A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [93]
Rutledge refused, thanking him, and went up to his room. Taking out paper and pen, he sat down and wrote an account of what he’d seen and done that morning at the Willingham cottage, signed it, and set it aside.
After that he went to stand by the window, looking out across the yard and the road, watching the wind dancing through the high grass there.
There was a letter, only just begun, that he’d found in the basket beside Parkinson’s desk.
“My dear” was as far as he’d got before crumpling it up.
Had that been written to his daughter? Apologizing for whatever he’d done to make her hate him with such venom? Trying in some small way to make amends for the loss of her mother? Or asking her forgiveness for whatever role she felt he’d played in his wife’s death?
And yet Parkinson had died as his wife had died, using gas. That would seem a bitter irony to Rebecca Parkinson, when she learned what had become of her father.
“Unless,” Hamish pointed out, “the lass herself murdered him.”
That had to be taken into account as well.
Except that the body had been found in Yorkshire…
Hamish said, “’Ware!”
And Rutledge turned to see Andrew Slater walking up the road toward The Smith’s Arms.
Minutes later, Slater was mounting the stairs.
Rutledge had the door open, ready for him.
“Why did you leave?” the smith asked, aggrieved. “You left us to the mercy of Inspector Hill. He’s half convinced that I killed Willingham. I ask you, why would I come and tell you I’d heard a cry, if I’d done the deed myself? It doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“Hill is doing his duty. And he’ll begin by taking a long hard look at the dead man’s neighbors. If you’ve done nothing wrong, if your conscience is clear, you’ll see that’s true.”
“Yes, well,” the smith said, gingerly lowering himself down in Rutledge’s chair. It groaned under his weight. “If I survive, I’ll applaud myself for my clear conscience.”
“Who do you think might have wanted Willingham dead?” Rutledge had promised Inspector Hill to stay out of the case, but Slater had come to him.
“God knows. We didn’t much care for him, and if we didn’t, who did? He’d never spoken of a family. Who’s to mourn him, then?”
“A good question,” Rutledge answered.
“I can tell you Mrs. Cathcart is taking it hard. And so is Mr. Allen. Death came too close last night for his comfort.”
“And the others?”
“Miller doesn’t give a damn about any of it. If we all dropped dead in our shoes, he’d probably be pleased. Mr. Brady is trying to make himself very inconspicuous. He was drunk as a lord before he went to bed last night, and I doubt he’d have heard the angels’ chorus after that. But he doesn’t want it known to the world.”
“Did Mr. Partridge have better luck with Willingham? Did they talk, do you think?”
Slater shook his head. “Where’s a beginning for friendship? I expect I spoke with more of my neighbors than anyone else. I’m too thick to notice when I’m being ignored. Besides, I’m lonely sometimes.”
“No one ever came to call on Willingham?”
“If they did, I never saw them. Mrs. Cathcart is afraid someone might visit her. That’s sad.” He looked down at his large hands, lying idle on his knees. “I wish I hadn’t grown so. But there’s nothing I can do about it. Just as she can’t help being afraid. And I don’t know if Quincy is his first name or his last. I never feel right, calling him ‘Quincy.’ Mr. Allen is dying, and there’s no one to comfort him. I expect he doesn’t want to be comforted. There’s something stoic in that. Mr. Partridge had demons, and didn’t know how to rid himself of them. And Singleton wants to be a soldier still. You have only to look at his carriage and how tidy he is. Hair clipped short, clothes immaculate. Mr. Brady is tormented too, because this isn’t where he most wants to be. And Mr. Miller is the strangest of the lot, because I think he wants to be here.”
It was an intriguing summation of the inhabitants of the leper cottages. Sometimes, Rutledge thought, a simple man