A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [105]
If, that is, murder had been done…
He looked about the room, staying where he was in the open door. A gust of wind came up and whisked the sheet of paper from the table, sending it into the ash-strewn hearth behind it.
What would Hill make of this death? An easy solution to Willingham’s murder? Whatever path the inspector took, it would give Rutledge insight into the man.
He closed the door against the rising wind and walked away. He would have to send the smith again to summon the police.
Slater was reluctant to go.
“Why me? He’ll think I’ve had something to do with it, as sure as the dawn follows the dark.”
“Because I must stay here to keep an eye on the cottage—”
“But no one would go in there. And I could as easily keep watch.”
“Slater. Go on. I don’t have my motorcar here, it’s at The Smith’s Arms. You’ll find it there. And hurry.”
“There’s no need to hurry. Brady will still be there when Inspector Hill comes.” Slater collected rain gear from the cupboard where he kept his clothes and then paused at the door. “You’re safe enough, getting yourself involved in this. You’re a policeman. Who is willing to believe me?”
And he was gone, out into the storm.
Rutledge turned so that he could watch the Brady cottage. The smith’s house reeked of wood smoke. He’d never noticed it before, but the dampness outside somehow brought it to the fore.
Slater used fire and hammer for his work. It was evident everywhere Rutledge looked. The hinges of doors and cabinets, the bolts that held them closed, the tongs on the hearth, the scoop of the shovel used to take out the ashes. So many details he’d never had time to notice.
Even the latches of the windows had been replaced by wrought iron, and the candlestick holders on the windowsill were attractively turned. There was a boot scraper by the door, made in the shape of a hedgehog, the bristles of broom on his back looking like the bristles on the hedgehog’s back.
Overhead a wrought-iron lamp dropped down out of the ceiling on a finely made chain, the sconces shaped like tulips, the candle in the fold of the petals.
Alone here, he realized how the smith’s presence, tall and vibrant, filled the room. Now it seemed larger, outsized, because he wasn’t there.
Rutledge kept his eye on the Brady cottage, saw the rain running hard off the roof and cascading onto the path and spreading out into the garden, only trickles at first, and then tiny lakes that came together and separated as the wind pushed them back.
By the time Inspector Hill came dashing in from the motorcar, his hair shining with rain, the shoulders of his coat dark with it, the clouds were thinning, the worst of the cloudburst passed.
He shook himself like a dog as he crossed the threshold, and said, “All right, I’m here. I’ll deal with Brady. The rest of my men are following.” He looked up into Rutledge’s face and said, “You seem to bring death in your wake.”
“You have it the wrong way round,” Rutledge answered mildly.
“Too bad the rain has washed away any sign of footprints along the walk. But there may not have been any if we’ve got a suicide. Still, better safe than sorry, keep an open mind and all that.”
“I looked, before I left the cottage. It was hard to pick out any print in particular. Too much traffic.”
Hill grunted. “I hope the rain is finished before we go inside there. As it is, we’ll be tracking in half the garden.”
“Where’s Slater?”
“He’s still in your motorcar. I think he’s half afraid I’m about to arrest him on the spot. Early days yet. I don’t know whether to take it as a sign of guilt or just his way of looking at things.” Suddenly he could hear himself speak. The rain had stopped. “All right, I’m off. You’ll stay here?”
It was more a statement than a question.
He went out and splashed quickly up the lane to Brady’s cottage, stopping on the threshold for a time and then disappearing inside, shutting the door behind him. He was in the cottage for several minutes, his men collecting at the bottom of the lane, awaiting instructions. Then he hurried back to Slater’s cottage just