A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [138]
There were no alarms in the night, and Mrs. Cathcart announced over breakfast that she was ready to return to her cottage.
Rutledge took her back, and on the way told her that Allen had died. She cried for him.
“Poor man. But he knew it was coming. If I had anywhere else to go, I’d leave here. But there’s no hope of that and I mustn’t even dwell on it.”
He saw her safely inside, then stood there in the soft end of April morning light, looking up at the White Horse. There were workmen repairing the damage to Quincy’s door, the blows of their hammers echoing against the hill and rebounding.
Legend had it that if someone knew the secret, he could stand on the ground below the hill and make his voice appear to come from the horse. Rutledge’s father had told him that, but try as they would, they never found the spot. A priest or chieftain would have known where to look for it, and like the Delphic oracle, could have given his pronouncements the power of a god.
It was time to go back to London and report. But he was reluctant to leave until Inspector Hill had caught his murderer. What he would do about his own was another matter altogether. It hadn’t worked to turn one sister against the other.
Slater called to him as he was walking home from the village, and Rutledge went to meet him.
“You were wrong. Nothing happened last night.”
But Hill had left a message earlier at the inn for Rutledge, saying that he’d collected a sample of handwriting from each of the surviving inhabitants, and the results were unclear. The message ended with “Whoever wrote this confession must have tried to emulate Brady’s hand or, at the very least, tried to disguise his own. Hard to say which.”
“Nothing happened,” Rutledge agreed. “But why take the risk? I’m not convinced Brady killed anyone.”
Slater looked up at the horse. “I spent much of the night thinking about Mr. Brady. If he’d killed Mr. Willingham, he’d have tried to bluff his way out. He was that sort. Good at making excuses.”
“Perhaps the point was to kill Willingham, and see that Brady took the blame.”
“Willingham was free with his tongue, I grant you. And he never cared who he hurt,” Slater agreed. “And if that’s what’s behind this business, he invited his own death. He’s called me a simpleton and witless often enough. But I’m used to it. I’ve been called names all my life. I can’t kill every man or woman who hurts my feelings.”
“The attempt to burn down Quincy’s cottage was probably a sham, to throw us off the scent. The question is, did Quincy set that fire himself?”
Slater said, “They should all be burned down. They were never meant for us. But then I’d have nowhere to go.”
He went inside and shut his door, a lost and lonely man who would always draw spite because he was different.
Hill arrived just then, and said, “There’s been a development.”
“I got your message.”
“Yes, well, the doctor says now that Brady couldn’t have killed himself, no matter how it was made to look. The angle of the thrust is wrong. He conferred with a colleague.”
“So two murders, and an attempted one, if you count the fire at Quincy’s. I was just going up to speak to Miller. Would you like to join me?”
Hill shook his head. “It’s Slater I’m interested in. That man’s got the arm to wield a knife like that, and whatever he says, I think he was pushed over the edge.”
“I’d like to look through Willingham’s cottage.”
“My men have been thorough.”
“I’m sure they have. It won’t do any harm to add another pair of eyes.”
“Go ahead. All you’ll find will be the sketches. Constable Smith saw them before I did. Nasty piece of work, but it explains, doesn’t it, why we were so ready to believe that Brady had killed the man.”
“What sketches?”
Hill said with a grin, “Didn’t you know? He took aim at all his neighbors. Quite Hogarthian, really. Still, he knew his way around pen and paper—”
But Rutledge was already on his way, swearing under his breath.
Hamish was pointing out that it wasn’t his case.
Rutledge ignored him.
There had been a constable