A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [108]
“I have no designs on her wealth,” he said. “The question might be, do you?”
A red flush flared across her cheeks. “I’m not in the habit of taking advantage of my guests, Mr. Rutledge. They are here because they have nowhere else to go. And I am here because this is my home, and the only way I can afford to keep it is to take in such guests. The property isn’t productive now, and I have no other means of seeing that the roof’s repaired, much less the plumbing functioning. Now I think you’d better leave.”
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, and meant it. “The business I have with Miss Chandler has to do with some typing she did for a man in the cottages where she used to live.”
Her eyes didn’t waver. “Then you’ll have no objection if I stay while you speak to her.”
“None at all.”
Hamish said, his voice soft, “The dragon at the gate.”
She rose again and led him down the passage to the enclosed porch where several women, most of them between their early sixties and late seventies, sat dozing or gossiping. They looked up with interest as Mrs. Deacon came into the room, smiling up at her as if pleased to see her. Then their eyes went directly to Rutledge, curiosity rampant.
“Is this the new doctor, then?” one asked.
“I’m sorry, no. A guest. Miss Chandler?” She spoke to a small woman swathed in shawls and seated in a large winged chair near the French doors. Needlepoint pillows at her back and on either side made it more comfortable for her, and Rutledge could see that she was well dressed, her clothes and hair and skin well cared for. Her eyes were a bright blue and still very clear. He hoped that her memory was as well.
She leaned forward a little, as if hard of hearing, and Mrs. Deacon said, “This young man is here to see you, Miss Chandler. Would you like to speak to him?”
“Is it my cousin from Australia?”
“No, this is Mr. Rutledge, Miss Chandler. He’s here to ask you about a little typing you did for someone he knows.”
She was crestfallen to discover it wasn’t her cousin, and Rutledge spared a moment to think of Deloran’s deception. But she brightened again as she said, “My fingers are getting a little stiff for the typing, young man. What is it you need?”
He took the chair across from hers so that she wouldn’t have to look up at him. Mrs. Deacon remained standing. “I wonder if you recall Mr. Partridge? He lived in the Tomlin Cottages near the White Horse for a few weeks before you moved here.”
She searched through the cobwebs of her mind and finally nodded. “Mr. Partridge. Polite, as I recall, and very pleased to learn I could type. Yes, I do remember him, now that you speak of him.”
“Do you perhaps recall what it was you were asked to type for him? It appears to have been lost.”
“Oh, that’s a shame, truly. But I’m afraid my brain is a little addled these days. I’m sure I couldn’t remember what I did well enough to type it again from memory. That must have been all of two years ago.”
Hamish was saying, “It wilna’ help.” But Rutledge persevered.
“Was it a letter? Memoirs?” He tried to think of anything else that Partridge might have worked on. “Reports? Papers for a professional society?”
“Oh, yes, that’s precisely what it was! How clever of you, Mr. Rutledge. Yes, indeed, it was a paper for a professional journal, I recall it now. He promised to send me a copy of the journal, when the paper appeared. I suppose he forgot. I never received it.” There was disappointment in her face as she considered the matter. “I daresay it wouldn’t have mentioned my name, I only typed it, but still…”
“Was the paper difficult to work on?”
“Quite so. A good many symbols had to be carefully inserted by hand. I didn’t know what all of them represented, but I do remember how he insisted that they must be absolutely precise. He told me that others duplicating his work must know exactly what he knew, or it would be useless to try. It appears he’d made an interesting discovery in his laboratory just before he left his firm, and he wanted to report it to some society or other. As a last claim to fame and glory.” She