A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [88]
Miller had yet to appear, but he could be a late riser, unaware of what was happening.
After a long while, Slater was back with a slim, dark man beside him in the motorcar.
They left the car by the road and walked toward the Willingham cottage.
“What’s this?” the man said. “I’m told someone is dead.”
“And you are…”
“Hill, Inspector Hill. You must be Inspector Rutledge.”
They shook hands, and Rutledge began to point out his observations, but Hill said, “No, let me.” He held out a hand for Rutledge’s torch and went inside the still dark cottage.
After a time he came out again. By then Singleton had walked back to his house. “You were right to send for me. Any witnesses?” He looked in Singleton’s direction, then focused his attention on Rutledge.
“None that I’ve found so far,” Rutledge answered.
“Yes, well, if he was killed at night, who would notice? Although Slater here tells me he was awakened by a cry.”
They turned as one to look at the other cottages.
“I’ve not had much call to come here,” Hill said. “Peaceful enough little community. No problems.”
“Until now.”
“Until now,” Hill agreed. “Slater didn’t enter the cottage?”
“He came as far as the bedroom door. I sent him back out again.”
“Well, if it were he who did the deed, the struggle would have been shorter. Someone nearer Willingham’s size, if not his age?”
“A startled man might fight with more strength than a frightened one.”
“I agree.”
Rutledge gave Hill a quick overview of the other inhabitants, ending with Partridge. “He’s not been seen for some time. The general view is that he’s been away.”
“And what,” Hill asked, his eyes sharp on Rutledge’s face, “has brought the Yard to our doorstep?”
“I’d been asked to learn what had become of Partridge. By interested parties. He left without telling anyone where he was going or when he’d return.”
“I see. Very well. I’ll take over here, if you please. No thoughts on who might have had it in for Willingham?”
“None. And I doubt you’ll get much out of his neighbors. They haven’t been very forthcoming about Mr. Partridge.”
“Yes, well, a man going about his own business is one thing. I’ll have a chat and see if murder might sharpen their memories.”
Rutledge left him to it. He told himself that what had happened to Willingham most certainly had nothing to do with Parkinson. And yet a niggling doubt crept in.
Why would the killer try to make the old man’s death appear to be a suicide? To silence him without creating a stir on the heels of Parkinson’s murder? Willingham’s windows looked down on the Partridge cottage at Number 2. Had he seen something he shouldn’t have? Then why wait this long to dispose of him?
Hamish said, “It would be as well to wait until yon inspector went on his way before asking too many questions.”
Rutledge was about to answer when he heard Mrs. Cathcart quietly call to him. Inspector Hill was busy questioning Slater, his back to them. She said, “Will you come and tell me what’s happened? I’m afraid.”
He turned to reassure her, and instead seized the opportunity offered him.
She let him in her door and shut it quickly.
“Mr. Willingham is dead,” he said, stepping into the sitting room. “Did you know him well?”
“Oh, poor man! I don’t think any of us knew him at all. He kept to himself. Was it illness?” She shivered. “I shouldn’t like to die alone. But it’s likely I shall.”
“I’m afraid he was murdered, Mrs. Cathcart.”
That shook her badly. “Murder? By whom? Why? Oh my God.”
“It was most likely a personal matter, Mrs. Cathcart. There’s nothing for you to fear.”
“But his cottage could easily be confused with mine. It’s happened before. A letter to me was taken to him by mistake. He kept it for a fortnight before he handed it to me. And another time, someone looking for me knocked at his door. What if the murderer thought he was coming into my cottage?”
She was genuinely disturbed, he could see it in her face.
“I don’t think—” he began again, and she put a hand on his arm to stop him.
“No,