In the pause, Singleton asked, “In the war, were you?”
“France,” Rutledge answered.
“Then you were lucky to survive. I salute you. It was quite different in my war. Skirmishes in the Empire mostly, though some of them turned nasty of course. For the most part we played polo, set a good example, and dined rather well.”
“India?”
“For the last ten years. I spent some time at the Khyber Pass, for my sins. The tribesmen were a wretched lot, troublesome in the extreme, and knew the country far better than we did. Keeping them bottled up was a bloody business, any way you looked at it.”
Rutledge gestured to the cottage. “This is not the England you fought for.”
It was a statement.
Singleton shook his head. “Sadly, no. It’s far from that. We learn to cope, you know, it’s what we’re trained to do. I’m writing about my experiences. Not for publication, you understand, but for my own satisfaction. We’re too busy living to fully understand our lives, you see. Where we came from, where we were going. What went wrong. It’s a way of making sense of the past.” As if he’d said enough about himself, he changed the subject. “Is there anything else I can tell you about Partridge? We spoke, the usual platitudes—‘good morning, lovely weather we’re having, I see your hollyhocks were knocked about by the wind last night, yes, a pity isn’t it, cold enough to be thinking about a fire again, heavy mist this morning, wasn’t it.’ Nothing of consequence.”
“Was he interested in the chalk horse on the hill?”
“Strange that you should ask that. I sometimes saw him standing in front of his door, staring up at it at odd times of the day. Or by those trees just down the lane, where he could see the beast at night. It has an ambient glow, you know. Starlight, I suppose. I’m sure most of us have noticed that. Slater, the young smith, is fascinated by it as well. I expect we are all aware of the horse in one way or another, living here. But some more than others.”
“I’m told Partridge left a time or two, for several days. Did you see him leave? Or return?”
“I don’t think he wanted us to know when he went away. The chap in Number Nine takes care of the cat when it comes to him for food, but there’s no formal announcement about leaving. He’s there and he’s not there.”
“Any idea where he might have gone on these occasions?”
“Good Lord, no. We don’t pry. Not in that way. If it can’t be seen at a distance, then we leave it alone.”
“That makes for good neighbors,” Rutledge said dryly.
“Actually it doesn’t. One of us could die here and no one would wonder, until the smell reached him. Have you spoken to the man in Number Four? He seems to spend an inordinate amount of time studying Partridge’s cottage. I’ve seen him at his window, using field glasses.”
Number 4 was Brady’s cottage. Deloran’s man.
“No, I haven’t. I’ve just stopped at the cottages closest to Partridge’s.”
“Yes, we’ve all seen you coming round. I had wondered when it would be my turn.”
Rutledge smiled. “I’ve called on a few of the residents, yes. Quincy, Slater, Mrs. Cathcart, Willingham—”
“He gave you short shrift, didn’t he? I think I’ve spoken to him fewer times than I spoke to Partridge.”
“—and there’s Brady. Who are the other two?”
“There’s Miller in Number Seven, just up from Mrs. Cathcart. He’s a curmudgeon by nature and we leave him alone. I’d go to anyone else before him if I needed help. And the last of our happy little family is Allen. My neighbor in Number Six. He would have made our dear patroness proud. I’m told he’s dying of tuberculosis. Sometimes of a summer’s evening, one can hear him cough. Not precisely leprosy, but a wasting disease, nonetheless.”
“I appreciate your time, Mr. Singleton,” Rutledge said, rising. “And I’ll be on my way. I have business to attend to in London. But I expect to be back before long. If you see anyone at Mr. Partridge’s door, make a note of it.”
“I shall, if the occasion arises.” Singleton saw Rutledge to the door and added, “I hope you conclude your business with us shortly. We’ve all secrets here, and none of us enjoys the attention of strangers.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Rutledge replied, and before he was five paces down the path, the door behind him was quietly closed.
Hamish said, “We’re no’ what you’d call sociable in the Highlands, but we’re no’ sae unfriendly as this lot.”
“As he said, they have secrets. Not necessarily murder, but to them just as important.”
“Aye. Important enough to kill for?”
It was a thought that had already occurred to Rutledge, sitting in Singleton’s tidy parlor.
But how would any of these eight householders manage to take a body to Yorkshire?
“Partridge has a motorcar.”
“And it’s still here.”
“Aye, so it is. But that doesna’ mean it never left.”
Rutledge settled his account with Mrs. Smith and turned the bonnet of his motorcar toward London.
He hadn’t been in his flat five minutes when he saw the note propped up on the small table by his bed.
It was in Frances’s handwriting and said only, “If you are home to read this, call Gibson at the Yard.”
She had been to his flat in his absence and found a messenger on his doorstep. What had brought her here? Simon Barrington? A need to talk to someone? Another invitation to a dinner she didn’t want to attend alone?
Rutledge put the thought aside and looked at the time. He could just catch Sergeant Gibson, if he hurried.
Turning on his heel, he went back to his motorcar and drove to the Yard.
Gibson was just coming down the walk as Rutledge was looking for a space in which to leave his vehicle.
The sergeant recognized him at once and came to the nearside of the car. He was a big man, and he bent down to see Rutledge’s shadowed face.
“There’s trouble,” he said.
“Bowles?”
“Not this time. For one thing, I couldn’t find Henry Shoreham. No one has seen him since he left Whitby. Vanished from the face of the earth.”
Damn.
“You’re quite sure?”
Gibson drew back, offended. “I’m sure.”
“Sorry. I meant to say, given the case in Yorkshire, that this is the worst possible news.”
“That it is. For one thing, if he’s nowhere to be found, he can’t speak for himself. And Inspector Madsen has taken it in his head to send his men for the schoolmaster, to help in his inquiries.”
Rutledge swore again. “I told Madsen the book on alchemy had nothing to do with the dead man.”
“He said as much. But since no one can produce Mr. Shoreham, Inspector Madsen is convinced he’s the victim.”
“And what does the Chief Constable say? Or Bowles, for that matter?”
“They’re reserving judgment.”
There was no point in going to Deloran. He’d washed his hands of this business. He would say now that since Partridge hadn’t died in Yorkshire, there must be some truth to Madsen’s suspicions. And leave Crowell to deal with the consequences.
But where was there any connection between a man named Parkinson, from Wiltshire, and Albert Crowell? Partridge—Parkinson—hadn’t attacked Mrs. Crowell in Whitby. The man Shoreham had been taken into custody; he was a clerk, known in his community. He’d admitted his responsibility.
But turn the coin the other way—
Rutledge said, “Do we have a photograph of Shoreham? Was there one taken when the newspapers carried the story about Mrs. Crowell’s injuries?”
“I’ve not been told there were any.”
All right then, look at it from a different perspective, Rutledge told himself.