It was as if the man had dammed up the past for so long that the pressure had been building behind it, the need to talk that sometimes made lonely people garrulous.
And Quincy seemed to realize this in almost the same instant, ushering Rutledge out of the room, picking up Dublin and taking her with him as he shut the door on his collection.
“Pay no heed to me,” he said, trying to cover his lapse. “They were my salvation, those birds, and I’m fond of them.”
“Back to Partridge,” Rutledge said, and thought how appropriate the name was, in this house. “I think it’s time I spoke to someone in his family. There was a young woman, and you suggested she might be his daughter.”
“She favored him, although she was fair instead of dark. I have no idea where she lives. He didn’t open the door to her when she came. From that you might reach the conclusion that there is no warmth between them.”
“Does she live in Uffington, do you think?” It was the nearest town.
“I’ve never seen her there, but of course that’s not proof of anything.”
“I’ve also been told that he’d lost his wife.”
Quincy’s brows rose. “Indeed? Well, that could well explain why he’s reclusive. And for all we know, when he disappears he’s visiting her grave.”
“I appreciate the help you’ve given me.”
Quincy walked with him to the door. “What had friend Partridge done, to get himself murdered? He’d gone missing before.”
“If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t be here questioning his neighbors. He’s an enigma. We know very little about the man.”
“You might speak to Mr. Brady, then. He’s shown an inordinate interest in Partridge and his whereabouts on previous absences. Most of us here try to keep our private life private, but when Brady came, he asked questions. It wasn’t well received, I can tell you. And he’s a nosy sod, sitting by his window day and night as if there’s nothing better to do.”
Not so much a helpful suggestion as a touch of revenge on Quincy’s part?
“I’ll bear that in mind.” Rutledge was on the threshold when another thought struck him. “When is the post delivered here at the cottages?” He had seen no letters in Partridge’s house, but that was not proof that none had come.
“In theory, around nine. But we seldom receive any mail, you see. Lepers don’t. Nor do we write to anyone. Or if we do, it’s posted in Uffington.” His voice was suddenly bitter, as if this were a reminder of how completely he’d been cut off from his family.
He shut his door almost on Rutledge’s heels.
Rutledge looked at the neat half circle of cottages, and thought to himself that murder could be done here, and no one would know except the other residents, and they would refrain from summoning the police until the smell of decay overwhelmed them.
He considered calling on Brady, but decided that this was not the time. As Quincy had pointed out, he’d already spoken to Slater and Mrs. Cathcart. Everyone was prepared for a visitor now. Better to let the matter appear to drop.
But there was a man standing in his front garden, watching Rutledge leave Quincy’s cottage. If Rutledge had kept to his original itinerary, Number 3, between Partridge and Brady, would be the next cottage to be visited. And it seemed that the owner was outside, prepared to confront the interloper in their midst. His expression was hostile.
Rutledge was of two minds about the best approach, but the matter was taken out of his hands.
“What is it you want?” the man called to him. His voice was tense, as if his concern outweighed his caution. “Who are you? You were hanging about before, I’ve seen you.”
Rutledge walked toward him, covering the distance in unhurried strides.
An elderly man, tall and slightly stooped. Rutledge guessed his age to be seventy. Still vigorous, but already beginning to feel the tug of Time.
“My name is Rutledge,” he said, the folder ready as he chose his opening. “I’m looking for Mr. Partridge. Perhaps you can tell me where I might find him?”
“Partridge, is it? I don’t believe you. You never stopped at his door. First Slater, then Mrs. Cathcart, after that Mr. Quincy. But not Partridge. Not at all.”
“Yes, I’m afraid he’s not there. That’s why I didn’t go to his door. Do you know him well, Mr….” He paused, waiting for a name.
“Willingham.” Grudgingly.
“Mr. Willingham. Do you know how I can find Mr. Partridge’s solicitor? Or failing that, any of his family?”
“What are you selling?” Willingham eyed the folder.
“I’m not selling anything. This is a drawing—”
“Then why don’t you go away and leave the rest of us alone? We don’t trouble Mr. Partridge and we don’t expect Mr. Partridge’s visitors to trouble us.”
“Does he have visitors?”
“If he does, I don’t stare out my window looking to see who they are. Now be off with you, Rutledge, or whatever your name is. We don’t care for the likes of you here.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with my presence, unpleasant as it may be, until you’ve answered my questions.”
“Then I’ll summon the police and have you removed.”
“I am the police, Mr. Willingham. From Scotland Yard.”
Willingham stared at him. Then without another word, he turned on his heel and went inside his cottage, slamming the door in Rutledge’s face.
For a man eager to summon the police, Hamish was pointing out, “he was no’ very happy to find one on his doorstep.”
“Interesting.”
Rutledge turned and walked back the way he’d come, climbing the hill of the White Horse and looking down on the cottages from the heights.
He wondered what Miss Tomlin would think of what had become of her charitable gift. She had considered it a sanctuary. And perhaps in a way it had turned out to be one after all.
But the question now was how to go about tracking down Partridge’s daughter. Without going back to Martin Deloran and asking him for the information.
“He willna’ tell you that,” Hamish warned him. “It wouldna’ be wise to ask in that quarter.”
Where had Partridge lived before coming here in the spring of 1918? What sort of work had he done, and where was his family?
There was the off chance his daughter might pay another call, but Rutledge thought it was unlikely after being turned away.
And so where to start?
If Sergeant Gibson at the Yard began making inquiries, it would attract attention in the wrong quarters.
Had Partridge been in the army? Was that Deloran’s interest? He could have been drummed out for reasons even the army preferred to keep quiet. And that might explain the watcher, Brady. Whatever toes Partridge had trod upon, they were still very sensitive about what had happened. Better to let him die and be buried in Yorkshire as an unidentified victim of murder than bring the whole matter up again.
Did Partridge know about the watcher? Had he cared?
Was Gaylord Partridge, for that matter, his real name?
It was the first time Rutledge had considered that, although looking at Quincy’s birds, he had been amused by the coincidence of “Partridge” and an aviary. Perhaps this man had thought so as well, and on the spur of the moment, rechristened himself? It wouldn’t be long before Brady reported the new name to London.
It would also explain why Deloran had felt so certain that it was safe to send Rutledge to Berkshire—it wasn’t likely he’d learn more than he should know, while he was searching for “Partridge.” And now, even if the other residents identified the face in the sketch as Partridge, that was as far as Rutledge could take the matter. Meanwhile Yorkshire would soon see the missing man into a pauper’s grave. And there would be the end of it.