A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [147]
The clinic had been a bank in an earlier life, Rutledge thought, noting the marble pillars in Reception and the ornate staircase sweeping up to the first floor. His footsteps echoed as he crossed to the door. A nursing sister passing through nodded to him.
He found the hotel, The White Hart, without any difficulty, put in a call to Uffington, and after a time heard Hill’s voice on the other end of the line.
Rutledge gave the inspector a brief report, and asked about the cottages.
“We couldn’t save the empty ones where the fire had been set inside. We couldn’t get enough water to them. The rest, the ones still occupied, will be habitable. Where’s Singleton?”
“I wish I knew. I told you, he left in my motorcar.”
“He wasn’t injured in the crash?”
“Not as far as I could tell.”
“Surely you could have stopped him.” Hill’s frustration came to the fore, backed by anger.
“I couldn’t leave the woman he ran down.”
“But she’ll live, you say?”
“It appears that way. Early days.” He saw again the doctor’s grave face as he examined the head wound and tested Sarah Parkinson’s reflexes. “The next twenty-four hours will tell us.”
“Where do you think Singleton went?”
“Where does he feel safe? I don’t know. I expect he’ll abandon my motorcar as soon as possible and find other means of transport. It could be a country bus or a train. One that isn’t crowded, I should think.”
“We haven’t got enough men to watch train stations.”
“No.”
Hill said, “I delayed, waiting to hear from London. Singleton wasn’t cashiered from an Indian regiment. That was all a lie. He’d been in the regular army, and was called up again in 1915. Seems he killed another soldier on the transport ship to France. Used a knife then, as well. He was put in irons, but somehow in the confusion when they docked, he got away. London thought he was still in France, hiding in the south, but he probably came home with the wounded, and just walked off. He must have thought Brady recognized him, and when you came nosing about, he was sure you were searching for him. We’ll find your motorcar for you. Pray God we find Singleton too.”
Rutledge walked back to the hospital. He found Rebecca sitting in the small waiting area down the passage from her sister’s room. Someone had kindly brought her a cup of tea, but she was holding it between her hands as if she didn’t know what to do with it.
He sat down across from her, waiting until she broke the silence.
“I told you, we quarreled. I should have never let her go back on that bicycle, but I was angry, I thought she deserved to suffer too. But not this, I never imagined this.”
“There was no way you could.”
“It’s partly your fault. You upset her, more than you know. She didn’t kill our father. Leave her alone.”
“I’d come to the conclusion she hadn’t. I don’t think it’s in her nature to kill.”
“Are you saying it’s in mine?” She looked up at him, holding his gaze, challenging him.
“I don’t know. You must tell me.”
“I haven’t killed anyone,” she said wearily. “At least not until tonight. She wouldn’t have been on that road if I’d kept her at Pockets or even driven her home.”
“What did you quarrel about?”
“She wanted to go to Yorkshire and bring home Father’s body. I was just as happy to leave him there to rot.”
“Why did he die?” He waited, and when she didn’t answer, he said, “Look, you might as well tell me what happened. I know most of the story, and can guess the rest of it.”
She gave him a withering glance. “Oh no. You couldn’t in your wildest dreams guess what happened to Gerald Parkinson. I don’t think any of us know.”
A young nursing sister stuck her head round the door. “Your sister is awake, Miss Parkinson, and asking for you.”
Rebecca got up and followed her. Rutledge, after a moment, went as well.
Sarah’s head was bandaged, her face pale, and by morning she’d have a very black eye. Her arm was in a cast, and she lay there trying to stand the pain.
“They can’t give me anything,” she said as her