“Do you think Mr. Brady spied on his neighbors? I’m told he spent most of his time sitting at his windows, looking out.”
“I expect he was lonely. Most of us are, you know. He did seem more interested in Mr. Partridge than he was in the rest of us, but then it was Mr. Partridge’s cottage he could see best. Of course Mr. Willingham was always accusing Mr. Brady of staring at him. I can’t believe either of them is dead. Do you think Mr. Partridge is as well? If I had anywhere else to go, I’d leave this place. I don’t feel safe here, I’m terrified of being murdered in my bed.”
He wished he could tell her that she had little chance of that. “Keep your door locked. Don’t open it at night to anyone, no matter what he may say to you.”
“I’d ask Mr. Slater to be sure my locks couldn’t be tampered with. But he’s hurt his hand, and it must be very painful. Will you look at my door and windows?”
He agreed and followed her through the rooms of her cottage testing the latches on windows and the main door. “If you’re afraid, keep a light on. It will be a comfort.”
“Do you think Inspector Hill is capable of doing anything about these frightening events? I’ve not been impressed by him. He’s a local man, after all. And he doesn’t know anything about us.”
“He’s making every effort.”
“I’m not sure that’s good enough.” She tugged at her earlobe, clearly upset. “For a very long time, now, I’ve been afraid of dying,” she confessed. “I always believed my husband would see to it that I was quietly disposed of. Now it may be a complete stranger who makes him the happiest man in England.”
Rutledge said, “Would you prefer to stay at The Smith’s Arms for several nights, until this business is finished? You’re the only woman here. You might be more comfortable.”
She said, the strain apparent in her voice, “I’ve considered that. I’d do it, if I could afford it.”
“Let me have a word with Mrs. Smith. I think it might be possible to arrange.”
Mrs. Cathcart said, “Please? Let me go with you? I’ve only to put a few things into my overnight case. When the sun begins to set, I can hardly breathe for fear.”
Rutledge took pity on her and said, “Yes, of course. I’ll wait.”
It took her less time than he’d expected. She came out of her bedroom with a worn leather valise and handed it to him. “I’m so grateful. You can’t imagine. There’s no one I can turn to. I could smell the smoke at Mr. Quincy’s cottage in the night, and at first I thought it was mine. Even so, I sat here, wondering what would be worse, burning to death or walking outside into the arms of someone with a knife. They say he prefers a knife. I thought Mr. Brady confessed.”
She paused on the threshold, stricken by a thought. “It isn’t Mr. Partridge, is it? Coming back here and attacking us? I’ve heard people can be struck down by a brainstorm, and not know what they’re doing.”
“You don’t have to fear Mr. Partridge. I don’t think he’ll be coming back to the cottages.”
She locked her door behind her but didn’t look back as he helped her into the motorcar. He could feel her worry drain away until she was light-headed from relief.
It took him five minutes to convince Mrs. Smith that he had no ulterior motive in paying for Mrs. Cathcart’s room. He also made her promise to say nothing about who was taking care of the account.
Then, as Mrs. Cathcart stepped into the inn, Mrs. Smith smiled at her and welcomed her, saying, “I’ll bring up a cup of tea after I’ve shown you your room.”
Mrs. Cathcart cast a grateful glance at Rutledge and followed Mrs. Smith up the stairs, answering questions about the two deaths as they climbed.
He went into the pub, sat down in the window seat, and tried to shut out Hamish’s voice. The large room was empty of custom, and in the quietness Rutledge considered a possibility that had nagged at the edges of his consciousness for several hours.
Which of his daughters had Parkinson started a letter to, only to crumple it up and toss it aside as if the words he wanted wouldn’t come?
My dear…
If it was Sarah, then he must have held out hope of some sort of reconciliation.
If it was Rebecca, he might well be trying to make amends for what she felt he’d done to her mother.
Hamish said, “But he didna’ send it. Which brings up the question of whether he’d ha’ gone with ither one o’ them, if they’d come to his door late at night. And it must ha’ been late—no one saw what happened.”
“Interesting about the cars,” Rutledge said. “The body was transported in Partridge’s. Which suggests that the daughter without the car that night was the one who killed him.”
“It’s a long way on foot for ither o’ them.”
“A friend could have driven them to Uffington. It’s an easy walk from there.”
But what if the unfinished letter was simply a first draft, and Parkinson had after all sent what he’d written?
What if he had intended to sell Partridge Fields? Would that threat be the last straw for Rebecca?
My dear Rebecca, I am writing to tell you that I’ve decided that the time has come to sell the house and grounds. If there’s anything in the house that you wish to have, please make arrangements to remove the item before I put the property on the market….
And that would have brought Rebecca storming to his door in the middle of the night after struggling for hours to find a way to stop him.
Or look at it another way round.
The letter might have been very different.
My dear Rebecca, I’m writing to tell you that I’ve decided to move back to Partridge Fields now. I’ve made arrangements for the house to be refurbished and the gardens cleared and replanted….
All that was necessary was to persuade their father to spend one night in the house while they argued over his plan. The rest would have been simple. Drug him, turn on the gas, and let him die while he slept.
But why then remove Parkinson from the house and carry his body to Yorkshire? Why not leave him there for the housekeeper to find, and let him be buried in the churchyard with his ancestors?
Perhaps they had left Parkinson where he died—and it was Deloran who had ordered the body moved, so that both Parkinson and Partridge were disposed of in one neat solution.
21
It was late, but Rutledge went back to Rebecca Parkinson’s house. And even though she refused to answer the door, he stood outside and called her name.
“Miss Parkinson, I know you can hear me. If you won’t come out, then we can conduct our business this way. I want you to give some thought to what is happening in Uffington. Inspector Hill has a confession that was found next to the body of a man Dreadnought set to watch your father for two years. In that confession, there’s an admission by the dead man that he killed your father and then murdered another resident who might have seen this man going into your father’s cottage the night he disappeared.”
He waited, but Rebecca Parkinson neither came to the door nor answered him from inside.
Hamish said, “Ye’re wasting your breath. If she didna’ kill her father, she’s verra’ glad someone did.”
Rutledge answered him in the silence of his mind. “We must have a family member make a positive identification of that body, even if we must exhume it. It’s the only way I can think of to persuade either sister to take that step. We’ll worry about murder after that. It’s what every case is built on, the identity of a body.”
Aloud, he said, “I’m bound to tell you, Miss Parkinson, that Inspector Hill isn’t completely satisfied that the confession is in the dead man’s handwriting. That must be verified. But if it is, and the confession is allowed to stand, there will be matters you and your sister must deal with. We’ve already found evidence that your father’s motorcar was used to transport his body north, before being returned to the cottage. We’ll need to prove once and for all that the man in Yorkshire is one Gerald Parkinson, not Gaylord Partridge.”