A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [99]
Watching her motorcar out of sight, Rutledge found himself pitying the unwanted, still nameless body in Yorkshire.
Hamish said, “He made his own grave whilst he was still living.”
And it was true, in many ways. But in the end, Rebecca and Sarah Parkinson would have no choice but to bring their father home.
If Mrs. Parkinson still haunted the house where she’d died, Parkinson would be satisfied to lie in the churchyard, far from the flower beds at Partridge Fields. But which name would be engraved on the stone over him?
If Rebecca and Sarah Parkinson denied that he was their father, Deloran would be only too pleased to add his own statement that the murder victim was an unknown unhappy man named Partridge, dead at the hands of person or persons unknown. And in a year or two all of this would be forgotten.
Brady might be brought in to testify, and disclaim any knowledge of an assignment to watch a scientist who had resigned prematurely from Porton Down. He was merely an ex-soldier, down on his luck and trying to sober up.
And Rutledge would be left looking a fool.
He walked back to the inn and retrieved his motorcar. It was late to be driving to Partridge Fields, but the roads were fairly empty and he made good time, keeping awake through sheer physical effort by the time he was twenty miles away.
He opened the gates and drove through them, leaving the car near the shed.
The house was dark, the gardens black in the moonlight, the brash colors of spring disguised as varying shades of gray.
The kitchen door, as he’d thought, was unlocked.
This was the country. No one came to rob the house, there was no need to lock doors.
Carrying his torch, he walked through the kitchen quarters and then through the formal rooms of the house.
The glancing beam of his torch illumined the brilliant colors of draperies and carpets and upholstery, the gold filigree around a mirror, the rich tones of polished walnut and mahogany, the shimmer of silk wallpaper and cut glass in the chandeliers.
Someone had had money. Mrs. Parkinson’s dowry? Parkinson’s wages from the government? A family inheritance? Enough at least for a comfortable life and a well-appointed home.
He moved quietly in the silent house, and avoided windows. Portraits watched him as he passed, and once a mouse scurried out of the wainscoting and across the floor, squeaking as it dived into the cold hearth.
Like the gardens, the house was meticulously maintained.
Even without Hamish’s harsh reminder, Rutledge was well aware that he had no authority to open doors, look in drawers, and investigate the contents of desks, but he rather thought he would find nothing, even if he did.
Even so, he saw no trace of Parkinson here, although there were several photographs of a fair woman with two fair and pretty daughters set in silver frames. Looking at them, he could almost see the girls grow from room to room as the array of photographs marked the changes of years.
He studied Mrs. Parkinson’s likeness. She was slim, very pretty, and her eyes reminded him of a doe, sensitive and vulnerable. She should have married a country squire, he thought, not a man whose training in chemistry had taken a far different turn from anything either of them could foresee.
Rutledge broke his own rule only once, looking in the wardrobe in what appeared to be the master bedroom. As he’d expected, it held only a woman’s clothing, as if Parkinson had taken everything of his with him, leaving nothing behind because he never intended to come home again.
And reciprocally, his daughters had banned him from the house by carrying out their mother’s wishes. He was shut out, lock, stock, and photographs. There were none that included him. Was that why the one on his desk was so precious to him?
“Taken the day we climbed the white horse…”
Rutledge inspected the lamps in the master bedroom, and turned the key gently, listening to