A Pale Horse Part 36

"Mrs. Parkinson's illness?" he reminded her.

"I wasn't here then, as it happened. I left service to go and marry a scoundrel, and when I came back, looking for work, she took me on again. The interim housekeeper had just left without giving notice."

"Do you know why?"

"I was told she hadn't counted on being a nursemaid, but it was more than that, I think. Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson weren't getting on. He was spending more and more time in that laboratory of his, and she didn't leave her bed for a good two months after I came back. She'd lost her will to live, I thought, and I tried everything I could think of to bring her back to her old self. It wasn't until Miss Sarah caught the scarlet fever that Mrs. Parkinson got herself up and dressed and stayed up night and day with the child. I think that was the saving of her, but Mr. Parkinson, when I mentioned it to him, said that even great sorrows don't last forever. I took that to mean that Mrs. Parkinson had lost a child she was carrying. I don't know why I thought that, except it was just the sort of thing that would break a woman's heart. No one ever said, said, in so many words. But they'd have liked a son, I'm sure, to carry on the name." in so many words. But they'd have liked a son, I'm sure, to carry on the name."

Hamish said, "Truth or only wishful thinking?"

It was something neither parent would discuss with a young girl, but a loss that would send the father to bury himself in his work and leave the mother to mourn for what might have been.

"Do you know if the doctor who cared for Mrs. Parkinson is still in practice?"

"My goodness, no, Dr. Butler died six years ago of a heart condition. His son was going to take over the practice, but then the war came along."

So much for verifying her supposition.

He drank his tea as the housekeeper rattled on about her work and the family she had served, small anecdotes that she had taken pleasure in remembering through the years.

"I don't expect you've ever seen a photograph of her. When they was first married, Mr. Parkinson said he'd like to have her painted. She was such a pretty thing, Mrs. Parkinson. Fair hair and blue eyes, a real English rose, you might say. It was a pleasure to look at her when she was all dressed up for a party or to travel up to London. Blue was her color, it brought out the softness of her skin, but she could wear most anything. They made a handsome pair, I can tell you. Him dark, her fair..."

When he'd finished his tea, he thanked her and rose to leave.

"I shall have to mention to Miss Rebecca and Miss Sarah that you were here," she told him as she saw him to the door. "If they ask. And if you could see fit to forget anything I may'uv said out of turn, it would be a kindness. But you being a policeman and all, it's not like gossiping with the greengrocer's wife, is it?"

He promised to respect her confidences, and walked back to his motorcar, thinking about what she'd told him.

A miscarriage could change the relations.h.i.+p of husband and wife. Most certainly if the doctors had told her she mustn't have another child. The emotional impact of loss and grief could have frightened children who didn't understand what had happened. They would certainly have felt the great distress wrapping their parents in shared sorrow, and they might have felt left out of it. Something like that could shake the safe world a child was accustomed to living in.

It went a long way toward understanding the sisters' anger and even explained to some extent why Mrs. Parkinson had finally killed herself, if she had never quite come to terms with her grief. But it didn't explain patricide.

Hamish said, "She died many years later."

"I don't know that time has anything to do with grief, but yes, it must have added to her burden."

He'd spoken aloud from habit, and caught himself up.

Hamish said, "Aye, ye can pretend I'm no' here, but you canna' turn around to see for yoursel'."

It was true, the one thing Rutledge dreaded was seeing the face of a dead man. However real Hamish was, he was lying in his grave in France. And if he was not...it didn't bear thinking of.

The housekeeper, Martha, might not have believed in ghosts, and for that matter, neither did Rutledge. The voice in his head had nothing to do with dead men walking. It was there because Hamish had had died, and there was nothing he could do to change that. It was his punishment for killing so many of his own men, for leading them over the top and across No Man's Land and coming back without a scratch on him, while they fell and cried out and died. He'd had the courage to die with them, but Fate had decided to spare him, and scar him with the knowledge that his very survival mocked him. died, and there was nothing he could do to change that. It was his punishment for killing so many of his own men, for leading them over the top and across No Man's Land and coming back without a scratch on him, while they fell and cried out and died. He'd had the courage to die with them, but Fate had decided to spare him, and scar him with the knowledge that his very survival mocked him.

22.

When he got back to The Smith's Arms, Rutledge was surprised to find that the ex-soldier, Singleton, had come to the bar and was there drinking heavily.

It was Mrs. Smith who told him, her voice pitched not to carry but her concern very real.

"I don't want Smith to throw him out, it isn't good for business, and besides, he's likely drunk enough to take exception to it, and then where will we be? And for that matter, poor Mrs. Cathcart is in her room frightened of her own shadow, with him shouting down here."

As Hamish warned him to stay out of it, Rutledge pushed through the door and found Smith behind the bar, standing there grimly watching Singleton. He was talking with a lorry driver, and the man had pushed back from the table to escape the intensity of Singleton's vehement certainty that the world was going to the dogs, and before long they'd all be murdered in their beds.

Walking over to the pair, Rutledge greeted them with a nod and then said, "Singleton. I'd like to have a word, if you don't mind."

The ex-soldier looked up at him. "If it's about the murders, I have nothing to say. It's not a military matter, is it?"

"You're right. Still, you've more experience than most of the residents there at the cottages." He sat down, moving his chair slightly so that he could watch Singleton and his irate companion at the same time.

"Experience in what?" It was a low growl, as if Rutledge had accused him of the killings.

"Dealing with men. What if Hill is wrong, and Brady couldn't have killed himself or Willingham? Who do you think might be capable of it?"

Singleton shook his head as if to clear it. "Blame it on Partridge, if you like. It's as good a guess as any. Why else did he run off, and bring the police prowling about like ants?"

"Hardly like ants. Hill and his men have tried to be discreet."

"Yes, well, I'd had enough. I came here for a little peace. If Mrs. Cathcart can flee the scene, so can I."

"She's a woman, and nervous."

"I intend to stay the night."

"Mrs. Smith doesn't have a free room."

"Then I'll sleep here. All I need is a pillow and a blanket."

"I'm afraid that's not possible. Let me drive you home. You'll be safer in your own bed."

"Safe has nothing to do with it. There's no peace there any more. I wish Willingham had never died, or Brady for that matter, though I didn't like him him at all. Smelled of trouble, the moment I saw him." at all. Smelled of trouble, the moment I saw him."

"He never disturbed you, to my knowledge," Rutledge pointed out.

"I'd have dealt with him if he had."

The lorry driver cleared his throat and started to get up. Singleton told him shortly to sit down and mind where he was. "You're drinking my round, and you'll finish it out of courtesy."

But the lorry driver said, "I've had all I can drink and still drive. You don't have another fifty miles to travel before you're done."

"I want company," Singleton retorted. "I've never liked to drink alone."

"You've got company," the driver pointed out but subsided in his chair, casting a pleading glance at Rutledge.

"Singleton. I'll ask Smith to give us a bottle and we'll finish it at the cottage."

Singleton considered him. "I told you, I wanted to get away from there."

"This is hardly the place to drown your sorrows."

"But it's where I am."

"Partridge is dead. His body was found some distance from here. It's likely he was murdered as well. But not necessarily by the same hand as Brady and Willingham."

Singleton's eyes sharpened. "You're lying. You can't have two murderers prowling the same patch."

"Why not? Murder is as individual as the man or woman who resorts to it. You've killed, you know that's true."

"What do you mean, I've killed?"

Rutledge thought, He's beyond reasoning with. He's beyond reasoning with.

And Hamish said once more, "'Ware!"

"All right, Singleton, we're leaving." Rutledge got to his feet and pushed his chair back to the table. "Are you ready to come with me?"

It was not the conversational voice he'd been using, but the tone of an officer expecting his men to obey on the spot.

Surprisingly Singleton responded, standing and then gripping the edge of the table to steady himself.

"Give me a shoulder, man!" he appealed to Rutledge, and together they walked out of the bar. Mrs. Smith, standing in the shadows by the stairs, watched, and up on the landing, Mrs. Cathcart had wrapped her arms about her body as if to stop shaking. Rutledge got Singleton outside and into the motorcar.

They drove back toward the cottages, and Singleton was silent, brooding.

As Rutledge turned up the lane toward his cottage, the ex-soldier said, "It's Quincy, if you're looking for one of us to be the murderer. He's half mad anyway, with all those d.a.m.ned birds. Someone should fire the cottage with him in it."

"Someone did try. He got a shotgun barrel in his face."

"Then you've only to look at any one of us to see who it was."

"Quincy fired through the door. Apparently scaring the h.e.l.l out of someone but not hitting him."

"I told you he was mad."

"Yes, probably you're right. Do you want me to come in with you?"

"No. You're not drinking my whisky and telling me lies."

"Suit yourself. Good day, Singleton."

He waited while Singleton made up his mind. After a moment, the man clambered down, threw a mockery of a salute in Rutledge's direction, and said, "It's the pain that gets to you after a while. It drives you mad."

"Were you wounded?" Rutledge knew Singleton had served in India.

"The disgrace, d.a.m.n you. It turned my father against me, I'll tell you that. He never spoke to me again. His only son, disgraced before his regiment. And mine. But I didn't care any more. And he did."

He walked with surprising steadiness to his door and went inside. As Rutledge turned the motorcar, he was close enough to Number 7 to see Miller standing at his window.

What if Miller had been telling the truth, or part of it, that someone had brought Partridge's motorcar back to the cottage to make it appear that Partridge hadn't used it?

With the tab of the respirator found in the vehicle and Miller's story-if true-to show that the motorcar had been returned late at night by an unknown driver, the pieces of the puzzle were falling together. But Rutledge still hadn't determined where Parkinson had died. If it was in his own house, then the sisters were involved. If not, then it could have been Brady, or if Deloran didn't trust him, another of his minions. He hadn't died in the cottage. Had someone overpowered him while he stood in the trees looking up at the White Horse? It would have been easy, quiet.

Rutledge had come to know Rebecca and Sarah Parkinson. Letting their father die the same way their mother had killed herself smacked of a certain justice. If he took them into custody, and a jury found them guilty, he'd have to be present when they went to the gallows. And he was fairly certain that Rebecca would protect her sister to the end, claiming that she alone had carried out the murder, even if it had taken two of them to drag their father's body to the motorcar and drive it to Yorks.h.i.+re.

The newspapers would make a sensation out of the trial. Parkinson's daughters would be vilified in print, their family's secrets dragged out into the open and dissected over tea and the butcher's counter and in the pubs.

He had better be d.a.m.ned certain that his facts were irrefutable before he tossed two young women to the wolves.

But for Parkinson's sake, his murderer or murderers had to be brought to justice. Even if he would have railed at the police for doing it.

Rutledge thought, I've always spoken for the victim. This time the victim might well prefer to see me fail. I've always spoken for the victim. This time the victim might well prefer to see me fail.

Rutledge drove to Sarah Parkinson's house, waited at the door while she decided whether or not to answer his knock, and when she came at last, he went straight to the point.

"You have a choice, Miss Parkinson. Come with me to Yorks.h.i.+re and identify your father's body, then help us solve the mystery of where and how he died. There have been two other deaths among the residents of the Tomlin Cottages, and so far we've managed to keep the two inquiries separate. But the fact remains that both of the dead men, Mr. Willingham and Mr. Brady, had a very good view of your father's cottage. We've been told by another witness that your father's motorcar was returned after he went missing. This witness saw one person driving it, and since your father wasn't there the next morning, we have to believe that it was his killer who brought the motorcar back. Both Mr. Willingham and Mr. Brady were closer to the shed than our third witness. They could very well have seen the driver more clearly. If the police can't prove otherwise, then a connection will be made between your father's death and the other murders." He could see the color draining from her face. "It's been my experience, Miss Parkinson, that murdering another human being is easier after the first time. If you didn't kill those men, then we must a.s.sume it was Rebecca, trying to protect you."

"My sister did nothing of the sort! You're trying to frighten me. Go away."

"You can shut the door, if you like, and I'll leave. But what I've told you won't leave with me. It will echo in your head until you come to your senses and act to protect yourself. She's your sister, Miss Parkinson, but she's placed your own life at risk. Can't you see that?"

"You're wrong," she told him resolutely. "You are wrong wrong-"

"Then tell me what the truth is and let me deal with it."

"There's nothing to tell." Her voice held a world of sorrow. "This business at the cottages has nothing to do with us. And you said yourself that my father's body-if it is his-was found a long way from here."

"Miss Parkinson, listen to me. Whatever happened, you must find the courage to speak out. If you're afraid of your sister, we'll protect you-"

"Why should I be afraid of her? She's done nothing. Nothing at all. And this talk about murders to cover up what witnesses saw is wild guessing, nothing else. Let this witness meet me face-to-face and tell me I was there. I was not I was not."

"But you can't speak for Rebecca, can you? If you weren't there, you can't prove or disprove that she might have been. Come in and give us a statement, tell us what you know. Let us set the record straight."

"If I sign a statement, you'll use it against Becky. She's the only family I have left. Do you think my mother would ever forgive me if I did something that would hurt Becky? Do you think I could forgive myself? My father is dead. There's nothing more I can do to hurt him, and nothing more he can do to hurt me. Let it go."

"Murder isn't something I can walk away from. When I leave here, I'm going to take a statement from the witness who saw your father's motorcar return three nights after your father left. The motorcar is there still. But in the rear seat I found something that you or your sister overlooked. It's a tab from the respirator he was-"

She moved so quickly he couldn't have forestalled her. The door was slammed, and he could hear on the other side the rasp of the bolt as it was shoved into place.

He had planted the seeds of doubt about her sister in Sarah Parkinson's mind. It was what he had come to do. But he felt unclean now.

"It was a cruel thing ye did."

"What would you have me do? Tell me," Rutledge demanded impatiently as he cranked the motorcar's engine. "Tell me how else I could show her the danger ahead, if she remains loyal to her sister. Hill will come round to thinking this same way. He's no fool."