When she had first confronted him, he’d noted how much like her mother she looked, but in the course of their conversation Rutledge could see how much stronger she was than her mother must have been. Her spirit, he thought, must have come from her father. However much she would fiercely deny it.
Before she could turn and stalk out of the inn, he said, “I can arrange to have you taken into custody to help us with our inquiries if you prefer that.”
“On what charges?” she demanded. “I’ve done nothing except refuse to speak to you. And I can’t be forced to speak, as you well know.”
“On the charge that you murdered your father.”
Rebecca Parkinson sat down. “That’s utter rubbish.”
“Yes, but I rather think I could prove it. It might be worth a cup of tea to find out what I know.”
“I don’t want tea. Whatever you have to say, it had better be said quickly, or I’m leaving.”
“I told you the first time we met. We’ve found your father’s body.” It was blunt and intended to be.
Her angry flush faded. “He’s alive and well, and living in those wretched cottages under the White Horse.” Her denial wasn’t completely convincing. As if she knew her father was dead but must keep up the pretense that it was a lie. Her vehemence on their first meeting had been stronger.
“But he went missing, you see. And now his body is lying unclaimed in a Yorkshire village. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Or the fact that he might have been murdered?”
“It has nothing to do with me.” The line of her jaw was defiant.
“He didn’t die where we found him. That’s why we have to suspect murder. I’m here to make sense of what little we do know, and that means I have to follow him if I can every step of the way from those cottages to Yorkshire. To do that, I need information about his life, his family, his friends, his enemies. Whether you like it or not.”
She said, “Make sense of whatever you like. Just leave me out of it.”
“Do you hate your father so much that you’d prefer to see his killer go free?”
She glanced down, so that he couldn’t see her eyes. “I’ve told you, I don’t really care.”
“Did you know that one of the other people in those cottages was murdered last night? A Mr. Willingham. I need to know what connection he might have had with your father.”
She looked up then, startled. “I don’t believe you.”
“Ask Inspector Hill, in Uffington. He’s handling that case.”
Leaning back in her chair, she considered him, her mind working. “I don’t know anyone named Willingham. A coincidence. It must be.”
“That’s possible, of course. But in such a small community two murders in a few weeks has to be regarded with suspicion. I’m forced to wonder what Mr. Willingham might have known about your father’s disappearance. If he saw someone come for your father and take him away. The bicycle your father sometimes rode and his motorcar were both where he kept them. Surely your father didn’t walk all the way to Yorkshire.”
He thought her mouth was dry. She ran her tongue over her lips and said, “If you’ll summon Mrs. Smith, I believe I’ll have that tea now.”
It was a surprising change of heart. Rutledge was wary.
He went to find Mrs. Smith, though Hamish warned him that Rebecca Parkinson would be gone when he returned. It was a risk he had to take.
He was relieved when he came back, tray in hand, to find she was still at his table.
Rutledge passed her the fresh cup, waited until she had added milk and sugar, then taken the first sip.
“I spoke to your sister last night.”
She nearly choked. “I don’t believe you. You don’t even know where to find her.”
“She’d come to stand on the hill by the White Horse. I don’t know what it was she was thinking. But I distinctly heard her crying.”
“Sarah has always had a soft heart. She’s like my mother, taking in lost kittens and stray dogs, worrying about young men we knew who went to France and stayed there in unmarked graves.”
“Still, I had the strongest feeling that she must know more about your father’s death than she’s comfortable with, and her conscience is tormenting her. It’s rather too much of a coincidence, isn’t it, that she came to grieve the night after Willingham died.”
Rebecca Parkinson stood up so quickly she knocked over her cup and tea splashed onto the skirt of her dress.
“You leave my sister alone, do you hear me? Don’t go near her again. Or I shall have you up for harassment. Do you understand me?”
“What are you afraid of, Miss Parkinson? That she’ll break before you do? Murder doesn’t always sit easily on one’s conscience. But sometimes a second killing is necessary to protect the secrets of the first. The police may consider that possibility, you see, in investigating Willingham’s. Whatever part she played in your father’s death will eventually drive her to confess. What will you do to stop her?”
Rebecca Parkinson leaned forward, and with all the strength of her shoulder behind the blow, slapped Rutledge as hard as she could across the face. “Leave my sister alone!”
And then she was gone, slamming the door hard behind her.
Mrs. Smith came hurrying from the kitchen. “I heard such a noise—and look at the tea, spilled all over my clean floor! What happened?”
“I’m afraid the young woman who was here has a chink in her armor,” he said. “And I’ve just found it.”
Rutledge walked down to the cottages and tapped lightly on the smith’s door.
Slater, looking as if he hadn’t slept, opened it and said, “I don’t think Inspector Hill wants you to talk to me.”
“Not about Willingham, no,” Rutledge said, stepping inside before Slater could shut his door. “I’m here to talk about Mr. Partridge. Did you know that he had two daughters?”
“No, of course I didn’t. He never talked about his family. I thought he must not have any. No one came to spend a Sunday afternoon with him, that sort of thing. It was just a guess that the girl who knocked at his door was his daughter. Mrs. Cathcart likes happy endings. For all we know, she might well have been the daughter of a friend. You would think, wouldn’t you, that being alone would make the cottages a friendlier place, but it doesn’t work that way.”
“Is Hill still giving you trouble over Willingham’s death?”
“He’s told me I’ll be taken in to sign my statement. I don’t know when that will be. Or if he’ll keep me once he has me there.” He was morose. “I’ve not done anything wrong. But the sexton has said I’m a liar and a cheat. I don’t see that that leads a man to murder, but Inspector Hill seems to believe it does.”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think he actually believes that you did this. But he has to look at all the possibilities. Did you know Willingham before he moved here?”
“I didn’t know any of these people. Including Mr. Partridge.”
“And what do the other inhabitants of the Tomlin Cottages have to say about the murder?”
“They aren’t saying anything. No one works in their garden, even as warm as it is this morning. No one answers the door. You’d think we collaborated on the murder, drawing straws to see who did the actual stabbing. Like Julius Caesar, in Shakespeare’s play, when everyone turns against him. I remember reading that, and thinking he should have known the Ides of March meant trouble. But I suppose there wouldn’t have been a play at all, if he’d listened to his wife in the first place.”
Rutledge smiled. “You cut through the chaff to the kernel.” The smile faded. “Are you all right, Slater?”