A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [133]
That had covered what, the space of a few weeks or months?
And after that, nine people had lived together in peace if not in harmony until Partridge went away and failed to come back.
He’d have thought, Rutledge mused silently, that the first death ought to have been Brady’s. But Partridge had accepted his watcher and very likely proceeded to play with him by disappearing at intervals. Better the devil you know…
Partridge’s death had stirred up something here.
Or was it Rutledge’s appearance on the scene to find out where he’d gone and why?
That was more to the point. Whatever Inspector Hill wanted to believe.
Hamish said, “Else, someone came looking for what yon old lady had typed. When you didn’t find it.”
But Rutledge couldn’t believe that Parkinson would have trusted anything of value to a curmudgeon like Willingham. Then again, why not? The least likely place might have been the most secure.
That still wouldn’t explain Brady’s death, even if Brady had gone to search Number 3 while he thought Willingham was asleep.
It all came round to what they’d seen the night Partridge vanished.
And—both deaths occurred after Rutledge had made himself known to Parkinson’s daughters. That ought to have been included in his time line.
“Speak of the devil—” Hamish began.
Below Rutledge a motorcar went speeding by, and he recognized it—it was one that Sarah Parkinson borrowed from her sister.
It looked as if the things he’d said to her only this morning had sent her headlong to confer with Rebecca.
Rutledge went down the hill fast, reached his own motorcar, and set out in pursuit.
He wanted to be there when the sisters met.
Halfway down the hill he stopped. The door to Allen’s cottage had swung open, and Allen himself stood there for an instant and then went sprawling head first into the front garden.
Rutledge changed course, and shouting for Slater or Quincy, raced to Allen’s aid. No one came to help him. Not even the constables Hill had left on watch.
When he reached Allen, he could see that there was no need for help. The man was dying. Rutledge turned him over and lifted the thin shoulders into his arms, holding him.
Allen looked up, squinted at the sky, then slowly brought Rutledge’s face into focus. “It’s you,” he said. “You won’t get your statement after all. Sorry.”
He lay back, trying to breathe. After a moment he said, “I don’t regret going this way. I’m just grateful that I’m not alone. I always worried about that, you know. Silly, when I chose to live here by myself.”
Rutledge said, “Is there anything I can do? Anyone you want me to contact?”
“It’s all there, in my desk. You’re a good man, Rutledge. Thank you for coming.”
Allen began to recite the Twenty-third Psalm, breathless and yet not hurrying, as if he knew he had time. When he’d finished he said, “I didn’t live a blameless life. But I never did anyone any harm. I expect God will take that into account.”
Rutledge had seen men die, most of them young, and had held more than one frightened boy until it was over. Allen, worn and frail, had reached the end of a normal life span, but it made no difference. Watching was difficult. But he spoke quietly, steadily, to the dying man, and Allen answered as long as he was able. And then he was quiet, but still breathing. After an interval he said, quoting King Charles II, “I seem to be an unconscionable time a-dying.” His chuckle caught on a small cough, and then he was gone, the light fading from his eyes.
Rutledge said, “Rest in peace. I hope you have found it wherever you are.”
He could feel his leg cramping but went on holding Allen for some time, until Slater, returning from the direction of Uffington, saw them there and came on the run.
“What’s happened?” he called as he reached them.
“Allen is dead. Time caught up with him, I think.”
“Yes, he told me once that the doctor had given him six to eight months, but he was determined to live longer. And so he did.”
He reached down and gathered the man’s body in his