“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the kettle whistled about the city, which Quincy seemed to know, although his information was often more than a little out of date as if he hadn’t been there for some time.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 associates. 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 passerby.”
“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 trespass 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 muffled. “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 god, 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 knobs 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 butterfly 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.