A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [134]
Rutledge, working out the cramp in his leg, followed them.
“I’ll go for Inspector Hill. Will you stay here?” Slater asked.
Rutledge thought of the sisters meeting, the danger that Sarah might stand in. It was already too late to get there in time.
He answered, “Go on. I’ll wait.”
23
For a time Rutledge stood by the hearth in Allen’s cottage, listening to the ticking of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece.
The old man had been sitting in his chair when he realized that the end was near. A handful of papers had scattered across the floor as he struggled to his feet and dragged himself to the door to call for help. It must have taken enormous will to travel even that short distance. But he hadn’t died alone in an empty house. It was even possible that from his windows he’d seen Rutledge sitting by the horse, and held on until the man from London got to him.
Rutledge gathered up the papers to set them neatly on the table beside the chair.
They were mostly letters from Allen’s family, and he put them down without reading them. But among them he saw that Allen had begun his statement, writing out the first sentence in a trembling hand before realizing that his malaise that morning was the precursor to death.
The sheet below that one caught Rutledge’s eye, for it was a list of the occupants of the Tomlin Cottages. Partridge’s name had been struck off, and then Willingham’s and Brady’s. There was a question mark by Miller’s, and the notation “The likeliest choice, I think. Mostly because he doesn’t belong here.”
Allen had been playing at amateur detective.
Beside Quincy’s name was another notation. “Armstrong? Or perhaps Remington? Can’t be sure, must write to Halloran and see…”
Next to Slater’s name was an X as if Allen had crossed him off as a suspect. The notation beside it read, “He might manage one killing, but not a second. Not in his nature…”
And after Singleton’s, he’d written, “Soldier, trained to kill. Still—”
It appeared that he’d come to no particular conclusion.
The door opened and Inspector Hill walked in. “You’re sure Allen died of natural causes?”
Rutledge said, “Very likely. See for yourself.” And Hill went into the bedroom. Rutledge pocketed the list Allen had made, then looked in the desk. As Allen had told him, there was an envelope with the words “To be opened after my death” written in the same hand as the list. Rutledge took it out and set it against a lamp, where Hill would notice it.
Slater was still outside, his face pale. Rutledge went out to him. “I know. It was what he wanted, all the same.”
“What are we to do? I think these cottages are accursed. They shouldn’t have been put here in the first place. It was a desecration.”
“Slater. If I were you, I’d sleep at your smithy tonight, not in your cottage.”
“I’m not afraid, if that’s what you think.”
“If you aren’t here, you can’t be accused.”
The man’s eyes widened. “But what about Mr. Quincy, and Miller? And Singleton. You can’t leave them.”
Inspector Hill came out of the cottage and cast a glance in the direction of Brady’s where his men had been stationed. “Why the hell didn’t they come? Slater said you were here alone.”
“You’d better have a look.”
Hill gave him an odd glance, then set out for Brady’s cottage at a trot. He went through the door without knocking, and even from this distance, Rutledge could hear him shouting angrily at his men.
He came back, still furious, and said, “They thought it might be a trick. They were told to watch, and damn it, they watched, their eyes glued to the other cottages for any sign of trouble.”
“There wasn’t anything they could do.”
“No. All right then, I’ll take over here. Thanks.” And he turned to go back into the cottage.
Rutledge walked down the lane with Slater. “Will you leave?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Good man.”
Quincy was standing in his doorway. “Allen, was it?”
“Yes,” Rutledge answered shortly. He was still angry with Quincy for not coming to the man’s aid.
“I’m glad you were