A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [17]
It was an Australian term, and the man seemed to use it as if from habit.
“How do you know he’s—er—gone missing?”
“I feed his cat, don’t I? When he’s not to home, she comes to my door. That’s the arrangement we have. And I don’t mind, she’s a good mouser.”
Rutledge held out his hand and introduced himself.
“Quincy,” the other man said, briefly. “Well, since you’re down, you’ll want to come for a spot of tea.”
“Thank you, Mr. Quincy.”
“No, just Quincy,” he retorted, turning on his heel to lead the way to the cottage across from the one with the white gate.
Rutledge bent his head to follow his host inside. The rooms were small but of a size for one man to manage well enough. Or one woman. He’d glimpsed a woman’s face peering out at him from her windows as he had turned from the road into the lane that linked the cottages.
“That chair’s got better springs,” Quincy said, pointing it out.
Rutledge sat down and looked around. From the sitting room/ parlor, he could see a kitchen in the back where Quincy was busy, a second room across the entry from this one, its door shut, and in the middle of the house, stairs up to a loft.
“Quite comfortable here, are you?” Rutledge asked.
“If you like small places,” Quincy answered, putting on the kettle. “I’ve had to store some of my belongings under the bed upstairs. Where did you drive from?”
“London,” Rutledge answered and they talked until the kettle whistled about the city, which Quincy seemed to know, although his information was often more than a little out of date as if he hadn’t been there for some time.
The closed door creaked, a paw came out and around it, followed by a long gray cat with orange eyes. Behind her, Rutledge could see a burst of color in the room, as if tins of paint had been splattered everywhere.
“Dublin!” Quincy, catching sight of the cat, swore and came to scoop her up to put her outside. But first he’d shut the inner door quickly as if not wishing Rutledge to know what was in the room beyond.
But Rutledge had already guessed. Birds, in every hue, every size, all naturally posed. And all quite dead.
He said nothing, accepting the cup of tea he was offered. “These cottages are interesting. What’s their history?”
“Not much,” Quincy told him bluntly. “Built at a guess some fifty years ago by a woman who had more money than sense. Comfortable enough, but I need a bicycle to go anywhere. It’s out back.”
“And how did Partridge get around?”
“He had a motorcar. It’s in the shed behind his house. I expect he wasn’t going far and left it in favor of his own bicycle.”
“Does he usually wander off like this?”
“He’s mad as a hatter,” Quincy responded sourly. “Goes where the wind blows.”
“And who comes here looking for him?”
“Business associates. So they tell me. It seems he worked for a firm in London before he was put to pasture, and apparently someone there still cares what becomes of him.”
“That’s thoughtful,” Rutledge answered.
“Not thoughtful, careful. I expect he was someone important enough that they didn’t want the world and its brother knowing he’s gone balmy.”
“When was the last time he left?”
“February, it was. The man here when Partridge came back told me he’d been spotted on a street corner in Birmingham, preaching peace and harmony to the world.”
“That’s cold work in February.”
“Yes, well, I don’t think he cares. I don’t think he cares for anything except Dublin, the cat. A young woman came here once and he wouldn’t let her in. I expect it was his daughter. There was a resemblance, at least.”
“His wandering off must worry her.”
“Most of the time it’s only a day, a day and a half that he’s away. Occasionally it’s a longer period of time. Someone told me, I forget who it was, that he must have another house elsewhere. That that’s where he goes. But he’s never spoken of it, so my guess is that it isn’t true. Gossip is not always reliable. And in his case, not always helpful.”
“And his daughter