A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [24]
Rutledge reached the inn, and removing his shoes, went up the stairs as silently as he could. The snores from the Smith bedroom rumbled in counterpoint.
Rutledge woke to the early arrival of three more lorries, and as he shaved, he considered his instructions from London.
A watching brief. Waiting for Partridge to come home, and then reporting to the man’s masters, whoever they were, through Chief Superintendent Bowles.
How long had the man been gone? Three days? A week?
It was time to find that out.
At breakfast he asked Mrs. Smith who it was she’d been talking with just after lunch the day before.
“Just as your brother was leaving. I happened to hear the man mention my motorcar.” Rutledge added when she frowned, “He seemed to know you well. He called you by your first name.”
“Lord have mercy, half the people in and out this door know me by my Christian name. It was a busy day from the time I opened my eyes until I shut them again, and with Larry underfoot as well, I was behind most of it.”
“It wasn’t a man named Partridge, by any chance? I’d been hoping to see him.”
“Partridge? No, that’s not likely. And if it was your motorcar whoever it was had an interest in, he’s not the first nor will he be the last. Most of my regulars want to know if the King is staying here.” She laughed and bustled back into the kitchen, leaving Rutledge to his meal.
He drove back to the White Horse, and when Quincy appeared to feed Dublin the cat, Rutledge walked down to speak to him.
Quincy saw him coming. He straightened and waited, while the cat ate its food without haste, unconcerned by the man from London coming to stand close by its dish.
“You do your duty by your neighbor,” Rutledge began, looking down at the scraps minced for the cat.
“It’s a dumb animal, it doesn’t know when to expect its owner. When there’s no one about to feed it, at least it knows it won’t starve.”
“Which is far from being a dumb animal,” Rutledge observed. “How long has Dublin’s owner been away this time?”
“How should I know? I’m not his keeper.”
“Would any of his other neighbors be able to tell me?”
“I feed the cat, not them.”
“What happens if you aren’t here by the time your neighbor returns from his walkabout? Surely the woman up the way would take pity on Dublin.”
“Why?” Quincy shrugged. “I’m not likely to be going anywhere. I leave the walkabouts to Partridge.”
“Partridge? An odd name. What part of the country did he say he came from?”
“He didn’t. And it’s no odder than Quincy,” he retorted. “Why is it you’re really here? Not the horse yonder.”
“Does it matter?”
“It does. Because every one of us in these cottages is afraid of something. And Partridge was always afraid of strangers.”
“What frightens you?” Rutledge asked, curious.
“My dreams,” Quincy retorted, and went back inside his cottage.
Later in the day, Rutledge drove to London. His mood was mixed, frustration warring with duty.
Hamish said, “Have ye no’ thought? Ye’re a red herring.”
Rutledge was beginning to believe that might be true.
He found Chief Superintendent Bowles in his office, finishing a report.
Bowles looked up as he entered, frowned, and said, “What brings you back so soon?”
“There’s nothing to be gained by staying where I was. I was beginning to arouse suspicion. And if I’m not mistaken, there’s a watcher there already. Partridge’s motor is in the shed, his bicycle as well. He’s not in the house ill or dead. And with lorries passing through at all hours of the day and night, he has ample opportunity to disappear wherever he pleases. Unless I’m given more resources, there’s nothing more to be done.”
“They won’t like it at the War Office.” Bowles’s voice was thoughtful. “But I’ll tell them, all the same.”
That same morning, as Rutledge was questioning Mrs. Smith about the man he’d heard from his window, Alice Crowell sat down to write a letter to her father.
He hadn’t approved of her husband’s declining to fight in the war, but felt that Albert Crowell’s duty driving an ambulance had in some measure made up for it. It took considerable