A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [18]
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“A pity. It sounds as if Partridge needs her.”
“He doesn’t need anyone when he’s right in his head. Which is most of the time. You’re very interested in him, for a passerby.”
“Yes, well, I’ve time on my hands. And people intrigue me. Partridge’s walkabouts as you call them. Your birds.” As a diversion, it worked beautifully.
“Seen them, did you? Well, there’s no law broken in having them.”
“None that I know of.”
Rutledge had finished his tea, and stood up. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
“If you’re needful of seeing in the cottage, Partridge never locked it.”
Surprised, Rutledge said, “I have no right to trespass on his privacy.”
“The other watchers weren’t so particular about that.”
“Yes, well, as it happens, I’m not one of the other watchers. Thank you again, Quincy.”
“I’ll see you about. Watcher or not.”
Rutledge left. The woman who had been peering out her window at him was in her back garden, hanging a morning’s wash on the line. He wondered if it was to see who he was and what he did next. A better vantage point than the window.
He walked back to his motorcar to find the young man he’d met earlier with his head deep in the bonnet.
He jerked it out as he heard Rutledge approaching, and said, “I like mechanical things. Engines. Whatever. Do you mind?”
“Not at all. The name’s Rutledge.”
The other man held out his hand, saw that it was filthy and drew it back again. “Andrew, Andrew Slater.”
“I’ve been admiring the White Horse,” Rutledge said as Slater dove back into the inner workings of the engine.
“I saw you this morning. Asleep on the road.”
“Yes—” He let it go at that.
“We don’t get many visitors this time of year,” Slater went on, voice muffled. “The horse is most popular in the summer. People bring baskets and spread out a cloth and have their lunch or their tea there. I don’t think the horse much cares for that.”
“I needed to get away from London,” Rutledge said. “This was as good a place as any. Why should the horse care?”
“Someone put him there, a long time ago. He was a god, then. But we’ve forgotten why today. And so to most he’s only a chalk figure.”
Slater withdrew his head and folded the bonnet back in its place. “She runs sweetly, your motorcar.”
“Thank you.” Rutledge looked at the filthy hands, the black ground into the creases and whorls of the skin. “A smith, are you?”
Slater grinned widely. “Yes. Or to say it another way, I was. Until the war came and took away the horses. I work with motors now, and mend things. My dad didn’t have the knack of that, but I do. Do you want to see?”
Without waiting for an answer, he led Rutledge to one of the cottages, the outer one in the half circle they formed.
Slater dwarfed it just walking through the door, and Rutledge felt a spasm of claustrophobia when he went in and was asked to shut the door behind him.
The house was surprisingly tidy. On a table under the back window, an array of work was set out.
“I don’t keep such things at the forge,” Slater was saying as he gestured shyly to the table. “Don’t want anyone walking off with them. They do, thinking I won’t notice.”
Rutledge saw a set of hinges in wrought iron, with matching knobs in the shape of a beaver, and the cabinet for them on the floor next to a table leg. They were beautifully done, as was the butterfly hook for hanging a plant by a door and a set of fire irons, shaped like deer, with the basket made to look like entwined antlers.
It was remarkable workmanship.
To one side stood a lovely Georgian teapot, where Slater was in the process of setting the handle back in place.
He saw Rutledge’s glance and said proudly, “That’s from St. Margaret’s, part of the tea service, and the handle had worn right off. They’ll never know it’s been repaired when I finish with it.”
“You’re very good with your hands,” Rutledge told him. “It’s fine work.”
Slater seemed to expand with the praise. “It’s a gift. I was given it. Do you know those great stones in the beech grove farther along this road? The ones they call Wayland’s Smithy?”
It was