“It’s Slater. I heard at the inn that he’d been taken into Uffington by Inspector Hill.”
“Shows how wrong gossip can be. No, Hill took him there to the doctor. He was using a hammer while they talked, working on one of those kettles he makes sometimes. They sell well at the summer fair. And he smashed his knuckles. Slater nearly passed out from the pain, and Hill called one of his men to get Slater into a car.”
“Then all’s well.”
“Why do you think he’s not guilty?” Quincy asked with some curiosity. “People like that often have a bad temper.” He turned his head to look at the cat asleep on her favorite chair. “She’s mine now, I expect. She didn’t mourn long for Partridge. If I thought it would work, I’d make a gift of her to Mrs. Cathcart. God knows she needs something to calm her nerves.”
“She’s afraid.”
“Aren’t we all? But you’re right, Mrs. Cathcart’s fear is exacerbated by what happened in her life before she came here. She peers out the window at every newcomer. I’ve seen the curtains twitch. A pity, really. She’ll die a tormented soul.”
Which is probably what her husband had in mind, Rutledge thought.
“Did you ever see Brady go in or come out of Partridge’s cottage?”
“No. He stayed away from Partridge as far as possible, considering he lived here as well. Look, do you want some coffee? I developed a taste for it in Guatemala. If you aren’t going away, then you might as well come in.”
“I’ll take you up on the offer.”
Rutledge stepped inside and shut the door behind him. The room where the birds were kept was in darkness, but the flickering light of the fire on the hearth glanced off iridescent feathers and glass eyes. He took the chair next to Dublin’s and sat down. The night was just chilly enough to make the fire comforting, and he felt a drowsiness steal over him. Quincy was busy in the kitchen, and the cat had begun to purr.
Hamish urged him to keep awake, prodding at him with words. Reminding him that the night watches in the trenches had meant life or death.
Rutledge asked him silently if he thought Quincy would poison the coffee, and Hamish gave him no answer.
“I’d give much to know what’s going on here,” Quincy was saying as he worked.
The rich scent of coffee beans in a grinder filled the room.
“So would Inspector Hill. Brady wrote a note before he died. At least it would appear he had. In it he claimed he’d killed both Willingham and Partridge.”
“Willingham I can understand. There was no loss of love there. But Partridge was, if you forgive me, the goose with the golden egg. Brady was out of a job if he harmed the man.”
“Quite.” Rutledge reached out a hand to smooth the head of the cat as she stretched, her purr loud in the room. “You’ll have to give Hill your full name on any statement, you know. It’s a matter of form.”
“I’m damned if I will. As long as I’m not a suspect, I’m giving him nothing.”
“After so many years, do you really think your family cares where you’re living? It’s more to the point that you stay away from them.”
“I signed an agreement, in front of witnesses. My brother might take it into his head to see that the letter and not the spirit of the law is carried out.”
“And your parents?”
“Dead for all I know. It hasn’t seemed worth my while to find out.”
The coffeepot was on the stove, and the aroma was building.
“What did you do that was so unforgivable?”
“I was born. Do you have any sisters or brothers, Rutledge?”
“A sister.”
“Close, are you?”
“Very.”
“Well, it wasn’t that way in my family. My brother hated me from the start. No, I swear it. He was a nasty piece of work in my eyes as well. We never got along, and just when he was rising in his firm, I was being sent down from Cambridge in disgrace. Too much drinking, too many women, my schoolwork suffering into the bargain. There was talk that I was the black sheep of a fine old name, and I wouldn’t amount to much. And then I did the unspeakable—I met the woman my brother was planning to marry, and she liked me well enough. Perhaps a little too well, for she broke off their engagement. I like to think the contrast with him pointed up just how great a bastard he was. My father offered me a sizable sum paid to my account anywhere in the world except England, and I was young enough not to fancy taking a position in my father’s firm. Going off to build the Panama Canal for the French seemed to be a fitting revenge, and off I went. Only the French died like flies, and the engineers died with them. So much for that.”
He went for the coffee and brought a cup of it back with him, handing it to Rutledge. “I take mine black. There’s not much choice, actually. I don’t have sugar or milk.” He fetched his own cup and sat down. “I don’t know why I talk to you. I don’t care for people as a rule. But before I know it, I’m telling my life story and thinking nothing of it. You’re a bad influence.”
Rutledge laughed. “So I’ve been told.”
“Did Brady kill Willingham, do you think?” Quincy asked abruptly, changing the subject.
“He confessed to it.”
“All right, for the sake of argument, what about Partridge?”
“I’m not as sure of that.”
“Nor am I. Which makes me wonder if Brady isn’t a scapegoat. And accordingly, I keep my door bolted at night now. I can protect myself. What’s loose amongst us here?”
It was an echo of the question Slater had asked.
“There’s no way of knowing.”
“Well, if it’s Slater, he won’t be using that hand to kill anybody for a while. Then we have Allen, who doesn’t have the strength left to overpower anyone, and Mrs. Cathcart, who is afraid of her own shadow. Which leaves in the suspect category Miller, Singleton, and me. Unless it’s Partridge coming back from the grave. We haven’t been shown his body, and that’s something to be taken into account.”
Rutledge couldn’t tell if this was a fishing expedition or not. But Hamish was warning him to take care.
“I think Hill is planning to dig up the floor of Partridge’s cottage tomorrow. To be certain he’s not under it.” It was a light answer, to avoid the truth.
It was Quincy’s turn to laugh, but it rang hollowly. “Yes, well, I wish him luck.” He drained his cup and held out his hand for Rutledge’s. “I’ll say good night. Thanks for coming by. I was in the mood for company.”
It was said with an edge to it, as if he weren’t particularly pleased to have been disturbed.
He let Rutledge out the door and bolted it behind him.
Rutledge went back to the inn and to bed. It was too late to see what Inspector Hill had to say about the murders.
In the night someone tried to burn Quincy alive in his cottage.
But he’d been telling the truth when he said he was armed. The shotgun blasted a hole through the door and peppered the front garden. Then he was outside, taking a broom to the rags someone had jammed under his door, pulling them apart in smoky masses. Those shoved through the broken windowpane in the bird room took longer to extinguish.
Damage was not as extensive as it might have been. Someone had counted on the door being unlocked, to make fire-starting easier. And when he found it wasn’t, he had tried to improvise, determined to set the house ablaze.
For the rest of the night Quincy sat in his dark sitting room, the shotgun across his knees and the coffeepot at his elbow.
When Rutledge came back the next morning, Quincy said with an edge to his voice, “I want to make a statement.”