He promised to respect her confidences, and walked back to his motorcar, thinking about what she’d told him.
A miscarriage could change the relationship of husband and wife. Most certainly if the doctors had told her she mustn’t have another child. The emotional impact of loss and grief could have frightened children who didn’t understand what had happened. They would certainly have felt the great distress wrapping their parents in shared sorrow, and they might have felt left out of it. Something like that could shake the safe world a child was accustomed to living in.
It went a long way toward understanding the sisters’ anger and even explained to some extent why Mrs. Parkinson had finally killed herself, if she had never quite come to terms with her grief. But it didn’t explain patricide.
Hamish said, “She died many years later.”
“I don’t know that time has anything to do with grief, but yes, it must have added to her burden.”
He’d spoken aloud from habit, and caught himself up.
Hamish said, “Aye, ye can pretend I’m no’ here, but you canna’ turn around to see for yoursel’.”
It was true, the one thing Rutledge dreaded was seeing the face of a dead man. However real Hamish was, he was lying in his grave in France. And if he was not…it didn’t bear thinking of.
The housekeeper, Martha, might not have believed in ghosts, and for that matter, neither did Rutledge. The voice in his head had nothing to do with dead men walking. It was there because Hamish had died, and there was nothing he could do to change that. It was his punishment for killing so many of his own men, for leading them over the top and across No Man’s Land and coming back without a scratch on him, while they fell and cried out and died. He’d had the courage to die with them, but Fate had decided to spare him, and scar him with the knowledge that his very survival mocked him.
22
When he got back to The Smith’s Arms, Rutledge was surprised to find that the ex-soldier, Singleton, had come to the bar and was there drinking heavily.
It was Mrs. Smith who told him, her voice pitched not to carry but her concern very real.
“I don’t want Smith to throw him out, it isn’t good for business, and besides, he’s likely drunk enough to take exception to it, and then where will we be? And for that matter, poor Mrs. Cathcart is in her room frightened of her own shadow, with him shouting down here.”
As Hamish warned him to stay out of it, Rutledge pushed through the door and found Smith behind the bar, standing there grimly watching Singleton. He was talking with a lorry driver, and the man had pushed back from the table to escape the intensity of Singleton’s vehement certainty that the world was going to the dogs, and before long they’d all be murdered in their beds.
Walking over to the pair, Rutledge greeted them with a nod and then said, “Singleton. I’d like to have a word, if you don’t mind.”
The ex-soldier looked up at him. “If it’s about the murders, I have nothing to say. It’s not a military matter, is it?”
“You’re right. Still, you’ve more experience than most of the residents there at the cottages.” He sat down, moving his chair slightly so that he could watch Singleton and his irate companion at the same time.
“Experience in what?” It was a low growl, as if Rutledge had accused him of the killings.
“Dealing with men. What if Hill is wrong, and Brady couldn’t have killed himself or Willingham? Who do you think might be capable of it?”
Singleton shook his head as if to clear it. “Blame it on Partridge, if you like. It’s as good a guess as any. Why else did he run off, and bring the police prowling about like ants?”
“Hardly like ants. Hill and his men have tried to be discreet.”
“Yes, well, I’d had enough. I came here for a little peace. If Mrs. Cathcart can flee the scene, so can I.”
“She’s a woman, and nervous.”
“I intend to stay the night.”
“Mrs. Smith doesn’t have a free room.”
“Then I’ll sleep here. All I need is a pillow and a blanket.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. Let me drive you home. You’ll be safer in your own bed.”
“Safe has nothing to do with it. There’s no peace there any more. I wish Willingham had never died, or Brady for that matter, though I didn’t like him at all. Smelled of trouble, the moment I saw him.”
“He never disturbed you, to my knowledge,” Rutledge pointed out.
“I’d have dealt with him if he had.”
The lorry driver cleared his throat and started to get up. Singleton told him shortly to sit down and mind where he was. “You’re drinking my round, and you’ll finish it out of courtesy.”
But the lorry driver said, “I’ve had all I can drink and still drive. You don’t have another fifty miles to travel before you’re done.”
“I want company,” Singleton retorted. “I’ve never liked to drink alone.”
“You’ve got company,” the driver pointed out but subsided in his chair, casting a pleading glance at Rutledge.
“Singleton. I’ll ask Smith to give us a bottle and we’ll finish it at the cottage.”
Singleton considered him. “I told you, I wanted to get away from there.”
“This is hardly the place to drown your sorrows.”
“But it’s where I am.”
“Partridge is dead. His body was found some distance from here. It’s likely he was murdered as well. But not necessarily by the same hand as Brady and Willingham.”
Singleton’s eyes sharpened. “You’re lying. You can’t have two murderers prowling the same patch.”
“Why not? Murder is as individual as the man or woman who resorts to it. You’ve killed, you know that’s true.”
“What do you mean, I’ve killed?”
Rutledge thought, He’s beyond reasoning with.
And Hamish said once more, “’Ware!”
“All right, Singleton, we’re leaving.” Rutledge got to his feet and pushed his chair back to the table. “Are you ready to come with me?”
It was not the conversational voice he’d been using, but the tone of an officer expecting his men to obey on the spot.
Surprisingly Singleton responded, standing and then gripping the edge of the table to steady himself.
“Give me a shoulder, man!” he appealed to Rutledge, and together they walked out of the bar. Mrs. Smith, standing in the shadows by the stairs, watched, and up on the landing, Mrs. Cathcart had wrapped her arms about her body as if to stop shaking. Rutledge got Singleton outside and into the motorcar.
They drove back toward the cottages, and Singleton was silent, brooding.
As Rutledge turned up the lane toward his cottage, the ex-soldier said, “It’s Quincy, if you’re looking for one of us to be the murderer. He’s half mad anyway, with all those damned birds. Someone should fire the cottage with him in it.”
“Someone did try. He got a shotgun barrel in his face.”
“Then you’ve only to look at any one of us to see who it was.”
“Quincy fired through the door. Apparently scaring the hell out of someone but not hitting him.”
“I told you he was mad.”
“Yes, probably you’re right. Do you want me to come in with you?”
“No. You’re not drinking my whisky and telling me lies.”
“Suit yourself. Good day, Singleton.”
He waited while Singleton made up his mind. After a moment, the man clambered down, threw a mockery of a salute in Rutledge’s direction, and said, “It’s the pain that gets to you after a while. It drives you mad.”
“Were you wounded?” Rutledge knew Singleton had served in India.
“The disgrace, damn you. It turned my father against me, I’ll tell you that. He never spoke to me again. His only son, disgraced before his regiment. And mine. But I didn’t care any more. And he did.”