A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [94]
Slater got to his feet. “You won’t let them arrest me, will you? I don’t want to be taken into Uffington and put in a cell, with everyone staring at me. I think I’d go mad, locked up, and tell the police anything just to be let go. Even lies.”
He went back down the stairs heavily, like a man carrying an enormous burden. Outside he turned to the Smithy, not back the way he’d come. It was odd how he seemed to find comfort and even acceptance there.
Slater hadn’t been gone five minutes when Hill came looking for Rutledge.
He said, seeing the door open into Rutledge’s room, “I’d like to have your statement now, if you please.”
Rutledge turned to the desk and picked it up. “It’s ready. I wanted to put it on paper while my memory of events was still sharp.”
Hill took it and scanned it. “Fair enough. Any thoughts on who might have done this murder?”
“I leave that to you. But I will say, if I were in your shoes I’d be no closer to an answer.”
“You were right, they’re a stubborn lot. Won’t come to the door, won’t say more than yes or no when they do, and no one has seen anything. Granted, it was in the middle of the night, but I have the feeling that not much happens in those cottages that the rest of them don’t know. I could feel the window curtains twitching like a palsy, eyes watching every move I make. Fairly gave me the willies, I can tell you. But if I had to pick one of that lot, it would either be the smith or the ex-soldier. Did you know he’d been cashiered from his regiment for dereliction of duty? Some years ago. That’s the story I was given, anyway.”
“By whom?”
“One of my men had seen him about and heard something of the sort. I’ll look into it, find out if there’s any truth in it. As far as I can tell, there’s nothing missing from the dead man’s cottage. So I have to rule out housebreaking. Although that might have been the original plan, come to think of it.”
“Willingham’s wrist was slashed,” Rutledge said neutrally.
“Yes, probably while fighting off his killer. You saw for yourself how the room was wrecked.”
“You don’t think someone was trying to make the death appear to be a suicide?”
“No, no. Too preposterous. I talked to the man who calls himself Quincy. Seems a levelheaded sort. He thinks this murder is connected with Partridge’s disappearance. He predicted they’d all be killed in their beds if I’m not quick.”
“Willingham by all accounts was an unpleasant man who had probably made himself a pariah long before he came to the Tomlin Cottages. His murderer could have come from his past.”
“I’d considered that too, and will be looking into it.” He’d been standing leaning against the doorframe, nonchalant as if Rutledge’s opinion carried no weight with him. He straightened, preparing to go.
But Hamish believed his coming to the inn was a fishing expedition.
Rutledge tended to agree with that summation.
“You’ll be returning to the Yard?” Hill asked from the head of the stairs. “I’m of the opinion your man Partridge is dead. That’s Mr. Brady’s view as well.”
“I expect he may be right,” Rutledge answered.
“Well, at least I have a body to be going on with. That’s more than you can say—so far.”
He turned and ran lightly down the stairs.
Rutledge watched Hill leave the inn and walk briskly back the way he’d come.
In the afternoon, he drove back to Pockets, to speak again to Rebecca Parkinson.
She was there, in the house. He could sense it. But she refused to answer his knock.
He tried to sense how she had responded to it—whether she was stock-still, waiting for him to go away, or hiding behind the stairs, where she couldn’t be seen. Or lying on her bed, looking at the ceiling, telling herself that she didn’t care.
And he found himself wondering if Meredith Channing, if she were standing next to him under the overhang of thatch, would have been able to tell him if he was right.
Unwilling to leave, Rutledge waited in his motorcar for over an hour outside the house. But it was a stalemate. He couldn