A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [82]
He undressed in the dark and went to bed.
Tomorrow he’d find out why guilt had changed Partridge’s life.
After breakfast, Rutledge drove on to Wiltshire, a good two hours one way, then found again the turning for Partridge Fields, the house where Parkinson had lived.
Once more there appeared to be no one about as he walked through the gate, leaving his motorcar in the lane.
The sun was slanting through the trees beyond the house and long shafts of golden light barred the lawns and gardens. It was a tranquil scene, and he wondered again why Parkinson had preferred the cottages to this place.
He went around the house, through the gardens and the shrubbery that shut off the kitchen yard, listening to a silence broken only by a bird calling from the miniature dovecote birdhouse in the kitchen garden. Was no one ever here?
Moving on, he was just on the point of taking the stone path through to the far side of the house, when a shrill voice stopped him in his tracks.
Hamish said, “’Ware!” in warning, and Rutledge turned slowly.
“Here! What are you about?”
A plump woman wearing an apron was standing in the door to the yard, arms akimbo and a frown on her face.
“I didn’t think anyone was at home,” he said in apology, “or I would have knocked. My name is Rutledge, and I’ve come down from London—”
“I couldn’t care less where you’re from. What are you doing here?”
“Looking, I think, for Mr. Parkinson.”
“You’re not one of them people from the newspaper, are you?” There was a challenge now in her tone. “I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again, he’s not here, nor will he be here any time soon, and you might as well march yourself back the way you’ve come and leave the premises. Close the gate behind you or I’ll see the police have a word with you for trespassing.”
She was about to shut the door in his face, and he said quickly, “I’m from the police. Scotland Yard.”
Her face altered, the hostility giving way to concern mixed with irritation. “The police, is it? What are you here for? Is there bad news you’re bringing?”
Rutledge was walking back toward her now, and she stood her ground with the ferocity of an old and trusted servant.
“Here, you’re not coming in this house, policeman or no!”
“I’m trying to locate Mr. Parkinson,” he replied, his tone indicating a need for help rather than ulterior motive. “It’s a police inquiry, you see, and I should like to ask his assistance.” He’d left the sketch in his valise at the inn, and swore to himself. She would surely have recognized it.
“Well, you won’t be finding it here—he’s not in residence, and that’s a fact.” She looked Rutledge up and down. “You’d think a London policeman would know that.”
He said, drawing on his experience dealing with watchdog servants, “My superiors don’t always tell me everything they know. Much to my regret. How long has he been away? Surely he must have told you where to send along his mail.”
“He doesn’t receive any. None, that is, I’m aware of. And he left just a week after his wife died in the spring of 1918. Here, are you certain you aren’t from the London papers?”
Rutledge showed her his identity card, and she studied it with suspicion, as if certain it was counterfeit.
“I don’t understand why the newspapers should be interested in Mr. Parkinson,” he went on in a conversational tone. “Or disturb him. Perhaps the police ought to have been called sooner.”
“They were, and they did nothing.” Her sense of grievance went deeper than her circumspection. “It was on account of his poor wife, of course. Like vultures they came here, battering the door, upsetting the household. It was shameful, that’s what it was. No respect for the dead.”
“Was she well known in London circles? Was that their interest?”
“It was the way she died. She left the gas open by mistake, and they tried to say it was suicide, but of course it wasn’t. She was a good and kind lady, she would never kill herself. But they told poor Mr. Parkinson it was on purpose,