A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [54]
“Where do you think Partridge went?”
“It’s his own business, isn’t it? If he’d wanted me to know, he’d have told me.”
“Still, if he’s dead, it’s no longer his business. It’s a matter for the police.”
“He didn’t die here. How could any of us be responsible?”
“How do you know where he died?”
“I don’t. But if the sketch was made in Yorkshire, then it must be that he died there.”
Simple Slater might be, but stupid he was not.
“A good point. But the fact is, we don’t know where he died. His body was found in Yorkshire. Hence the mystery. And the concern.”
Slater shook his head as Rutledge finished his tea. “I’ve nothing to do with this. I’m sorry he’s dead, he wasn’t a difficult neighbor, though I didn’t know him well, but I had nothing to do with his death.”
Rutledge set his cup aside and stood up. “I didn’t expect you had. But you’re a man with clear eyes, and it was important to ask you. Thank you for the tea.”
He took up his sketch and walked to the door.
As he was opening it, Slater, behind him, said, “I’d not ask the man in Number Seven about the sketch, if I were you.”
Rutledge turned. “Why is that?”
Slater said, “Whenever I see him, I feel the darkness in him. I try to stay out of his way.”
“I’ll remember that. Thank you.” And with that, he closed the door.
Slater had identified the sketch, just as Rutledge had expected. Moreover, he believed the smith. What he needed now was information of a different kind. And for that he chose to call on Quincy next.
Quincy wasn’t at home—or at least failed to answer his door—when Rutledge knocked. And so Rutledge moved on to the next cottage, where he’d seen a woman’s face at the window on his earlier visit.
She opened the door only, he thought, because after he knocked he stood there waiting.
Through the crack she said, “Yes?” As if he had come to sell brushes or produce from a barrow. He couldn’t see her face clearly. But he could tell from her eyes that she was frightened.
“My name is Rutledge. I’d like to speak with you.”
“You were here before. Who sent you?”
“Sent me?”
“Was it my husband? He only sends someone if there’s bad news.”
“I can’t bring you bad news,” Rutledge answered her quietly. “I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Cathcart,” she answered him. “Maria Cathcart.”
“I’m sorry if I frightened you, Miss Cathcart—”
“It’s Mrs. Was and still is, whatever he may tell you.”
“Mrs. Cathcart. I’m here to ask if you recognize the man in a sketch I’d like to show you. Would you mind if I came in? I’ll only stay for a moment, I promise you.”
Grudgingly she let him in. The cottage was obsessively neat, as if she had nothing better to do than keep it that way. House-proud? And yet she didn’t seem to be the sort of woman who would do her own cleaning. As if she came from different circumstances than he found her in here. Tall and slim, tired and afraid. It was the only way to describe her. The circles under her troubled blue eyes indicated sleepless nights.
She didn’t ask him to sit down. Instead she said with some anxiety, “Show me this man’s face.”
He opened the folder and held it out to her. She didn’t take it, just glanced at the sheet of paper inside, seemed relieved that it was not the person she’d been expecting, and said, “Mr. Partridge, I think. I don’t know him well. But I daresay that’s him.”
“He’s been away for some time. Do you have any idea where he might have gone? Or why? Or with whom?”
“I’m not his keeper, nor is he mine,” she answered him.
Rutledge said, “Did he have family? Friends who came to call? You can see his cottage well from your windows. You might have noticed who came and went.”
“I might have,” she agreed. “But I didn’t. He was of no concern to me. I doubt we said good morning more than a dozen times all told.”
“You