A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [52]
Finishing his second cup of tea, he left for the Tomlin Cottages.
There was one thing he disliked about what he called a cold road—coming back into a place where he had got the pulse of the people and the way they lived and then had to walk away for whatever reason. He had done that here in Berkshire, and he had done it as well in Yorkshire. Possibly all because of one mysterious man.
Much would depend on what Partridge’s neighbor Quincy had to say.
He pulled his motorcar to the verge of the road, near the path up the hill of the White Horse. Near the muzzle of the great beast, he looked down on the cottages and waited for a door to open below him or a window curtain to twitch.
What were the connections between these nine residents? If connections there were. Englishmen were not by nature gregarious, even abroad. But surely human curiosity made them draw conclusions about each other from what they had observed from a window or a stroll down the lane.
The woman, he decided. From her windows she could see Partridge come and go. And women were sometimes less reserved than men, if approached in a sympathetic way.
Or was it wiser, after all, to speak to Quincy?
Quincy appeared to keep to himself. Would he admit to recognizing the sketch? He would most certainly want to know when it had been made and why. Driven by curiosity, yes, but beneath all that was his own reason for considering himself a leper of sorts and choosing to live here. He might well prefer to keep his distance from any trouble involving Partridge for fear of the impact on his own seclusion.
The smith, then. A simple man, he wasn’t the sort to look below the surface of a question for hidden traps and meanings. And he was an honest man, as far as Rutledge could tell, with no secrets. His reason for living here was plain—he preferred to be left alone because his experience with people had taught him that they were unkind.
Rutledge sat there on the hillside in the April sun, and waited until he saw the smith walk into view from the direction of Uffington.
The man looked tired, his gait measured, as if there were something on his mind, holding him back.
Rutledge waited until he’d disappeared into his cottage and then went down the hill. By the time he knocked at the door, the smith had put the kettle on and Rutledge could hear it whistling cheerfully in the background as Slater opened to him.
“I saw you on the Horse,” he said. “What brings you back?”
“Curiosity,” Rutledge answered. He had brought the file with him from the motorcar and put it aside for the moment on a small table near the door.
“Curiosity?” Slater repeated. “It killed a cat, you know,” he added, quoting the old saying.
“Yes, well, I’ll be careful.”
Slater said, “Would you like a cup of tea?” He gestured toward the tiny kitchen, where the kettle was still whistling.
“Thank you. I would.”
While Slater was preparing the tea, Rutledge watched his deft, sure movements, big hands handling the tea things with the same ease as he handled his tools.
The cup Slater offered him was thin porcelain, with cabbage roses around it. The man could have crushed it like eggshell, and it was lost in the large, callused hand.
“How is work on the silver teapot handle faring?” Rutledge asked, to open the conversation.
“Fancy you remembering that,” Slater answered, his face brightening. “It’s very well. Polish it and I’m finished.”
“I hope the church is pleased.”
There was a bitter smile now. “I’m told I charge too much.”
“Who tells you that?”
“The sexton. He says he could have done it at half the cost.”
“Could he?”
“I doubt it. But he’s one who opens his mouth and doesn’t care much what harm he does with what comes out.”
“Tell them I’ve offered to buy the teapot myself. For twice the cost of repairs.” He couldn’t stop himself from saying it. Or cursing the