Partridge’s death had stirred up something here.
Or was it Rutledge’s appearance on the scene to find out where he’d gone and why?
That was more to the point. Whatever Inspector Hill wanted to believe.
Hamish said, “Else, someone came looking for what yon old lady had typed. When you didn’t find it.”
But Rutledge couldn’t believe that Parkinson would have trusted anything of value to a curmudgeon like Willingham. Then again, why not? The least likely place might have been the most secure.
That still wouldn’t explain Brady’s death, even if Brady had gone to search Number 3 while he thought Willingham was asleep.
It all came round to what they’d seen the night Partridge vanished.
And—both deaths occurred after Rutledge had made himself known to Parkinson’s daughters. That ought to have been included in his time line.
“Speak of the devil—” Hamish began.
Below Rutledge a motorcar went speeding by, and he recognized it—it was one that Sarah Parkinson borrowed from her sister.
It looked as if the things he’d said to her only this morning had sent her headlong to confer with Rebecca.
Rutledge went down the hill fast, reached his own motorcar, and set out in pursuit.
He wanted to be there when the sisters met.
Halfway down the hill he stopped. The door to Allen’s cottage had swung open, and Allen himself stood there for an instant and then went sprawling head first into the front garden.
Rutledge changed course, and shouting for Slater or Quincy, raced to Allen’s aid. No one came to help him. Not even the constables Hill had left on watch.
When he reached Allen, he could see that there was no need for help. The man was dying. Rutledge turned him over and lifted the thin shoulders into his arms, holding him.
Allen looked up, squinted at the sky, then slowly brought Rutledge’s face into focus. “It’s you,” he said. “You won’t get your statement after all. Sorry.”
He lay back, trying to breathe. After a moment he said, “I don’t regret going this way. I’m just grateful that I’m not alone. I always worried about that, you know. Silly, when I chose to live here by myself.”
Rutledge said, “Is there anything I can do? Anyone you want me to contact?”
“It’s all there, in my desk. You’re a good man, Rutledge. Thank you for coming.”
Allen began to recite the Twenty-third Psalm, breathless and yet not hurrying, as if he knew he had time. When he’d finished he said, “I didn’t live a blameless life. But I never did anyone any harm. I expect God will take that into account.”
Rutledge had seen men die, most of them young, and had held more than one frightened boy until it was over. Allen, worn and frail, had reached the end of a normal life span, but it made no difference. Watching was difficult. But he spoke quietly, steadily, to the dying man, and Allen answered as long as he was able. And then he was quiet, but still breathing. After an interval he said, quoting King Charles II, “I seem to be an unconscionable time a-dying.” His chuckle caught on a small cough, and then he was gone, the light fading from his eyes.
Rutledge said, “Rest in peace. I hope you have found it wherever you are.”
He could feel his leg cramping but went on holding Allen for some time, until Slater, returning from the direction of Uffington, saw them there and came on the run.
“What’s happened?” he called as he reached them.
“Allen is dead. Time caught up with him, I think.”
“Yes, he told me once that the doctor had given him six to eight months, but he was determined to live longer. And so he did.”
He reached down and gathered the man’s body in his arms, lifting him gently and carrying him into the cottage where he laid Allen on his bed.
Rutledge, working out the cramp in his leg, followed them.
“I’ll go for Inspector Hill. Will you stay here?” Slater asked.
Rutledge thought of the sisters meeting, the danger that Sarah might stand in. It was already too late to get there in time.
He answered, “Go on. I’ll wait.”
23
For a time Rutledge stood by the hearth in Allen’s cottage, listening to the ticking of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece.
The old man had been sitting in his chair when he realized that the end was near. A handful of papers had scattered across the floor as he struggled to his feet and dragged himself to the door to call for help. It must have taken enormous will to travel even that short distance. But he hadn’t died alone in an empty house. It was even possible that from his windows he’d seen Rutledge sitting by the horse, and held on until the man from London got to him.
Rutledge gathered up the papers to set them neatly on the table beside the chair.
They were mostly letters from Allen’s family, and he put them down without reading them. But among them he saw that Allen had begun his statement, writing out the first sentence in a trembling hand before realizing that his malaise that morning was the precursor to death.
The sheet below that one caught Rutledge’s eye, for it was a list of the occupants of the Tomlin Cottages. Partridge’s name had been struck off, and then Willingham’s and Brady’s. There was a question mark by Miller’s, and the notation “The likeliest choice, I think. Mostly because he doesn’t belong here.”
Allen had been playing at amateur detective.
Beside Quincy’s name was another notation. “Armstrong? Or perhaps Remington? Can’t be sure, must write to Halloran and see…”
Next to Slater’s name was an X as if Allen had crossed him off as a suspect. The notation beside it read, “He might manage one killing, but not a second. Not in his nature…”
And after Singleton’s, he’d written, “Soldier, trained to kill. Still—”
It appeared that he’d come to no particular conclusion.
The door opened and Inspector Hill walked in. “You’re sure Allen died of natural causes?”
Rutledge said, “Very likely. See for yourself.” And Hill went into the bedroom. Rutledge pocketed the list Allen had made, then looked in the desk. As Allen had told him, there was an envelope with the words “To be opened after my death” written in the same hand as the list. Rutledge took it out and set it against a lamp, where Hill would notice it.
Slater was still outside, his face pale. Rutledge went out to him. “I know. It was what he wanted, all the same.”
“What are we to do? I think these cottages are accursed. They shouldn’t have been put here in the first place. It was a desecration.”
“Slater. If I were you, I’d sleep at your smithy tonight, not in your cottage.”
“I’m not afraid, if that’s what you think.”
“If you aren’t here, you can’t be accused.”
The man’s eyes widened. “But what about Mr. Quincy, and Miller? And Singleton. You can’t leave them.”
Inspector Hill came out of the cottage and cast a glance in the direction of Brady’s where his men had been stationed. “Why the hell didn’t they come? Slater said you were here alone.”
“You’d better have a look.”
Hill gave him an odd glance, then set out for Brady’s cottage at a trot. He went through the door without knocking, and even from this distance, Rutledge could hear him shouting angrily at his men.
He came back, still furious, and said, “They thought it might be a trick. They were told to watch, and damn it, they watched, their eyes glued to the other cottages for any sign of trouble.”
“There wasn’t anything they could do.”
“No. All right then, I’ll take over here. Thanks.” And he turned to go back into the cottage.