A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [90]
There were two more vehicles here now, men from one of them carrying a stretcher for the dead. Others were gathering around Hill, listening to instructions.
The remaining cottages were shut tight. Ranks closed against outsiders, even with murder done. It was a matter of self-preservation, Rutledge thought.
Hamish said, “Aye, but they know one of them could ha’ done this.”
And he was right. Two dead…out of nine.
He walked on toward his car. He’d seen enough, he knew as much as Hill did at this stage.
Quincy’s door opened and he said, “What’s going on?”
“Willingham’s dead,” Rutledge answered.
“Indeed.” Quincy looked thoughtfully in the direction of Willingham’s cottage. “There was a cry in the night. I heard it. I thought Dublin was having a romantic interlude, and so I didn’t investigate. Anything to do with events?”
“You’ll have to ask Inspector Hill. He’s the man in charge.”
“Your only interest is Partridge, then. I wonder why.”
“Because he’s dead too. An uneasy coincidence, don’t you think, in such a small community?”
“You’d better come in.” Quincy opened the door wider, and Dublin scooted between his legs and into the house.
Quincy had finished his breakfast, and the dishes were still on the table. Dublin jumped up to sniff at them, then lost interest, moving on to curl up in a chair.
“Why do you think Partridge died? He’s gone away before.” Quincy was standing by the window, watching the activity up the lane. “And nothing happened.”
Rutledge was at his shoulder. “He always came home again, in a matter of several days. You said as much yourself,” he responded. “Someone knew his pattern.”
“Yes, it’s true. He was a man of habit, in some ways.”
“Where did he go? And why? I can’t find anyone who will tell me.”
Quincy shook his head. “We never exchanged that sort of information. I don’t like the police prowling about. Will they be knocking on doors, do you think?”
“I expect they will. Mrs. Cathcart is frightened. I doubt they’ll persuade her to open her door.”
Quincy hesitated, then said, “I saw Singleton walking late. He’d been up the hill. I wondered if he was looking for you. I saw you there, two nights ago.”
“I stopped for a while. The horse is interesting to me.”
“And so are we, your specimens under glass. I doubt Inspector Hill knows as much about us as you do.”
“Because of Partridge. I’m not interested in your past, just whether or not you had a reason to dislike your neighbor.”
“I don’t have a reason to like or dislike him. But I’ll tell you, I don’t much care for Brady, he can’t hold his drink. And Miller’s a slippery sod. I wouldn’t put murder past him, if you want the truth. Singleton is secretive, and that means he has secrets.”
“What’s yours?”
“Mine? I was a remittance man, and told never to set foot in England again. But I got homesick, tired of foreigners, their language, their food, their ways. So I slipped back into England and the family thinks I’m still in Mexico. My keep is paid into my account each month, and I like it that way.”
It was a challenge, but Rutledge didn’t take it up.
After a moment Quincy went on. “What’s your interest in Partridge, anyway? I don’t know that I believe the tale you tell. For all I know, Partridge is a red herring, and it’s someone else who is on your watch list.”
“I’d like very much to know why he’s dead.”
“Or you know why, but not who killed him. And my money is on Brady, because he hates Partridge, you know. God knows why, but he does.”
Which was an interesting consideration. The watcher should be above reproach. And until Partridge—Parkinson—was a closed book, there was no release for Brady either. Was he tired of loneliness and orders?
Rutledge left, and was halfway to his motorcar when he heard Hill calling to him. He was just coming out of Miller’s cottage, and jogged down to meet Rutledge, his fair face flushed as he caught up.
“I thought you’d agreed this was my patch. And here you are hobnobbing with the neighbors.”
“I had