A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [57]
“And so the wise man’s prediction that your salvation lay in a rainbow was right. After a fashion.”
“I don’t know if it was his prediction or my liver. But I kept these to remember where I’d come from. And I’ve never killed anything since.”
It was a remarkable story. How much of it had actually happened?
“Did you know Partridge before you came here to live?”
“Never clapped eyes on him.”
It rang true, but Rutledge wasn’t sure whether he believed Quincy or not. He thought, he’s very likely a remittance man. Someone the family pays well to stay out of the country, where his behavior won’t embarrass them. It would behoove him to lie if it meant trouble for the family.
And therefore the question might be, what had Quincy done before he left England that had to be hushed up?
But Rutledge said nothing of this, listening as Quincy rattled off the names of his precious birds, interspersing that with the story of his years in Central America.
It was as if the man had dammed up the past for so long that the pressure had been building behind it, the need to talk that sometimes made lonely people garrulous.
And Quincy seemed to realize this in almost the same instant, ushering Rutledge out of the room, picking up Dublin and taking her with him as he shut the door on his collection.
“Pay no heed to me,” he said, trying to cover his lapse. “They were my salvation, those birds, and I’m fond of them.”
“Back to Partridge,” Rutledge said, and thought how appropriate the name was, in this house. “I think it’s time I spoke to someone in his family. There was a young woman, and you suggested she might be his daughter.”
“She favored him, although she was fair instead of dark. I have no idea where she lives. He didn’t open the door to her when she came. From that you might reach the conclusion that there is no warmth between them.”
“Does she live in Uffington, do you think?” It was the nearest town.
“I’ve never seen her there, but of course that’s not proof of anything.”
“I’ve also been told that he’d lost his wife.”
Quincy’s brows rose. “Indeed? Well, that could well explain why he’s reclusive. And for all we know, when he disappears he’s visiting her grave.”
“I appreciate the help you’ve given me.”
Quincy walked with him to the door. “What had friend Partridge done, to get himself murdered? He’d gone missing before.”
“If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t be here questioning his neighbors. He’s an enigma. We know very little about the man.”
“You might speak to Mr. Brady, then. He’s shown an inordinate interest in Partridge and his whereabouts on previous absences. Most of us here try to keep our private life private, but when Brady came, he asked questions. It wasn’t well received, I can tell you. And he’s a nosy sod, sitting by his window day and night as if there’s nothing better to do.”
Not so much a helpful suggestion as a touch of revenge on Quincy’s part?
“I’ll bear that in mind.” Rutledge was on the threshold when another thought struck him. “When is the post delivered here at the cottages?” He had seen no letters in Partridge’s house, but that was not proof that none had come.
“In theory, around nine. But we seldom receive any mail, you see. Lepers don’t. Nor do we write to anyone. Or if we do, it’s posted in Uffington.” His voice was suddenly bitter, as if this were a reminder of how completely he’d been cut off from his family.
He shut his door almost on Rutledge’s heels.
Rutledge looked at the neat half circle of cottages, and thought to himself that murder could be done here, and no one would know except the other residents, and they would refrain from summoning the police until the smell of decay overwhelmed them.
He considered calling on Brady, but decided that this was not the time. As Quincy had pointed out, he’d already spoken to Slater and Mrs.