Rutledge went down on one knee by the body. The cut on the wrist wasn’t right, somehow. Not the sort of defensive wound he’d have expected to find. On the hands, perhaps, or on the arms, fending off the final blow, but not straight and deep into the wrist.
With that wrist wound alone, Willingham would have bled to death. The killer could have held him down in bed until it was over. Perhaps that had been the plan, to make this attack look like an old man’s final retreat from a lonely and despairing life. Instead, it had been necessary to end the struggle violently before there was another outcry.
Hamish was saying, “I canna’ see what this has to do with Partridge.”
“I—”
He broke off as a footstep grated on the threshold, and flashed his light in that direction, tensing for an attack. Slater was outside, but the killer might still be within.
Just at that moment, someone said, “Mr. Rutledge? Where are you? Are you all right?”
Slater had followed him, contrary to orders. The torch’s beam struck him full in the face, making him blink and duck his head.
Damn the man!
“Go back outside,” he commanded sternly, and Slater hastily withdrew, moving quickly for such a large man.
Flicking off his torch to avoid attracting attention from the neighboring cottages, Rutledge followed him.
“I saw him. Willingham’s dead, isn’t he?”
Rutledge said quietly, “Take my motorcar and drive into Uffington. Ask the sergeant on duty at the police station to send someone here. Preferably an inspector. Tell them only that there’s been a murder and someone should come at once.”
Slater repeated, “He’s dead then?”
“Yes. There’s nothing we can do for him now.”
Slater nodded and turned to walk back to the motorcar. Then he paused and said, “You’ll be safe here alone?”
“I expect I will be. Thanks.”
The smith nodded and was gone.
Rutledge stood there watching the first fingers of rosy light—rosy-fingered dawn, Virgil had called it—spread from the eastern horizon toward the road.
As he had so many times in the trenches, when dawn had broken softly without the guns or the whistles or the shouts of men going into battle, Rutledge heard himself quoting O. A. Manning aloud. Hamish had been fond of the lines as well.
The first reaches of light out of darkness,
Pink with new birth,
And then gold,
Like apricots on silk,
And the morning was here.
The earliest riser, the man in Number 5, had stepped out his door and was staring in Rutledge’s direction.
“What’s that? Is there anything wrong?” Singleton asked. “The old man hasn’t taken ill, has he?”
“I’ve sent for the police. They’ll be here shortly.”
“I thought you were the police.”
“The local people, then. It’s their patch.”
Singleton nodded. “Die in his sleep, did he? I always thought his heart would send him off. Choleric old fool that he was.”
“How well did you know him?”
He shrugged. “How well do any of us here know one another? It’s a morning greeting, a nod in passing, a good night before we shut our doors. And in the end, only what we can see from our windows.”
And the windows of Willingham’s cottage had a clear view of Parkinson’s.
They also looked out on Mrs. Cathcart’s, and on Number 7, the man Miller’s door.
Mrs. Cathcart opened her door a little, as if by recalling her name, Rutledge had summoned her spirit.
“Good morning, Inspector. Is something wrong with Mr. Willingham?”
“Do either of you know if he had a guest for dinner last night?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” she answered. “He was alone last evening when I saw him working in his garden. He seemed well enough then.”
Singleton said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone enter or leave his cottage.”
They stood there awkwardly, uncertain what to say, watching Rutledge to see if he would tell them what was wrong.
Quincy came out his door, and Dublin ran ahead of him, released for a day of hunting.
“What’s up?”
“It’s Mr. Willingham,” Mrs. Cathcart replied. “Mr. Rutledge has sent for the police.”
Quincy disappeared inside his door and shut it firmly.
Allen was next to stick his head out. His face was pale, drained, as if he’d slept ill.
“Anything wrong?” he asked, nodding to Mrs. Cathcart. “Can I help?” A coughing spell sent him almost to his knees, but when it had passed, he said again, “Can I help?”
“There’s nothing anyone can do,” Rutledge replied.
“Then I’m for my bed again. Not at my best in the mornings.”
He shut his door and they could hear him coughing again.
“He shouldn’t be out at this hour,” Mrs. Cathcart was saying. “The dampness…”
After a moment she herself went back inside, as if staying there and making conversation was more than she could cope with.
Singleton remained, standing with folded arms. Rutledge could see Brady’s face at his window, staring with bleary eyes at the two men. Soon afterward, the sun’s rays turned the window to brilliant gold, and Rutledge couldn’t be sure if Brady was still there or not.
He had seen most of the residents now. Curiosity had got the best of them in one fashion or another, this break in the dull routine of their lives making them more willing to interact than they might have done otherwise.
Miller had yet to appear, but he could be a late riser, unaware of what was happening.
After a long while, Slater was back with a slim, dark man beside him in the motorcar.
They left the car by the road and walked toward the Willingham cottage.
“What’s this?” the man said. “I’m told someone is dead.”
“And you are…”
“Hill, Inspector Hill. You must be Inspector Rutledge.”
They shook hands, and Rutledge began to point out his observations, but Hill said, “No, let me.” He held out a hand for Rutledge’s torch and went inside the still dark cottage.
After a time he came out again. By then Singleton had walked back to his house. “You were right to send for me. Any witnesses?” He looked in Singleton’s direction, then focused his attention on Rutledge.
“None that I’ve found so far,” Rutledge answered.
“Yes, well, if he was killed at night, who would notice? Although Slater here tells me he was awakened by a cry.”
They turned as one to look at the other cottages.
“I’ve not had much call to come here,” Hill said. “Peaceful enough little community. No problems.”
“Until now.”
“Until now,” Hill agreed. “Slater didn’t enter the cottage?”
“He came as far as the bedroom door. I sent him back out again.”
“Well, if it were he who did the deed, the struggle would have been shorter. Someone nearer Willingham’s size, if not his age?”
“A startled man might fight with more strength than a frightened one.”
“I agree.”
Rutledge gave Hill a quick overview of the other inhabitants, ending with Partridge. “He’s not been seen for some time. The general view is that he’s been away.”
“And what,” Hill asked, his eyes sharp on Rutledge’s face, “has brought the Yard to our doorstep?”
“I’d been asked to learn what had become of Partridge. By interested parties. He left without telling anyone where he was going or when he’d return.”
“I see. Very well. I’ll take over here, if you please. No thoughts on who might have had it in for Willingham?”
“None. And I doubt you’ll get much out of his neighbors. They haven’t been very forthcoming about Mr. Partridge.”