A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [60]
He had had no lunch and missed his tea as well, but he pressed on.
The main problem to solve now was how to go about proving he was right.
If he went to the police station, there would be questions. He wasn’t ready for them. For that matter, what could he say? That he was giving his imagination free rein in a case that didn’t exist? At least, not officially.
If he began asking about a man called Partridge in the shops, gossip would spread like wildfire. Perhaps to the wrong ears.
And the post office had rules.
That was still the best place to begin.
He arrived just in time to see the elderly man behind the grill putting up a sign.
CLOSED.
Rutledge called to him, and he reluctantly set the sign aside, mouth turned down, eager to be off to his late tea and comfortable chair.
Behind him on the floor lay a large, nondescript dog. Clearly both companion and bodyguard, because he lifted his head to stare up at Rutledge, sniffing the stranger’s scent. Satisfied that all was well, he lowered his head to his paws once more and sighed, for all the world commenting on the delay in departure.
“The name’s Rutledge. I’ve come down from London to find a Mr. Partridge. We haven’t been able to reach him, and I wonder if you can tell me whether or not he’s moved.”
The postmaster regarded him sourly. “Moved, you say?”
“Yes. It’s the only explanation we can come up with.”
“I don’t know of a Mr. Partridge hereabouts.”
He reached for his sign again, but Rutledge said quickly, “I think we have the name right. I have a sketch here, perhaps you’d be willing to look at it?”
“What do you have that for?” The man’s tone was suspicious.
Rutledge brought up the file without answering the postmaster and opened it.
“That’s not Mr. Partridge.”
“I thought you said Mr. Partridge didn’t live in Westbury.”
“I never said that. I told you I didn’t know of a Partridge hereabouts.”
“Then how can you be so certain this isn’t Partridge’s likeness?”
“Because it isn’t. I just told you.”
Rutledge was losing patience.
“Quite,” he said. “Then perhaps you know the name of the man in this sketch.”
“I do.”
“Will you kindly direct me to his house?”
“You never told me why you have a drawing of him.”
Rutledge had never been so tempted to take out his identification and tell the postmaster that this was police business and none of his. “I expect that’s a family matter. No one could find a recent photograph.”
“Then you should have said so.”
“I should like to find Mr. Partridge this afternoon, if that’s possible.”
“I told you he wasn’t Mr. Partridge.” The postmaster’s expression was smug. He was quite enjoying being bloody-minded.
“Who, pray, is he?”
“That’s Mr. Gerald Parkinson, and he doesn’t live in Westbury.”
“Parkinson? Where does he live?”
“Between here and Dilton.”
“Get to the point, if you will. Where shall I find him?” Rutledge’s mounting anger must have shown in his face or his voice. The dog lifted his head again and stared.
The postmaster said, “Here, now, there’s no call to be rude. Follow the main road south, and halfway to Dilton, there’s a turning to the left. Take that for three miles, and you’ll see the gates of the house.”
“Thank you.”
Rutledge turned on his heel and left. He took ten minutes to find himself a sandwich and a cup of tea, and then, blessing April’s longer evenings, drove south out of town.
He found the turning, no more than a lane and not clearly marked, as if it led nowhere in particular. But it was reasonably well made, indicating traffic, and he passed first one and then another house—neither with gates—whose windows were golden in the early evening sunlight. The next house was surrounded by a low wall with a pair of white posts and a graceful white gate where the drive came down to the road. The gate was firmly shut.
There was a placard set into the right post, bronze, he thought. It said PARTRIDGE FIELDS in elegant script.
Rutledge stopped the motorcar, and Hamish startled him as he spoke.
“You will