A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [20]
Hamish said, “If ye’re here to see yon horse, ye’ve done precious little to show an interest.”
“I thought you didn’t like the horse.”
“Oh, aye, it’s a wicked beast, but it wasna’ me who told the world and his brother it’s the thing that brought ye here.”
“I could hardly explain that I was looking for Partridge.”
“They ken you arena’ a day-tripper wi’ a taste for what’s cut into the chalk. If ye stay anither day, they’ll no’ need to be told the truth.”
“Then let’s hope Partridge comes home before that.”
Hamish said, “I dona’ think he will.”
“Why?”
“Ye ken, this time they sent a policeman.”
Rutledge climbed the hill again and walked to the head of the great horse. There he stood and looked across the valley. There was another hill here where Saint George slew the dragon—Dragon Hill, as he remembered it was called. One of many places where the militant saint was said to have encountered dragons. Rutledge recalled a page in one of his mother’s books where Saint George on his white horse—this one?—quelled the dozen-headed, fire-breathing beast with a single spear. Gilt edged and delicately painted, the scene was taken from a plate in an ancient manuscript, and the artist had captured the quality of the original work. Saint George was handsomely robed in crimson and sapphire velvet, no workaday dented armor for him.
He turned to study the cottages. Nine of them. It would have been more efficient if the War Office had given him the names of the other residents here. He had met two of them, seen a third, and Partridge made a fourth. Where had the other five inhabitants been as he wandered about, walking into Quincy’s house like a welcomed guest, and then into Slater’s?
He drew himself a mental map of the cottages. They were set out like a horseshoe, appropriate enough here. Four to a side and one at the top of the bend. A lane ran between them, cutting the horseshoe in half, and from the lane paths led to each door.
Slater lived in Number 1 on the left, then Partridge at Number 2, his white gate distinctive, as if shutting out his neighbors. Quincy was the first cottage on the right-hand side, Number 9 on the map, and the woman with the wash hanging on the line lived in Number 8.
Someone opened the door of Number 4 and stepped out into the sunshine, shading his hand to see better as he scanned the cottages and then turned slightly to stare up at the horse. Even at that distance, his eyes seemed to meet Rutledge’s, and he stood there, not moving, for a dozen seconds more. Then he turned his back and stepped inside, shutting his door firmly behind him.
That accounted for five of the residents. And this hadn’t been a casual interest shown by a curious resident. There was more to it. Not a challenge precisely, but an acknowledgment.
“Anither watcher?” Hamish said.
Rutledge wouldn’t have been surprised. Someone who knew that Rutledge would be coming and while having no intention of working with him, at least wanted it to be known that he was present as well.
The government kept an eye on certain people. Quietly and unobtrusively as a rule.
What had Partridge done to excite interest? Knowing that might make a difference in deciding where to look for him.
His only choice now was to wait for dark and then search Partridge’s cottage. He could come to it by a roundabout way, passing unseen. He’d been told this was merely a watching brief. But if Hamish was right and Partridge wasn’t coming back, there could be an advantage in knowing what the man was up to.
Rutledge left the hill of the White Horse half an hour later and went back to The Smith’s Arms, where he had taken a room. He found he was in time for luncheon served both in the dining room and at a handful of tables that had been set up outside with benches round them for the lorry drivers.
It was a rough crowd. Men who drove long distances for a living were often footloose by nature and had more in common with one another than with families left behind. They’d cast glances