A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [122]
A rooster crowed in the distance, and Rutledge reached for his watch, lighting his lamp long enough to glance at it. Dawn would be breaking soon.
And with it, what? Another murder? Another day of chasing a truth that didn’t want to be discovered?
Sometimes he thought that Gerald Parkinson would be happier in an anonymous grave rather than one where he wasn’t wanted.
After a time he drifted again into sleep, his last thought one that had grown out of his conversation with Meredith Channing.
A murderer would have put Parkinson’s body in Wayland’s Smithy and called his death a suicide.
When he came down the next morning, Mrs. Cathcart was eating her breakfast at the table that was usually his, but he made no move to join her. She seemed to be in better spirits, and Mrs. Smith had been carrying on a running conversation with her as each dish was brought in. The subject under discussion was affairs at the cottages, and they had reached the point of debating whether Partridge was one of the victims or not.
“He’s not been seen for some time. But the police were there, in his cottage, and nothing was said about finding him,” Mrs. Cathcart was saying.
“He would come here sometimes to talk with the lorry drivers. The distance to this place or that, what accommodations might be had, what kind of weather he might expect. I didn’t know for the longest time that he was from the cottages—I thought he’d come in from Uffington. Horrible to imagine him murdered. Are they quite sure of that?” Mrs. Smith asked over a rack of toast.
Rutledge asked, “Did he ever talk about his visit to Liverpool?”
It was Deloran and his men who had tracked Parkinson there. And Rutledge had never been satisfied that Parkinson hadn’t lured them there, to keep his watchers from guessing what he’d really done during his brief absences.
But neither Mrs. Cathcart nor Mrs. Smith could answer that question.
Mrs. Smith was called away by two drivers just in, and Mrs. Cathcart was still sitting over the last of her tea when he left the inn.
Hamish said, “She believes her husband willna’ think to look for her here.”
It was true—The Smith’s Arms was hardly a place where the Mrs. Cathcarts of this world spent their days. But she seemed less anxious this morning, as if she had slept well enough.
Rutledge drove as far as the foot of the lane and pulled the motorcar to the verge. The sun was watery as he walked up to the cottage occupied by Mr. Allen. The smith had fashioned a wrought-iron SIX in a Gothic script for Allen’s door, giving it a distinction the other cottages lacked.
The curtains twitched in the front window before the door was opened to Rutledge’s knock.
“Taking precautions,” Allen said in explanation as he moved aside to let Rutledge inside the small entry. “I’m dying but have no interest in hurrying the process.”
“Miss Chandler, who once lived in Brady’s cottage, sends you her regards. She was pleased to hear that you’re still alive.”
He smiled. “She didn’t belong here. But beggars can’t be choosers. I’d wondered if her good fortune was truly that.”
“It appears to have been.”
“I wish I were well out of here myself. This business of murder practically on one’s doorstep is not good for any of us, I expect. I’ve found it hard to sleep. I spoke to Miller this morning, and he agrees, if we had anywhere else to go, we’d be off. I’m not up to travel,