A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [58]
But there was a man standing in his front garden, watching Rutledge leave Quincy’s cottage. If Rutledge had kept to his original itinerary, Number 3, between Partridge and Brady, would be the next cottage to be visited. And it seemed that the owner was outside, prepared to confront the interloper in their midst. His expression was hostile.
Rutledge was of two minds about the best approach, but the matter was taken out of his hands.
“What is it you want?” the man called to him. His voice was tense, as if his concern outweighed his caution. “Who are you? You were hanging about before, I’ve seen you.”
Rutledge walked toward him, covering the distance in unhurried strides.
An elderly man, tall and slightly stooped. Rutledge guessed his age to be seventy. Still vigorous, but already beginning to feel the tug of Time.
“My name is Rutledge,” he said, the folder ready as he chose his opening. “I’m looking for Mr. Partridge. Perhaps you can tell me where I might find him?”
“Partridge, is it? I don’t believe you. You never stopped at his door. First Slater, then Mrs. Cathcart, after that Mr. Quincy. But not Partridge. Not at all.”
“Yes, I’m afraid he’s not there. That’s why I didn’t go to his door. Do you know him well, Mr….” He paused, waiting for a name.
“Willingham.” Grudgingly.
“Mr. Willingham. Do you know how I can find Mr. Partridge’s solicitor? Or failing that, any of his family?”
“What are you selling?” Willingham eyed the folder.
“I’m not selling anything. This is a drawing—”
“Then why don’t you go away and leave the rest of us alone? We don’t trouble Mr. Partridge and we don’t expect Mr. Partridge’s visitors to trouble us.”
“Does he have visitors?”
“If he does, I don’t stare out my window looking to see who they are. Now be off with you, Rutledge, or whatever your name is. We don’t care for the likes of you here.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with my presence, unpleasant as it may be, until you’ve answered my questions.”
“Then I’ll summon the police and have you removed.”
“I am the police, Mr. Willingham. From Scotland Yard.”
Willingham stared at him. Then without another word, he turned on his heel and went inside his cottage, slamming the door in Rutledge’s face.
For a man eager to summon the police, Hamish was pointing out, “he was no’ very happy to find one on his doorstep.”
“Interesting.”
Rutledge turned and walked back the way he’d come, climbing the hill of the White Horse and looking down on the cottages from the heights.
He wondered what Miss Tomlin would think of what had become of her charitable gift. She had considered it a sanctuary. And perhaps in a way it had turned out to be one after all.
But the question now was how to go about tracking down Partridge’s daughter. Without going back to Martin Deloran and asking him for the information.
“He willna’ tell you that,” Hamish warned him. “It wouldna’ be wise to ask in that quarter.”
Where had Partridge lived before coming here in the spring of 1918? What sort of work had he done, and where was his family?
There was the off chance his daughter might pay another call, but Rutledge thought it was unlikely after being turned away.
And so where to start?
If Sergeant Gibson at the Yard began making inquiries, it would attract attention in the wrong quarters.
Had Partridge been in the army? Was that Deloran’s interest? He could have been drummed out for reasons even the army preferred to keep quiet. And that might explain the watcher, Brady. Whatever toes Partridge had trod upon, they were still very sensitive about what had happened. Better to let him die and be buried in Yorkshire as an unidentified victim of murder than bring the whole matter up again.
Did Partridge know about the watcher? Had he cared?
Was Gaylord Partridge, for that matter, his real name?
It was the first time Rutledge had considered that, although looking at Quincy’s birds, he had been amused by the coincidence of “Partridge” and an aviary. Perhaps this man had thought