A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [62]
Was that why the army was concerned about his whereabouts? Had he worked in something that was still under wraps, and therefore his erratic behavior had drawn attention to the need to keep an eye on him? It seemed far-fetched.
This was April 1920. The war had ended in November of 1918. According to Mrs. Cathcart, Parkinson/Partridge had moved into his cottage in the spring of 1918. What might have seemed important in the waning months of the war when the outcome was still in doubt wouldn’t explain Deloran’s secretiveness now.
Rutledge gave it up and lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the night sounds, an occasional vehicle passing on the road, a dog barking in the distance, and then the sudden patter of rain on the roof.
The fine weather had broken.
It was still raining when Rutledge woke up in the morning. Sometime in the night he’d changed out of his clothes and gone to bed, only half awake as he fumbled with the sheets.
Mrs. Smith was serving breakfast when he came down, and he discovered just how hungry he was. The warm charger she set in front of him was demolished in short order, and he sat there drinking his tea and eating the last of the toast.
The door opened and the thin man—Will, wasn’t it?—with whom he’d played darts earlier in the week stepped into the inn and shook the last of the rain off his hat.
He nodded a greeting to Rutledge and went to find Mrs. Smith. Rutledge could hear their conversation over the banging of pots and pans.
When he came back, he had a Thermos of tea in one hand and a cup in the other. He sat down at Rutledge’s table with a polite, “D’you mind?”
“Not at all,” he answered. “Driving all night, are you?”
“More or less. The rain wasn’t so bad at first, but by dawn it was heavier. I’ve stared at the road for longer than I like. It was coming to look the same, every curve and straightaway. Played darts since that night?”
“No opportunity.”
“If my mother hadn’t taught me my manners, I’d wonder aloud what a man of your stripe is doing here at The Smith’s Arms.”
“It’s convenient.”
“To what?”
“To nowhere.”
The man smiled. “I know when to stop. She taught me that as well.”
“I came here to solve a riddle,” Rutledge said. “And it’s not likely to be solved as easily as I’d hoped.”
“About the White Horse? There’s a legend, you know. That on certain nights it comes down to the Smithy to be shod.”
“Indeed.”
“There’s more than a few say they’ve seen it. But I reckon they were not as sober as they claimed to be. Are you here to keep an eye on us? The lorry drivers?”
Rutledge laughed. “Hardly that. Should I be?”
“A man gets an itch between his shoulder blades sometimes and looks around to see who might be watching.”
“Watching for what? Surely you can’t be smuggling this far inland?”
“Smuggling? No. The war put an end to that, as a matter of fact. Ships couldn’t put in to a small cove and off-load goods there. Likely to find a submarine staring back at them as they up-anchored. Or a coastal warden coming to see what they were up to.”
He finished his tea and prepared to go. “I’m off.”
“Ever see anything strange here at the White Horse? On nights you or your mates were driving through?”
Will grinned. “Like seeing it come down to be shod?”
“No, more human agency than spectral.”
He shook his head. “It’s quiet through here, which is why some of us choose this way. Better time, with the roads so empty.” He walked to the door, then paused. “I was told not long ago that a fair woman in a motorcar was stopped at the side of the road, and she was crying. Close by Wayland’s Smithy. The driver drew