a long time ago. He was a G.o.d, then. But we've forgotten why today. And so to most he's only a chalk figure."

Slater withdrew his head and folded the bonnet back in its place. "She runs sweetly, your motorcar."

"Thank you." Rutledge looked at the filthy hands, the black ground into the creases and whorls of the skin. "A smith, are you?"

Slater grinned widely. "Yes. Or to say it another way, I was. Until the war came and took away the horses. I work with motors now, and mend things. My dad didn't have the knack of that, but I do. Do you want to see?"

Without waiting for an answer, he led Rutledge to one of the cottages, the outer one in the half circle they formed.

Slater dwarfed it just walking through the door, and Rutledge felt a spasm of claustrophobia when he went in and was asked to shut the door behind him.

The house was surprisingly tidy. On a table under the back window, an array of work was set out.

"I don't keep such things at the forge," Slater was saying as he gestured shyly to the table. "Don't want anyone walking off with them. They do, thinking I won't notice."

Rutledge saw a set of hinges in wrought iron, with matching k.n.o.bs in the shape of a beaver, and the cabinet for them on the floor next to a table leg. They were beautifully done, as was the b.u.t.terfly hook for hanging a plant by a door and a set of fire irons, shaped like deer, with the basket made to look like entwined antlers.

It was remarkable workmanship.

To one side stood a lovely Georgian teapot, where Slater was in the process of setting the handle back in place.

He saw Rutledge's glance and said proudly, "That's from St. Margaret's, part of the tea service, and the handle had worn right off. They'll never know it's been repaired when I finish with it."

"You're very good with your hands," Rutledge told him. "It's fine work."

Slater seemed to expand with the praise. "It's a gift. I was given it. Do you know those great stones in the beech grove farther along this road? The ones they call Wayland's Smithy?"

It was the prehistoric tomb. "Yes, I do."

"I slept there one night. As a boy. And I was given the gift. Even my father had to admit to it. He could shoe horses and mend wagon tongues and put a latch on a barn, whatever needed doing. But this work-" Slater swept his hand above the table. "He couldn't do it. Even he said as much."

"He must have been very proud of you."

A rueful smile dimmed the brightness in his face. "He told me I was dreaming, thinking the smithy had anything to do with gifts. Foolishness, he called it."

"What do your neighbors think of your work?"

"I don't show most people. I don't know why I showed you." He seemed to consider that for a moment. "You have a way of listening. Most people don't hear what I say to them. It's always been like that."

"How well do you know your neighbors?" Rutledge persisted.

Slater shrugged. "I see them from time to time. Mr. Partridge stands in the dark and looks up at the White Horse. I've lost count of the evenings I walk by him and he never speaks. I'm one to like walking in the dark, I go to the Smithy if there's moonlight. But he just stands there. And the lady-she's quite strange, you know. I think she's afraid of the dark. House is shut up tight long before sunset, and stays that way until full light in the morning." He frowned. "We're outcasts, if you ask me. That's why we live here. n.o.body else would have us. I was always the biggest in my school, bigger than many of the older boys. And the parents, they was always protecting their little ones from me, thinking I'd do them a harm." He looked down at his hands, huge and strong. "I've never hurt a thing, not so much as a b.u.t.terfly. But I wasn't allowed to play with the other children, and they laughed at me sometimes. Gullible, they called me, after a giant in a book. I learned soon enough to stay away from them."

Rutledge could see the hurt in the big man's face. "I expect they didn't understand that giants could be-gentle."

"They never tried to know." Slater took a deep breath. "I didn't mean to trouble you with my life."