"Miss Parkinson-"

"No. Go away." She mounted the bicycle and pushed off, leaving him there.

Rutledge turned the motorcar and caught up with her, slowing his speed to a crawl to match hers.

"I haven't come to talk about your father."

"I'm uncomfortable being hunted this way. Is this what the police do, drive you to distraction until you can't sleep or eat or think?"

"Put your bicycle into my motorcar and I'll take you to your sister, or to Partridge Fields. Wherever you're setting out to go."

He could see her hesitate. She wasn't as skilled with the bicycle as her sister, and she had wobbled once or twice.

"I can manage very well, thank you."

"You can't. Get down before you're hurt. I swear, I won't ask you any questions on the way."

The front wheel jerked and almost threw her into a bank of late thrift, where the road narrowed a little.

Rutledge sped up and cut her off.

Getting out, he said, "You shouldn't be riding this in your state of mind. Go on, let me put the bicycle into the back. I've given you my word."

She stopped just inches from where he stood.

"I may be your enemy," he said gently, "but accepting a lift from me doesn't convict you of anything but good sense."

"I hate you, did you know that?" she said with some force, but when he reached for the handlebars she dismounted and let him have the bicycle. He set it in the back, more concerned about invading Hamish's s.p.a.ce than anything else, his hands shaking as he maneuvered it to fit.

Hamish chuckled derisively, saying only, "When I'm ready to be seen, ye canna' hide."

Rutledge got back behind the wheel, his mind on Hamish, and nearly choked the motor.

Sarah Parkinson said tartly, "You're no better driver than I am."

She was goading him, and she'd succeeded, but Rutledge kept his promise, only asking where she wanted to go.

"To Pockets, my sister's house."

He took off the brake and set out. As they pa.s.sed the cottages, she shivered, as if her father's death were still too raw a reminder.

He said nothing, letting the silence grow heavy between them. Finally Sarah Parkinson said, "If you will let me out a mile before her house, I'll pedal the rest of the way."

"As you like."

It was almost as if the silence accused her. Again she broke it first. "You weren't there when my mother died. You can't even imagine how we felt. And my father standing over her, after we'd summoned him, and saying that it had been a long time coming. Then why hadn't he tried to prevent it? Why hadn't he made her happier when it mattered mattered?"

He didn't answer her.

"Sometimes in the dark while I'm trying to fall asleep I can see all of it again. People talk about nightmares, but this was real, and it happens over and over again until I'm half sick, my head aching, my mind struggling to forget. You have no idea what that's like. You must sleep well at night, duty done, and you have no idea what it's like like."

But he did. He wanted to tell her that she was wrong, others suffered as she did, and that his hovering spirits were as fearsome as hers.

She must have read something of it in his face, for she snapped, "Oh, don't sit there, pretending you can't hear me."

"Then I'd have to ask you if you killed your father to stop your nightmares. If it helped at all, to punish him for what he'd done to your mother and to you. I'd like to know. I can't kill my ghosts, you see. I left them all on the battlefield in France."

She stared at him. "You were in the war?"

"I was in France, yes." He fought to get himself under control. "It was worse than anything you can imagine. Worse, even, than finding your mother dead. And it went on for four years, relentless, without respite. And there was no one to kill except the Germans, and even that wasn't as easy as we'd thought. In the night sometimes you could hear them singing. Men's voices, homesick and as frightened as we were. And the next day you were firing at them, trying to make every shot count, and using your bayonet when you had to, and trying to stay alive one more minute, one more hour, and after a while, you didn't even care about that, only about not letting your men down, shaming them in the face of the enemy, trying to set a good example that they could follow. And the worst of it was, they trusted me, and I led them to slaughter as surely as if I'd been the judas goat at an abattoir. If you want to compare nightmares, Miss Parkinson, you've chosen the wrong man."

She sat there stunned, her face pale, and her hands shaking in her lap, the gloves she wore bicycling clenched into fists to stop it.

"You see, your righteous defense of your mother is all very well. But if you killed your father, you are a murderer as surely as any other murderer in the dock. Your excuse may seem important to you, but it never is enough. Death is a very final solution, Miss Parkinson, and no matter how you try to excuse it, if you took a life without provocation, you will hang as surely as the man who killed two people back at the cottages. No better, no worse. The same."

He suddenly realized that he'd lost track of where he was, where the motorcar was heading. The darkness through which he'd spoken began to recede and nothing was familiar, nothing as it should be. But then he recognized the tower of a distant church and knew he was on the right road.

Miss Parkinson was opening her door. He braked quickly to keep her from falling out into the road.

"I'll take my chances with the bicycle," she said, tears on her face. "I should never have trusted you to keep your promise."

Rutledge said, "You were the first to speak, if you remember. You were the one who said I didn't understand."

"It doesn't matter. I've had enough," she said, getting out as the motorcar came to a stop.

"Go look at yourself in your mirror, Miss Parkinson. And ask yourself if your mother will be avenged by letting your father be buried in a pauper's grave. It will be on your soul and not hers, if that's what you do."

He brought out her bicycle for her and set it on the road.

She took it, mounted, and pedaled off, her shoulders hunched, her head down.

This time he watched her go, not making any effort to stop her again.

Hamish said, "It wasna' well done."

"I think I'll stay here a while, and see who comes back. Sarah Parkinson or her sister."

He pulled the motorcar to the verge, staring across the fields at the rooftops of the next village, trying to interest himself in the people there. But all he could think of was what he'd said to the young woman disappearing in the distance.

It was all true. But who was he to judge her? Who was he to set his torment against someone else's and make comparisons? He'd known Sarah Parkinson for a matter of days. It wasn't his place. It wasn't his duty.

He waited some time, thinking she might come back this way. It was useless trying to talk to Sarah when her sister was present and he could see no point in continuing on to Pockets to confront the two together.

Rutledge drove back to the inn, abandoning his decision to drive to London. He couldn't remember the last meal he'd eaten, but he wasn't hungry.

Upstairs in his room he stood by his window, looking out at nothing that was visible.

Hamish said, "What if you're wrong about Singleton?"

"Then I'm wrong. The drawings were not Willingham's style. I'll stand by that."

"Aye. But of the lot, there's the man with the birds."

"There is. If I'm wrong about Singleton, then I shall have to look at Quincy more closely. It isn't his style either."

"Ye're no authority on drawing. There's a darkness in him."

It was true. He'd grasped his jeweled treasures in desperation, and he kept them with him because they were a talisman, in his eyes. Without hope, men go mad...

Small feathered defenses against the family that didn't want him and enemies that wanted to see him dead.

Which brought Rutledge back to Parkinson. Two men, Madsen and Deloran, had tried to use his body for their own ends. Parkinson's two daughters refused to claim it. And until they did, the case couldn't be closed.

There were heavy clouds in the sky, shortening the day, and as the light faded, Rutledge considered turning on his lamp. And then decided against it.

Three lorry drivers were pulling in as another edged his vehicle back on the road. The men called to their departing colleague and then walked toward the inn, looking for food and something to drink. One of them was the man Rutledge had defeated at darts. Laughing, they made their way through to the bar.

In the distance he thought he saw a flash of lightning, but he could hear no thunder afterward. If there was a storm, it was far to the west still.

Hamish said, "Ye canna' sit here in the dark and pity yoursel'."

It wasn't pity but a need for peace, he thought. In a little while, he would have to decide what to do next.

He hadn't seen Sarah Parkinson pa.s.s along the road again on her way to her house. He thought it odd, by this time, unless she had decided to wait out the storm with her sister.

Rising, he went down the stairs and started through the door. One of the drivers was leaving, his lorry backing out of the yard and moving off down the road. Rutledge watched him go, then set out on foot for the White Horse. All was well there, lamps lit in the cottages belonging to Miller, Quincy, and Mrs. Cathcart, and a thin trail of wood smoke rose from her chimney. Singleton's cottage was dark. Then Slater came up from the village and went in his door.

The White Horse offered ambient light, and Rutledge walked its lines, as he had done with his father. Then he turned and went back to the muzzle, standing there watching the sky.

He thought it was nearly simultaneous, the flickering of fire he could see in Willingham's windows and Brady's. Then Partridge's were suddenly bright, with Singleton's not far behind. They were burning- Rutledge raced down the hill, shouting for Slater and Quincy, but he knew it was useless. The five of them could do nothing to stop the cottages from burning.

He cursed himself for not bringing his motorcar, then remembered that Partridge's was in the shed next to the house.

Slater finally came to his door to see what the commotion was about, and Rutledge pointed. The smith turned to stare, then wheeled back to Rutledge.

Rutledge shouted, "Partridge's motorcar. Go for help, fast as you can."

Quincy had heard the shouting and came out to look. Then he was back inside, his door shut.

Hamish said, "He'll protect the birds."

Mrs. Cathcart answered his knock and was frightened when she saw the smoke and flames. Miller came out just then and swore as he realized that his house was in danger.

Rutledge knocked on Singleton's door, and waited, then opened it and went inside.

It was burning as well, but there was no sign of the ex-soldier.

Where had he gone?

Partridge's motorcar kicked over on the third try, and Slater was backing out, on his way to Uffington. Rutledge took Mrs. Cathcart with him, and called to Miller to come down as well, but he stubbornly stayed where he was. Quincy was occupied in the room where he kept his collection, and Rutledge pushed Mrs. Cathcart through the door, saying, "Help him."

It would keep her busy.

That done, he began to run toward the inn, thinking about his own motorcar standing there in the yard. Singleton was no fool. Under the cover of the fire he must have slipped away, and his best chance of putting some distance between himself and any pursuit was to go fast and far.

The motorcar was still in the yard when Rutledge, his heart hammering and his lungs burning, reached the inn. He wouldn't have put it past Singleton to take it. Another of the lorries was pulling out, and he shouted to the driver to wait. He was ignored. There was still one of the lorries left and he dashed inside, calling to Smith. But he stopped short in the bar.

Two lorry drivers were still there-and only one vehicle remained in the yard.

He said, forcing the words out, harsh and curt, "There's a fire at the cottages. Take your lorry to Uffington, pick as many men as you can and bring them back to help."

The drivers were on their feet, heading for the door, and then he heard shouting.

Rutledge said to Smith, "Have you seen Singleton?"

Smith shook his head. "I'll fetch something to drink. They'll be needing it. Is it bad, over there?"

"The fire may spread to the occupied cottages. Tell Mrs. Smith that she may need to make up beds for tonight."

And then he was gone, cranking his motorcar with such energy that the motor almost missed fire, then caught. His headlamps found the road as the lorry drivers demanded to know what had happened to the other vehicle. He didn't have time to tell them.

The lorry had headed west, away from the cottages, and he followed. Singleton was having trouble keeping it on the road at speed. By the time Rutledge caught him up, he could see the rear wheels swaying as Singleton took the curves.

Rutledge swore. To stop him meant finding a stretch where he could get ahead and block the road. He ran through the map in his mind, seeing where the bends would slow Singleton down, where he could gain time on the straightaway.

Singleton went through the next village far too fast, scattering people and brushing past a cart stopped at an angle in the road. The cart went winding, and someone cried out in pain.

Rutledge slowed, keeping Singleton in sight but trying not to hit anyone in his path. And they were out into the open again, moving far too fast for safety in the stormy light. Rutledge thought Singleton had a very good idea who was behind him, even if he couldn't see the motorcar for its bright headlamps.

There was a long straight stretch, enough for Rutledge to gun the motor and make an attempt to pa.s.s, but Singleton swung the lorry into his path, and it was all Rutledge could do to keep from plowing headlong into a stone wall where the road angled to the right.

Hamish was shouting now, telling him to watch what he was doing.

"Kill us both, and he'll go free," Hamish reminded him.

Rutledge fell back. For the next mile or two there was a double bend, first one way, then a short interval, then the other way.

He wasn't sure the lorry could make that at speed, but Singleton had got the hang of driving it now and in the dark made the adjustments necessary to keep his lumbering vehicle on the road, though it swayed dangerously, the load it was carrying sometimes shifting with the curves.

The road was straight again, houses and a barn flashing past, a roadside pub and then a long looping bend.

Singleton wasn't prepared for it. He swung the lorry too hard around the first part of the bend, then overcompensated as he began to slip sideways on the rough surface. Dust flew up from his wheels and he lost speed as he struggled to keep himself upright.

The bend ended in another short, straight stretch, and then a copse of trees loomed ahead at the next bend. And then in the lorry headlamps a single bicyclist stood out with shocking clarity.

He had been lucky this far, Singleton had. The road had been empty and he had had the time and the strength to keep the wheel under control. But his first reaction as he saw the bicycle was to swerve, his tires failed to grip, and the side and rear of the lorry began to slide inexorably toward the oncoming bicycle.

It was like slow motion. Rutledge could see the bicycle, and then as the lorry slowly lost traction, it blotted the rider from view. The scream of the brakes was almost human, and like a juggernaut the lorry moved on, across the road now, blocking it from verge to verge. In the glow of the headlamps the bicycle rose in a gleaming silver arc, rising above the truck like a winged thing, and then the silver faded and it was lost to view.