A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [131]
He was surprised that Rebecca at least hadn’t considered doing just that. If she ever separated her anger from her best interests, it might still happen that way and her father would be buried as Gaylord Partridge. And as surely as the sun rose every morning, Martin Deloran would be delighted to support her testimony.
It was time to put his case in writing. Rutledge drove back to the cottages to ask Allen to make a statement identifying Parkinson as the neighbor he’d known as Partridge.
It wasn’t strong enough to overturn what Parkinson’s own daughters told the court, but it might serve to cast doubt on their motives.
But when Rutledge arrived on Allen’s doorstep, the man shook his head. He seemed to have aged in a matter of hours, the color of his skin mottled and his hands trembling. “I must rest. Come back this afternoon, if you please.”
When Rutledge expressed concern, Allen reminded him, “There are good days and bad. And this hadn’t been one of my better ones. They’re farther and farther apart now. My doctor warned me, but of course one always supposes he’ll be wrong. He wasn’t.”
He closed his door and Rutledge heard the click of the bolt as he locked it.
Rutledge walked away, thinking that Allen would have a difficult time when it came to giving evidence at a trial. But he would be believed, he was that sort of man. And the view of the jury might well be that a dying man had nothing to gain by lying.
The next statement he wanted was Miller’s. Rutledge was surprised when the man answered the door. He explained what he needed.
Miller said, “I told you what I saw. I don’t see any point in writing it out.”
“What you told me is evidence in a murder inquiry. I can corroborate what you’ve said, but I can’t speak for you. It was you who saw the motorcar come back. It was you who saw Brady go into the Partridge cottage. If both events happened the way you described them to me, you have nothing to fear.”
“I’m not much for what follows, appearing in court.”
“You’ll be summoned to give evidence, whether you wish to or not. It’s out of my hands.”
“Oh, very well,” Miller replied grudgingly. “Come again in half an hour, and I’ll give it to you.” He said, almost as an afterthought, “What was it you were badgering Allen about? Did he see something as well? Let him give you a statement in my place.”
“It doesn’t work that way, Miller.”
Rutledge went to Quincy’s cottage and at first thought that Quincy might not open his door. But he did, saying, “The minders, those two constables in what was Brady’s cottage. What are they supposed to do? Arrest our killer as soon as he strikes again? They’re not fit enough to run a man down.”
A hot, spicy aroma filled the air behind him, distinctly un-English.
“They’re Hill’s men, here to keep the peace.”
Quincy snorted. “Well, they’re a damned sight too late for Willingham and Brady. And if Brady did the killing, what are we in need of minders for, tell me that? It’s the fire setter who worries me.”
“Early days yet, to be certain it was Brady.” His curiosity got the better of him. “What are you making?”
“It’s something I learned to cook in Mexico. Chili with chocolate cooked in it. Not bad. I admit to homesickness now and again. At least for the food. I’ve grown fond of a bit more flavor than boiled cabbage and boiled potatoes and boiled beef. I gather you’re looking for something other than culinary lessons. And if it’s character references you want, Dublin will do.”
“Have you told me everything you could? Or is your fear of your brother finding out you’re back in England locking up your tongue?”
“I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you. I kept the cat when he wasn’t here. We spoke from time to time and that was it.”
“He never gave you anything to keep for him, while he was away?”
“Like state secrets, do you mean?” He grinned. “Hardly. He