A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [55]
“Once when I was in my garden I saw a young woman come to his door. But if he was in the house, he didn’t answer her knock. And shortly afterward she left.”
“What did she look like?”
“A well-dressed, fair-haired young woman. I couldn’t see her face. I made no effort to try. It had nothing to do with me.”
Was this the same woman Quincy had seen and assumed was Partridge’s daughter?
“How long have you lived here, Mrs. Cathcart?”
“For fifteen years, this June.”
“Which means you were living here when Mr. Partridge first came. Do you remember when that was?”
“Of course I remember. It was during the war. The spring of 1918.”
“And he made no effort to be friendly with his neighbors?”
“He was polite. We all are. But we have no desire to befriend one another.”
He wondered why she lived here, alone and with no interest in her neighbors.
“And so there’s nothing more you can tell me about Mr. Partridge that might help us find him or learn what’s become of him?”
“I have no idea what he did with his time or where he went when he wasn’t here. I’ve told you.”
“We have reason to fear he may be dead.”
She heard him but seemed untouched by the news. “I’m sorry to hear it,” she said, but it was perfunctory, good manners coming to the fore. “I’ve answered your questions. Good day, Mr. Rutledge.”
Rutledge accepted his dismissal, but said on the threshold, “Did you know—or hear—what Mr. Partridge did for a living?”
“He appeared to be unemployed. That’s all I can tell you.”
Rutledge thanked her and left.
He went back to Quincy’s cottage and knocked again.
This time the man came to the door and stepped aside to let him in. “Making the rounds of the neighborhood, are you?”
“In a way,” Rutledge answered him. Dublin got up from a pillow by the fire and stretched before eyeing Rutledge with suspicion. “I see you’re still feeding Partridge’s cat.”
“She doesn’t bother me, nor I her.”
Rutledge opened the folder. “Is this Partridge?”
Quincy looked at the sketch. “Yes. Yes, it is. You’ve found him then. If that’s what you came for before.”
“We think we might have, yes. He’s dead. His body was lying in an old ruin, left for the caretaker to stumble over. There’s a possibility that he was murdered.”
“Good God!” He seemed genuinely shocked.
“Did he have enemies, that you knew of? I gather you knew him better than most.”
“First of all, I’d like to know why you’re here asking so many questions,” Quincy said, drawing back and letting Rutledge close the folder.
“I’m with the police, you see. Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard.”
“So your interest in the White Horse was all a ruse.”
“No, I am interested in it. I always have been. But in other things as well.”
“I see. This is now an official inquiry. My neighbors won’t care for that, I can tell you!”
“Why not?”
“You know very well why not. We all have something to hide. Perhaps not murder, but something that to us is just as powerful.”
Lepers all, indeed. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me what it is you must hide.”
Quincy laughed. “I didn’t kill Partridge. That’s what I can tell you. The rest is none of your business.”
“Besides the care of the cat, what did you talk to Partridge about?”
“My birds, if you must know. Oh, you’ve seen them in the other room. I’m no fool. But he was curious about them, and wanted to know where they had come from.”
“I’d like to see them.”
“Oh, yes?” He crossed to the inner door and flung it open.
Rutledge stood there, stunned.
Hamish, in the back of his mind, was speechless.
Rutledge had never seen such an array of birds—all of them dead, yet perched on twigs or railings or stones, like so many toys that with a turn of the key would dance and twitter and sing, to please a child.
Every shape and size, blazing with color and their eyes sparkling like shoe buttons in the light from the windows, they seemed to watch Rutledge.
“I have every right to them, you know. I brought them back to England under a license.”
“Were they alive then?”
“No, of course not. I spent years collecting them. I think I was slightly mad at the