Rutledge was at his shoulder. “He always came home again, in a matter of several days. You said as much yourself,” he responded. “Someone knew his pattern.”
“Yes, it’s true. He was a man of habit, in some ways.”
“Where did he go? And why? I can’t find anyone who will tell me.”
Quincy shook his head. “We never exchanged that sort of information. I don’t like the police prowling about. Will they be knocking on doors, do you think?”
“I expect they will. Mrs. Cathcart is frightened. I doubt they’ll persuade her to open her door.”
Quincy hesitated, then said, “I saw Singleton walking late. He’d been up the hill. I wondered if he was looking for you. I saw you there, two nights ago.”
“I stopped for a while. The horse is interesting to me.”
“And so are we, your specimens under glass. I doubt Inspector Hill knows as much about us as you do.”
“Because of Partridge. I’m not interested in your past, just whether or not you had a reason to dislike your neighbor.”
“I don’t have a reason to like or dislike him. But I’ll tell you, I don’t much care for Brady, he can’t hold his drink. And Miller’s a slippery sod. I wouldn’t put murder past him, if you want the truth. Singleton is secretive, and that means he has secrets.”
“What’s yours?”
“Mine? I was a remittance man, and told never to set foot in England again. But I got homesick, tired of foreigners, their language, their food, their ways. So I slipped back into England and the family thinks I’m still in Mexico. My keep is paid into my account each month, and I like it that way.”
It was a challenge, but Rutledge didn’t take it up.
After a moment Quincy went on. “What’s your interest in Partridge, anyway? I don’t know that I believe the tale you tell. For all I know, Partridge is a red herring, and it’s someone else who is on your watch list.”
“I’d like very much to know why he’s dead.”
“Or you know why, but not who killed him. And my money is on Brady, because he hates Partridge, you know. God knows why, but he does.”
Which was an interesting consideration. The watcher should be above reproach. And until Partridge—Parkinson—was a closed book, there was no release for Brady either. Was he tired of loneliness and orders?
Rutledge left, and was halfway to his motorcar when he heard Hill calling to him. He was just coming out of Miller’s cottage, and jogged down to meet Rutledge, his fair face flushed as he caught up.
“I thought you’d agreed this was my patch. And here you are hobnobbing with the neighbors.”
“I had agreed,” Rutledge answered him, keeping his tone mild. “But Mrs. Cathcart and Quincy called to me, wanting to know what had happened. I told them Willingham was dead. They suspected as much, with the police summoned.”
“Well, I’d be grateful if you kept away.” He paused. “What about Slater? He tells me he knew you were here and came for you instead of me. He could have wielded that knife, you know, and used you for an alibi.”
“I doubt Slater killed Willingham. In the first place, why?”
“Miller tells me Slater has something of a temper and Willingham was the devil to get along with.”
“He was an unpleasant neighbor. I don’t believe he invited his murder by tormenting Slater.”
“Yes, well, you never know. Slights sometimes galvanize people like Slater into retaliation.”
“What do you mean, slights?” Rutledge asked.
“You can see, Slater isn’t the brightest star in the sky, is he? And he’s had a run-in or two in Uffington. He’s been accused of doing bad work, for one thing, and overcharging for it.”
“Ah, the sexton. Yes, bad news travels fast. The work on that teapot was well done. I saw it myself. The sexton cheated Slater. If the sexton were dead, you might have a case.”
Hill considered Rutledge with interest. “You do know these people, don’t you? Better than you’re willing to admit.”
“I’ve held a conversation with several of them.” Hill was beginning to annoy him, and he could feel Hamish stirring in the back of his mind.
“See that you don’t hold any more until I’ve got to the bottom of this business. And you’ve never been clear about the Yard’s interest here in Berkshire. No one’s said anything to me about an inspector sent down.”
“It has nothing to do with Willingham, I can assure you. A watching brief for the moment.”
“Yes, Miller informed me that you’d shown an inordinate amount of interest in Partridge. Where is he? Not dead, by any chance? A knife in his back?”
“Hardly.”
“Well, keep clear of my men and let them do their work.” Hill walked away.
“He doesna’ care for you stepping on his toes.”
“I don’t blame him. I’d not like anyone meddling in my case.” He turned the crank and got in, but sat there with the motor idling, thinking.
He now had the perfect excuse to ask Sergeant Gibson to learn what he could about the people here in this tiny enclave of lepers.
It might be interesting to see what he could discover.
But he was no nearer to finding what had happened to Parkinson. A death in Yorkshire, a death in Berkshire, and both without the usual span of motives that often tipped the balance of an inquiry. There was no village here, in the real sense. And no threads or connections to be picked up and sorted through. The inhabitants of the Tomlin Cottages hadn’t known one another before coming here to live, as far as he could tell—and that could hold just as true of Brady as any of the others. Martin Deloran wouldn’t have trusted such a task to anyone who had been a friend of Parkinson.
Where was he to find the daughter that the housekeeper had spoken of in passing? Or the other children? There was time to go back to Partridge Fields and ask. Although he was of two minds over involving this daughter until he was prepared to tell her that her father was dead…
The house, when he got there, was shut tight, and no one answered the knocker. Hamish, moody, had much to say about his failure to ask the housekeeper about the children when he had the chance. Instead he had pursued the subject of Porton Down, and then it was too late.
Rutledge drove on to the post office, and braced himself to face the elderly postmaster again.
The man was as irascible and unhelpful as he’d been earlier.
“I’m not supposed to give out information of this sort,” he informed Rutledge.
“I’m searching for her father. She may know where he can be reached.”
“I can’t help you there. She doesn’t live here.”
“Very well. The direction of the housekeeper at Partridge Fields. Where can she be found when no one is in residence? It’s police business.”
They went in circles for all of five minutes. Finally, in exasperation Rutledge said, “I’ll speak to the local police, then, and bring someone back with me.”
“It won’t do you any good. The housekeeper doesn’t live here either.”
Rutledge turned away, holding on to his patience with an effort. But as he was walking out the door a young woman with dark red hair and freckles who had been in the post office putting stamps on a small stack of invitations followed him out into the April sunshine.
She called to him and said, “You are trying to locate Rebecca Parkinson? I overheard you tell Mr. Walsh you were a policeman.”
“Yes. I need to find her father.”
“Is anything wrong? Is someone ill?”
“We’ve been asked to try to locate him. I’d hoped his daughter might help.”
She frowned. “I doubt you’ll succeed. They haven’t spoken for two years.”
“I can try,” he said, smiling down at her. “If I knew where to find her. Do you know her?”