It was time to go back to the inn. Rutledge turned away from the tomb and retraced his steps, thinking.
When Rutledge had finished his breakfast in the quiet of the bar—empty and well scrubbed by Smith before the tea had steeped—he refreshed his memory about the nine people who lived near the foot of the great White Horse.
He had met only two of them, these neighbors of one Gaylord Partridge.
Slater, the smith, first to the left. Then Partridge, with the only gate in the low walls of the cottage gardens. The next five in the horseshoe he hadn’t met, but Rutledge had seen Number 4 staring up at him as he paced along the mane of the horse. Although Martin Deloran in London had never indicated that there was another watcher, Rutledge’s training told him it must be so. At the far right of the half circle was Quincy’s cottage, with the birds hidden in a back room. Behind him, at Number 8, a woman lived. Rutledge had seen her hanging out her wash as well as peering at him through a window.
Finishing his second cup of tea, he left for the Tomlin Cottages.
There was one thing he disliked about what he called a cold road—coming back into a place where he had got the pulse of the people and the way they lived and then had to walk away for whatever reason. He had done that here in Berkshire, and he had done it as well in Yorkshire. Possibly all because of one mysterious man.
Much would depend on what Partridge’s neighbor Quincy had to say.
He pulled his motorcar to the verge of the road, near the path up the hill of the White Horse. Near the muzzle of the great beast, he looked down on the cottages and waited for a door to open below him or a window curtain to twitch.
What were the connections between these nine residents? If connections there were. Englishmen were not by nature gregarious, even abroad. But surely human curiosity made them draw conclusions about each other from what they had observed from a window or a stroll down the lane.
The woman, he decided. From her windows she could see Partridge come and go. And women were sometimes less reserved than men, if approached in a sympathetic way.
Or was it wiser, after all, to speak to Quincy?
Quincy appeared to keep to himself. Would he admit to recognizing the sketch? He would most certainly want to know when it had been made and why. Driven by curiosity, yes, but beneath all that was his own reason for considering himself a leper of sorts and choosing to live here. He might well prefer to keep his distance from any trouble involving Partridge for fear of the impact on his own seclusion.
The smith, then. A simple man, he wasn’t the sort to look below the surface of a question for hidden traps and meanings. And he was an honest man, as far as Rutledge could tell, with no secrets. His reason for living here was plain—he preferred to be left alone because his experience with people had taught him that they were unkind.
Rutledge sat there on the hillside in the April sun, and waited until he saw the smith walk into view from the direction of Uffington.
The man looked tired, his gait measured, as if there were something on his mind, holding him back.
Rutledge waited until he’d disappeared into his cottage and then went down the hill. By the time he knocked at the door, the smith had put the kettle on and Rutledge could hear it whistling cheerfully in the background as Slater opened to him.
“I saw you on the Horse,” he said. “What brings you back?”
“Curiosity,” Rutledge answered. He had brought the file with him from the motorcar and put it aside for the moment on a small table near the door.
“Curiosity?” Slater repeated. “It killed a cat, you know,” he added, quoting the old saying.
“Yes, well, I’ll be careful.”
Slater said, “Would you like a cup of tea?” He gestured toward the tiny kitchen, where the kettle was still whistling.
“Thank you. I would.”
While Slater was preparing the tea, Rutledge watched his deft, sure movements, big hands handling the tea things with the same ease as he handled his tools.
The cup Slater offered him was thin porcelain, with cabbage roses around it. The man could have crushed it like eggshell, and it was lost in the large, callused hand.
“How is work on the silver teapot handle faring?” Rutledge asked, to open the conversation.
“Fancy you remembering that,” Slater answered, his face brightening. “It’s very well. Polish it and I’m finished.”
“I hope the church is pleased.”
There was a bitter smile now. “I’m told I charge too much.”
“Who tells you that?”
“The sexton. He says he could have done it at half the cost.”
“Could he?”
“I doubt it. But he’s one who opens his mouth and doesn’t care much what harm he does with what comes out.”
“Tell them I’ve offered to buy the teapot myself. For twice the cost of repairs.” He couldn’t stop himself from saying it. Or cursing the sexton for his callous cruelty.
Slater looked at him. “What do you want with a teapot? It’s not yours to start with. It belongs to the church service.”
“Yes, it does. And I’ll make a gift of it back to them, so that it stays where it should.”
“You’re mocking me.”
He had got off on the wrong foot unintentionally, and Hamish was already telling him as much. But Rutledge said, “I’m mocking no one. You showed me that teapot, and I think the sexton is wrong. Good work deserves good pay, and I for one recognize that.”
“Well. It’s not your problem. It’s mine. What have you come for?”
“To show you a sketch, if you don’t mind.”
“Of work you wish me to do?”
“Sorry, no. I’d like to ask if you recognize the person in the sketch. I’m looking for this man.”
There was instant hostility. “What’s he done, then?”
“Nothing that I’m aware of. But friends are anxious about him. I’d like to put their minds at ease.” If Deloran could be considered any man’s friend…
“You’re being fair with me?”
“Actually, I’ve told you the truth.”
“Why do you think I might know him?”
“Look at the sketch first. And then I’ll give you the answer to that.”
He lifted the folder from the table and opened it.
Slater looked down at it, but his eye went first to the quality of the drawing. “It’s well done, this sketch. Who made it?”
“A young man in Yorkshire. He takes as much pride in his work as you do in yours.”
“And so it’s a good likeness.”
“We hope it is.”
Slater didn’t need to study the face on the paper. He said at once, “Yes, I know him. As you know very well I do.”
“Who is he?”
“It’s Mr. Partridge.” Slater looked up. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
The certainty of identification was what Rutledge had been expecting, but not the conclusion that Slater had drawn from the face in his hands.
Yet it was too easy. Deloran must surely have realized that, armed with the sketch, sooner or later Rutledge would learn who the dead man in Yorkshire was.
“He couldna’ be sure you would come back here,” Hamish answered the thought. “He’s used to being obeyed.”
“Why do you think Mr. Partridge is dead?” Rutledge asked the smith, but he already knew the answer. Slater worked with his hands, he had a feeling for skill and observation and how to translate that to whatever he was creating. And it was true, the likeness caught something that perhaps the living man had lost.
“Because it’s a good likeness, that’s why. How could it be this good from memory?”
“The artist might have used a photograph.”
“No, I don’t think he did. He saw the man. And Mr. Partridge isn’t here, is he? Hasn’t been for a bit. And you were here earlier, looking for him, weren’t you? Somehow I have a feeling he’s dead.”