A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [120]
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.”
Still there was no answer.
Rutledge began to doubt that Rebecca Parkinson was in the house after all. She could easily have gone out through the kitchen yard and walked away.
“Whether you like it or not, you will be faced with other issues. Who will pay the housekeeper’s wages if your father is dead and his estate is left unsettled? Who will pay for repairing the drains and rooting out worm in the wood, and seeing to the roof? Are you prepared to stand and watch the house fall down for lack of money? Whether you want to touch your inheritance or not, you will find it will make a difference in what becomes of you and your sister, and the house at Partridge Fields.”
He had hoped that that would be a telling argument in persuading her to identify the body. But the silence lengthened.
“At least give me the name of your father’s solicitor, Miss Parkinson. I shall have to contact him. Meanwhile, you’re letting your anger blind you. I think your mother would want to know that you and your sister were provided for.”
But the bait was ignored.
No response, no angry outburst, no confrontation in the failing light, where he could try to read Rebecca Parkinson’s face and define her reactions.
He’d learned long ago that when people could be persuaded to talk, even about something as simple as the weather, he had a better chance of building a bridge to the truth. Silence worked in favor of the suspect—if there was no conversation, there would be nothing to stumble over later.
Hamish said, “Ye ken, ye said fra’ the start, this sister couldna be persuaded to work wi’ the police.”
Please God, Sarah would be a different sort. Certainly she was the more emotional of the two women. And probably the less stubborn.
In the end he left, driving back to Berkshire in the waning light of a spring evening.
It was just dark when he reached The Smith’s Arms. Tired and dispirited, he had listened to Hamish for miles, and he wished only for peace.
As he walked into the inn, he stopped short.
Sitting quietly in the chair by the window, where sometimes he had eaten his breakfast, was Meredith Channing.
The surprise was so complete that he simply stood there, unable to imagine what had brought her here, how she had found him. Even Hamish hadn’t warned him. And then he remembered that she was a friend of Frances’s, and he asked quickly, “Is anything wrong?”
She rose to greet him, something in her face that frightened him. But then she said, “I thought it best to come and tell you about Simon Barrington. For your sister’s sake.”
“How did you find me?”
“I asked a friend to call the Yard. Sergeant Gibson was kind enough to give me your direction.” She looked around, listening to the sounds of laughter and someone’s harmonica making rowdy music in the bar. “Is there anywhere that we can be private?”
“The night is mild enough. We can walk, if you’d like.”
She preceded him through the doorway, and said, “I passed the White Horse as I was coming in. It’s amazing. One of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. There’s something about it that is—I don’t know—rather fearsome. And yet not at all frightening.”
“I’ve always admired it.”
They turned in the direction of