Gaylord Partridge would no longer be a problem for the War Office.
But he was still very much a problem for the police.
If Deloran had his way, the daughter would never be told what had become of her father. That might not matter to her now, but if there was a will to be sorted, in time her father’s fate would become important legally.
Martin Deloran be damned—Partridge hadn’t walked back to that cloister on his own, there was someone else involved. And whether the man died by accident or was killed, Rutledge was determined to get to the bottom of what had happened. If there was a murderer somewhere, who could say if he’d killed before this, or if he would kill again?
11
Where to begin a search? The only information Rutledge had at his disposal was the small photograph on the dead man’s desk.
He had no way of judging who the man and boy were, or even if one of them was Partridge. The photograph was not clear enough to tell. For all he knew the two people in it were close friends or even cousins. The possibilities were endless.
And yet—out of everything he might have owned before coming to this place—Partridge had chosen to bring only one personal possession with him: a framed photograph. It had mattered to him in some fashion to have it there.
Where then was the square in which the photograph was taken? Not in Uffington, Rutledge thought, ruling it out immediately. None of the houses there resembled that background.
“Anywhere in England,” Hamish pointed out gloomily. “No’ sae verra easy to find fra’ what could be seen in yon photograph.”
True. There were Georgian houses in Kent, to start with.
“the day we climbed the white horse…”
But not every market square in England possessed Georgian houses and a white horse cut into chalk that could be climbed on the same day as the photograph was taken in the town.
All right then, the second bit of evidence in hand. If the inscription was to be trusted.
What else was unique about this white horse, where he was standing? For one thing, it was the only one galloping with such elegant strides across its hill.
Most of the others he knew about looked more like cart horses.
What else, then?
Legend claimed that in the ninth century King Alfred had ordered this horse carved out of the hillside. It was, in fact, Iron Age workmanship, but the legend persisted.
There were any number of white horses in Wiltshire—it was famous for them.
Rutledge went down to his motorcar and dug maps out of the pouch on the door. He’d bought the set to serve him on walking holidays. Later he’d found it helpful driving.
He spread out the sheets for south England, found Salisbury Plain, and began running a finger up and down the adjacent squares in an orderly search, starting from the right.
When he came to the eastern boundaries of Salisbury Plain, he found a place to begin.
Westbury. The Bratton White Horse.
Which—legend said—King Alfred ordered to mark a victory over the Danes.
He had never been to Westbury. Did it have Georgian houses in its market square? It had been a wool town in its day, and made gloves as well, which meant there was money enough for handsome buildings to mark its success.
He shoved the maps back in the pouch, got out to crank the motorcar, and set off to the west, bearing south, stopping only for petrol. Along the way he scanned other town squares, but he saw nothing that would fit what he was searching for.
But when he drove into the center of Westbury, he had no doubt that he’d made the right guess. He not only found the marketplace but the exact building facing him in the late afternoon sun.
He had had no lunch and missed his tea as well, but he pressed on.
The main problem to solve now was how to go about proving he was right.
If he went to the police station, there would be questions. He wasn’t ready for them. For that matter, what could he say? That he was giving his imagination free rein in a case that didn’t exist? At least, not officially.
If he began asking about a man called Partridge in the shops, gossip would spread like wildfire. Perhaps to the wrong ears.
And the post office had rules.
That was still the best place to begin.
He arrived just in time to see the elderly man behind the grill putting up a sign.
CLOSED.
Rutledge called to him, and he reluctantly set the sign aside, mouth turned down, eager to be off to his late tea and comfortable chair.
Behind him on the floor lay a large, nondescript dog. Clearly both companion and bodyguard, because he lifted his head to stare up at Rutledge, sniffing the stranger’s scent. Satisfied that all was well, he lowered his head to his paws once more and sighed, for all the world commenting on the delay in departure.
“The name’s Rutledge. I’ve come down from London to find a Mr. Partridge. We haven’t been able to reach him, and I wonder if you can tell me whether or not he’s moved.”
The postmaster regarded him sourly. “Moved, you say?”
“Yes. It’s the only explanation we can come up with.”
“I don’t know of a Mr. Partridge hereabouts.”
He reached for his sign again, but Rutledge said quickly, “I think we have the name right. I have a sketch here, perhaps you’d be willing to look at it?”
“What do you have that for?” The man’s tone was suspicious.
Rutledge brought up the file without answering the postmaster and opened it.
“That’s not Mr. Partridge.”
“I thought you said Mr. Partridge didn’t live in Westbury.”
“I never said that. I told you I didn’t know of a Partridge hereabouts.”
“Then how can you be so certain this isn’t Partridge’s likeness?”
“Because it isn’t. I just told you.”
Rutledge was losing patience.
“Quite,” he said. “Then perhaps you know the name of the man in this sketch.”
“I do.”
“Will you kindly direct me to his house?”
“You never told me why you have a drawing of him.”
Rutledge had never been so tempted to take out his identification and tell the postmaster that this was police business and none of his. “I expect that’s a family matter. No one could find a recent photograph.”
“Then you should have said so.”
“I should like to find Mr. Partridge this afternoon, if that’s possible.”
“I told you he wasn’t Mr. Partridge.” The postmaster’s expression was smug. He was quite enjoying being bloody-minded.
“Who, pray, is he?”
“That’s Mr. Gerald Parkinson, and he doesn’t live in Westbury.”
“Parkinson? Where does he live?”
“Between here and Dilton.”
“Get to the point, if you will. Where shall I find him?” Rutledge’s mounting anger must have shown in his face or his voice. The dog lifted his head again and stared.
The postmaster said, “Here, now, there’s no call to be rude. Follow the main road south, and halfway to Dilton, there’s a turning to the left. Take that for three miles, and you’ll see the gates of the house.”
“Thank you.”
Rutledge turned on his heel and left. He took ten minutes to find himself a sandwich and a cup of tea, and then, blessing April’s longer evenings, drove south out of town.
He found the turning, no more than a lane and not clearly marked, as if it led nowhere in particular. But it was reasonably well made, indicating traffic, and he passed first one and then another house—neither with gates—whose windows were golden in the early evening sunlight. The next house was surrounded by a low wall with a pair of white posts and a graceful white gate where the drive came down to the road. The gate was firmly shut.