A Pale Horse Part 17

11.

Where to begin a search? The only information Rutledge had at his disposal was the small photograph on the dead man's desk.

He had no way of judging who the man and boy were, or even if one of them was Partridge. The photograph was not clear enough to tell. For all he knew the two people in it were close friends or even cousins. The possibilities were endless.

And yet-out of everything he might have owned before coming to this place-Partridge had chosen to bring only one personal possession with him: a framed photograph. It had mattered to him in some fas.h.i.+on to have it there.

Where then was the square in which the photograph was taken? Not in Uffington, Rutledge thought, ruling it out immediately. None of the houses there resembled that background.

"Anywhere in England," Hamish pointed out gloomily. "No' sae verra easy to find fra' what could be seen in yon photograph."

True. There were Georgian houses in Kent, to start with.

"the day we climbed the white horse..."

But not every market square in England possessed Georgian houses and and a white horse cut into chalk that could be climbed on the same day as the photograph was taken in the town. a white horse cut into chalk that could be climbed on the same day as the photograph was taken in the town.

All right then, the second bit of evidence in hand. If the inscription was to be trusted.

What else was unique about this white horse, where he was standing? For one thing, it was the only one galloping with such elegant strides across its hill.

Most of the others he knew about looked more like cart horses.

What else, then?

Legend claimed that in the ninth century King Alfred had ordered this horse carved out of the hillside. It was, in fact, Iron Age workmans.h.i.+p, but the legend persisted.

There were any number of white horses in Wilts.h.i.+re-it was famous for them.

Rutledge went down to his motorcar and dug maps out of the pouch on the door. He'd bought the set to serve him on walking holidays. Later he'd found it helpful driving.

He spread out the sheets for south England, found Salisbury Plain, and began running a finger up and down the adjacent squares in an orderly search, starting from the right.

When he came to the eastern boundaries of Salisbury Plain, he found a place to begin.

Westbury. The Bratton White Horse.

Which-legend said-King Alfred ordered to mark a victory over the Danes.

He had never been to Westbury. Did it have Georgian houses in its market square? It had been a wool town in its day, and made gloves as well, which meant there was money enough for handsome buildings to mark its success.

He shoved the maps back in the pouch, got out to crank the motorcar, and set off to the west, bearing south, stopping only for petrol. Along the way he scanned other town squares, but he saw nothing that would fit what he was searching for.

But when he drove into the center of Westbury, he had no doubt that he'd made the right guess. He not only found the marketplace but the exact building facing him in the late afternoon sun.

He had had no lunch and missed his tea as well, but he pressed on.

The main problem to solve now was how to go about proving he was right.

If he went to the police station, there would be questions. He wasn't ready for them. For that matter, what could could he say? That he was giving his imagination free rein in a case that didn't exist? At least, not officially. he say? That he was giving his imagination free rein in a case that didn't exist? At least, not officially.

If he began asking about a man called Partridge in the shops, gossip would spread like wildfire. Perhaps to the wrong ears.

And the post office had rules.

That was still the best place to begin.

He arrived just in time to see the elderly man behind the grill putting up a sign.

CLOSED.

Rutledge called to him, and he reluctantly set the sign aside, mouth turned down, eager to be off to his late tea and comfortable chair.

Behind him on the floor lay a large, nondescript dog. Clearly both companion and bodyguard, because he lifted his head to stare up at Rutledge, sniffing the stranger's scent. Satisfied that all was well, he lowered his head to his paws once more and sighed, for all the world commenting on the delay in departure.

"The name's Rutledge. I've come down from London to find a Mr. Partridge. We haven't been able to reach him, and I wonder if you can tell me whether or not he's moved."

The postmaster regarded him sourly. "Moved, you say?"

"Yes. It's the only explanation we can come up with."

"I don't know of a Mr. Partridge hereabouts."

He reached for his sign again, but Rutledge said quickly, "I think we have the name right. I have a sketch here, perhaps you'd be willing to look at it?"

"What do you have that for?" The man's tone was suspicious.

Rutledge brought up the file without answering the postmaster and opened it.

"That's not Mr. Partridge."

"I thought you said Mr. Partridge didn't live in Westbury."

"I never said that. I told you I didn't know of a Partridge hereabouts."

"Then how can you be so certain this isn't Partridge's likeness?"

"Because it isn't. I just told you."

Rutledge was losing patience.

"Quite," he said. "Then perhaps you know the name of the man in this sketch."

"I do."

"Will you kindly direct me to his house?"

"You never told me why you have a drawing of him."

Rutledge had never been so tempted to take out his identification and tell the postmaster that this was police business and none of his. "I expect that's a family matter. No one could find a recent photograph."

"Then you should have said so."

"I should like to find Mr. Partridge this afternoon, if that's possible."

"I told you he wasn't Mr. Partridge." The postmaster's expression was smug. He was quite enjoying being b.l.o.o.d.y-minded.

"Who, pray, is he?"

"That's Mr. Gerald Parkinson, and he doesn't live in Westbury."

"Parkinson? Where does he live?"

"Between here and Dilton."

"Get to the point, if you will. Where shall I find him?" Rutledge's mounting anger must have shown in his face or his voice. The dog lifted his head again and stared.

The postmaster said, "Here, now, there's no call to be rude. Follow the main road south, and halfway to Dilton, there's a turning to the left. Take that for three miles, and you'll see the gates of the house."

"Thank you."

Rutledge turned on his heel and left. He took ten minutes to find himself a sandwich and a cup of tea, and then, blessing April's longer evenings, drove south out of town.

He found the turning, no more than a lane and not clearly marked, as if it led nowhere in particular. But it was reasonably well made, indicating traffic, and he pa.s.sed first one and then another house-neither with gates-whose windows were golden in the early evening sunlight. The next house was surrounded by a low wall with a pair of white posts and a graceful white gate where the drive came down to the road. The gate was firmly shut.

There was a placard set into the right post, bronze, he thought. It said PARTRIDGE FIELDS PARTRIDGE FIELDS in elegant script. in elegant script.

Rutledge stopped the motorcar, and Hamish startled him as he spoke.

"You will no' trespa.s.s." It was the British outrage at a stranger's encroachment. "The gate is closed."

"But apparently not locked. I'll walk up to the house and knock at the door, as any guest would. All very civilized."

Hamish was silent. Rutledge opened the gate and started up the drive. As in the other houses on this lane, tall shrubs lined the way, cutting off a view of the house. But when he reached the end of the plantings, he found himself in a circular drive before a Georgian brick house. There was a semicircular portico held up by slender fluted columns and a black paneled door reached by three shallow steps. He went up them, lifted the bra.s.s knocker, and let it fall.

It seemed, as he stood there, that it echoed through an empty house beyond, and no one answered the summons, though he stood there for a good five minutes, waiting.

He went down the steps and looked up at the s.h.i.+ning windows, wondering if someone was there, looking down at him. Then he turned to his right and started around the house. There was a terrace on this side, French doors leading down to a French-style garden of roses and perennials. Beyond the garden was a square shrubbery of boxwoods, and he could see wrought-iron benches and a stone fountain inside the small sheltered garden they created. Inside the bowl of the fountain was a horse, head to one side, tail and mane flying. It was a lovely thing, but no water splashed over it. The fountain was dry.

He went on to the back of the house, and saw that the kitchen door was shut. No signs of servants going about their duties, the kitchen garden more than a little overgrown compared to the formal plantings, and the outbuilding doors were barred.

The house, for all intents and purposes, was closed up.

Rutledge came back to the French doors and stood with his hand s.h.i.+elding his forehead, trying to look inside. Dust sheets covered the furnis.h.i.+ngs, and even the small chandelier was swathed in what looked to be a pillowcase.

Why had Partridge-Parkinson-left behind this jewel of a house to live in a tiny cottage in the middle of nowhere?

Hamish had had enough of trespa.s.sing. Rutledge turned to go, with one last look over the gardens. Someone kept them up, though not the kitchen garden, and came here often enough to see that no weeds marred the symmetry of the beds or weather damaged the plants. There wasn't so much as a twig underfoot on the small well-mown lawns at the far side of the house, ringed by flowering trees. A croquet lawn? It was smooth enough for that. And a long pair of windows from what appeared to be a study looked out over the green carpet. There the draperies had been drawn and he could see nothing.

He took one last look at the house. It seemed to be standing there waiting for its owner, and if he was right, that the dead man in Yorks.h.i.+re was Parkinson, then its owner could never come again.

Hamish said, "He lost his wife."

And that might have explained the man's exile-too many memories here to let him heal.

But it didn't explain his death.

Rutledge drove back to The Smith's Arms, too late again for his dinner. Mrs. Smith was waiting up for him, as if half afraid that he wasn't coming back, his account unsettled.

She said, "There, you're in. I was just tidying up a little. I'll be off to bed, then."

Saying good night, she mounted the stairs, and he looked into the bar before following her. It was already shut and dark.

He went up to his bed and stretched out fully clothed, too weary for more than that.

Why had Partridge-Parkinson-changed his name? To fit into his surroundings without attracting attention? But then that was the name that Deloran had given him too. Either Deloran was content to go along with Partridge's need for anonymity or it suited the War Office very well.

Who was he? What sort of man had he been before the spring of 1918? And what was it that had triggered this abrupt change in his life? Losing his wife, yes, that would account for much.

How had he made his living, to be able to afford a house of that size with well-kept gardens? Even if he was independently wealthy, he must have held some position during the war years. In industry, perhaps, or in some capacity with the military. Men with certain skills worked at code-breaking, others at perfecting aircraft and weaponry or translating doc.u.ments. There was always a need for clever minds. Stage designers had turned their talents to creating camouflage patterns for s.h.i.+ps and gun emplacements and even trenches as spotter planes flew longer sorties over enemy lines. The list was endless.

Was that why the army was concerned about his whereabouts? Had he worked in something that was still under wraps, and therefore his erratic behavior had drawn attention to the need to keep an eye on him? It seemed far-fetched.

This was April 1920. The war had ended in November of 1918. According to Mrs. Cathcart, Parkinson/Partridge had moved into his cottage in the spring of 1918. What might have seemed important in the waning months of the war when the outcome was still in doubt wouldn't explain Deloran's secretiveness now.

Rutledge gave it up and lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the night sounds, an occasional vehicle pa.s.sing on the road, a dog barking in the distance, and then the sudden patter of rain on the roof.

The fine weather had broken.

It was still raining when Rutledge woke up in the morning. Sometime in the night he'd changed out of his clothes and gone to bed, only half awake as he fumbled with the sheets.

Mrs. Smith was serving breakfast when he came down, and he discovered just how hungry he was. The warm charger she set in front of him was demolished in short order, and he sat there drinking his tea and eating the last of the toast.

The door opened and the thin man-Will, wasn't it?-with whom he'd played darts earlier in the week stepped into the inn and shook the last of the rain off his hat.

He nodded a greeting to Rutledge and went to find Mrs. Smith. Rutledge could hear their conversation over the banging of pots and pans.

When he came back, he had a Thermos of tea in one hand and a cup in the other. He sat down at Rutledge's table with a polite, "D'you mind?"

"Not at all," he answered. "Driving all night, are you?"

"More or less. The rain wasn't so bad at first, but by dawn it was heavier. I've stared at the road for longer than I like. It was coming to look the same, every curve and straightaway. Played darts since that night?"