A Pale Horse Part 16

"Did he have enemies, that you knew of? I gather you knew him better than most."

"First of all, I'd like to know why you're here asking so many questions," Quincy said, drawing back and letting Rutledge close the folder.

"I'm with the police, you see. Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard."

"So your interest in the White Horse was all a ruse."

"No, I am interested in it. I always have been. But in other things as well."

"I see. This is now an official official inquiry. My neighbors won't care for that, I can tell you!" inquiry. My neighbors won't care for that, I can tell you!"

"Why not?"

"You know very well why not. We all have something to hide. Perhaps not murder, but something that to us is just as powerful."

Lepers all, indeed. "Perhaps you'd like to tell me what it is you must hide."

Quincy laughed. "I didn't kill Partridge. That's what I can tell you. The rest is none of your business."

"Besides the care of the cat, what did you talk to Partridge about?"

"My birds, if you must know. Oh, you've seen them in the other room. I'm no fool. But he was curious about them, and wanted to know where they had come from."

"I'd like to see them."

"Oh, yes?" He crossed to the inner door and flung it open.

Rutledge stood there, stunned.

Hamish, in the back of his mind, was speechless.

Rutledge had never seen such an array of birds-all of them dead, yet perched on twigs or railings or stones, like so many toys that with a turn of the key would dance and twitter and sing, to please a child.

Every shape and size, blazing with color and their eyes sparkling like shoe b.u.t.tons in the light from the windows, they seemed to watch Rutledge.

"I have every right to them, you know. I brought them back to England under a license."

"Were they alive then?"

"No, of course not. I spent years collecting them. I think I was slightly mad at the time, certainly I wasn't fully in my right mind. It had become an obsession, you see. To find them and capture them and mount them. It gave me something to do, a reason for living. That's a keel-billed toucan over there. Next to him is a fiery-billed trogon. You should see them flying about the trees. And that's a rufous motmot. The chestnut one just there, with yellow in his tail, is a Montezuma oropendola. The little green one is a red-headed barbet. That's a resplendent quetzal, with the long tail, and the bigger blue one is a white-throated magpie-jay. The Jabiru stork is just behind it. And the very small ones are hummingbirds. Marvelous little creatures. My favorite is the little snowcap, the purple one with the white head. We don't have them in this hemisphere. A shame. You see them dart about flowers like tiny fairies, wings beating so quickly you glimpse only a blur, and when the sun catches them, they're like tiny jewels. I'm told that the Inca kings wore cloaks made from their feathers."

"Where do they come from? South America, I should think."

"Most of these are from Central America. The one with what looks like a worm in his beak is a three-wattled bellbird. Over there is the crimson-collared tanager. He was one of my first successes. The odd one with the large eyes isn't an owl, it's the common potoo." He seemed to enjoy naming his prizes. Dublin had slipped in behind the two men and was staring at the array of color. Indeed, it reminded Rutledge himself of a feathered rainbow.

Hamish said, "My granny would say he's bewitched."

"What took you there? An interest in these birds?"

"Good G.o.d, no. I hardly knew one species from another. I went there to hire myself out as an engineer on the construction of the Panama Ca.n.a.l. The first try, the one that didn't succeed. In the end most of us came down with malaria or yellow fever, and we hardly knew what we were about."

"But you stayed."

"I stayed because there was nowhere else to go. I trekked through jungle looking for ruins and gold. I climbed volcanoes and dragged myself through caves. I reasoned that the Spanish couldn't have found it all. But they must have done. All the gold I saw was on the high altars of churches, great mountains of it, ceiling to floor. Nothing like it in England. I just stood and stared at the first one I came across. I worked for a time translating invoices and bills of lading for a coffee plantation outside a place called Antigua, then moved on to manage a banana company's plantation on the Caribbean coast. It wasn't a life I'd recommend."

Rutledge said as Quincy reached out to smooth the wing of one of his specimens, "With that background, you must have been in demand."

"Oh, it wasn't as exciting as it may sound," he went on dryly. "Sometimes I guided people coming out to look at land. I learned to use a foot loom in a village on the side of a volcanic lake. At.i.tlan, it was. Whatever came to hand. By that time I was drunk most of the day and all of the night, and finally I went to see a shaman, to find a way to sober up. Saint Maximon, they called him. Only it wasn't a man, it was a lump of wood draped in shawls and wearing a black hat. They'd told me he was wise. I brought cigars and wine and a watch I'd stolen, as gifts. The room was dark, filled with incense and smoke, and I thought I'd suffocate before my turn came. The man who interpreted for him-it-told me that my salvation was in the colors of the rainbow. I thought him as mad as I was."

Satisfied that all was well with the bird, he added, "Then I remembered the birds, and the more I thought about them, the more the obsession grew. I went back into the jungle for them, and up and down the coast, and climbed into rain forests and sailed down rivers, looking for them."

"What did you intend to do with them? Bring them back to a museum?"

Quincy laughed. "Hardly that. No, I tell you it was an obsession. I just wanted them. And then one day I realized that they were all dead. Not flying about, not mating, not bringing up their young or foraging for food. They were dead. dead. And I never touched another drop of whisky. I was stone-cold sober, and I had this enormous collection of dead things in my house, and I realized I wanted to go home. I sold most of them, kept these to remind me, and came back to England against all the odds." And I never touched another drop of whisky. I was stone-cold sober, and I had this enormous collection of dead things in my house, and I realized I wanted to go home. I sold most of them, kept these to remind me, and came back to England against all the odds."

"And so the wise man's prediction that your salvation lay in a rainbow was right. After a fas.h.i.+on."

"I don't know if it was his prediction or my liver. But I kept these to remember where I'd come from. And I've never killed anything since."

It was a remarkable story. How much of it had actually happened?

"Did you know Partridge before you came here to live?"

"Never clapped eyes on him."

It rang true, but Rutledge wasn't sure whether he believed Quincy or not. He thought, he's very likely a remittance man. Someone the family pays well to stay out of the country, where his behavior won't embarra.s.s them. It would behoove him to lie if it meant trouble for the family.

And therefore the question might be, what had Quincy done before he left England that had to be hushed up?

But Rutledge said nothing of this, listening as Quincy rattled off the names of his precious birds, interspersing that with the story of his years in Central America.

It was as if the man had dammed up the past for so long that the pressure had been building behind it, the need to talk that sometimes made lonely people garrulous.

And Quincy seemed to realize this in almost the same instant, ushering Rutledge out of the room, picking up Dublin and taking her with him as he shut the door on his collection.

"Pay no heed to me," he said, trying to cover his lapse. "They were my salvation, those birds, and I'm fond of them."

"Back to Partridge," Rutledge said, and thought how appropriate the name was, in this house. "I think it's time I spoke to someone in his family. There was a young woman, and you suggested she might be his daughter."

"She favored him, although she was fair instead of dark. I have no idea where she lives. He didn't open the door to her when she came. From that you might reach the conclusion that there is no warmth between them."

"Does she live in Uffington, do you think?" It was the nearest town.

"I've never seen her there, but of course that's not proof of anything."

"I've also been told that he'd lost his wife."

Quincy's brows rose. "Indeed? Well, that could well explain why he's reclusive. And for all we know, when he disappears he's visiting her grave."

"I appreciate the help you've given me."

Quincy walked with him to the door. "What had friend Partridge done, to get himself murdered? He'd gone missing before."

"If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn't be here questioning his neighbors. He's an enigma. We know very little about the man."

"You might speak to Mr. Brady, then. He's shown an inordinate interest in Partridge and his whereabouts on previous absences. Most of us here try to keep our private life private, but when Brady came, he asked questions. It wasn't well received, I can tell you. And he's a nosy sod, sitting by his window day and night as if there's nothing better to do."

Not so much a helpful suggestion as a touch of revenge on Quincy's part?

"I'll bear that in mind." Rutledge was on the threshold when another thought struck him. "When is the post delivered here at the cottages?" He had seen no letters in Partridge's house, but that was not proof that none had come.

"In theory, around nine. But we seldom receive any mail, you see. Lepers don't. Nor do we write to anyone. Or if we do, it's posted in Uffington." His voice was suddenly bitter, as if this were a reminder of how completely he'd been cut off from his family.

He shut his door almost on Rutledge's heels.

Rutledge looked at the neat half circle of cottages, and thought to himself that murder could be done here, and no one would know except the other residents, and they would refrain from summoning the police until the smell of decay overwhelmed them.

He considered calling on Brady, but decided that this was not the time. As Quincy had pointed out, he'd already spoken to Slater and Mrs. Cathcart. Everyone was prepared for a visitor now. Better to let the matter appear to drop.

But there was a man standing in his front garden, watching Rutledge leave Quincy's cottage. If Rutledge had kept to his original itinerary, Number 3, between Partridge and Brady, would be the next cottage to be visited. And it seemed that the owner was outside, prepared to confront the interloper in their midst. His expression was hostile.

Rutledge was of two minds about the best approach, but the matter was taken out of his hands.

"What is it you want?" the man called to him. His voice was tense, as if his concern outweighed his caution. "Who are you? You were hanging about before, I've seen you."

Rutledge walked toward him, covering the distance in unhurried strides.

An elderly man, tall and slightly stooped. Rutledge guessed his age to be seventy. Still vigorous, but already beginning to feel the tug of Time.

"My name is Rutledge," he said, the folder ready as he chose his opening. "I'm looking for Mr. Partridge. Perhaps you can tell me where I might find him?"

"Partridge, is it? I don't believe you. You never stopped at his door. First Slater, then Mrs. Cathcart, after that Mr. Quincy. But not Partridge. Not at all."

"Yes, I'm afraid he's not there. That's why I didn't go to his door. Do you know him well, Mr...." He paused, waiting for a name.

"Willingham." Grudgingly.

"Mr. Willingham. Do you know how I can find Mr. Partridge's solicitor? Or failing that, any of his family?"

"What are you selling?" Willingham eyed the folder.

"I'm not selling anything. This is a drawing-"

"Then why don't you go away and leave the rest of us alone? We don't trouble Mr. Partridge and we don't expect Mr. Partridge's visitors to trouble us."

"Does he have visitors?"

"If he does, I don't stare out my window looking to see who they are. Now be off with you, Rutledge, or whatever your name is. We don't care for the likes of you here."

"I'm afraid you'll have to put up with my presence, unpleasant as it may be, until you've answered my questions."

"Then I'll summon the police and have you removed."

"I am am the police, Mr. Willingham. From Scotland Yard." the police, Mr. Willingham. From Scotland Yard."

Willingham stared at him. Then without another word, he turned on his heel and went inside his cottage, slamming the door in Rutledge's face.

For a man eager to summon the police, Hamish was pointing out, "he was no' very happy to find one on his doorstep."

"Interesting."

Rutledge turned and walked back the way he'd come, climbing the hill of the White Horse and looking down on the cottages from the heights.

He wondered what Miss Tomlin would think of what had become of her charitable gift. She had considered it a sanctuary. And perhaps in a way it had turned out to be one after all.

But the question now was how to go about tracking down Partridge's daughter. Without going back to Martin Deloran and asking him for the information.

"He willna' tell you that," Hamish warned him. "It wouldna' be wise to ask in that quarter."

Where had Partridge lived before coming here in the spring of 1918? What sort of work had he done, and where was his family?

There was the off chance his daughter might pay another call, but Rutledge thought it was unlikely after being turned away.

And so where to start?

If Sergeant Gibson at the Yard began making inquiries, it would attract attention in the wrong quarters.

Had Partridge been in in the army? Was that Deloran's interest? He could have been drummed out for reasons even the army preferred to keep quiet. And that might explain the watcher, Brady. Whatever toes Partridge had trod upon, they were still very sensitive about what had happened. Better to let him die and be buried in Yorks.h.i.+re as an unidentified victim of murder than bring the whole matter up again. the army? Was that Deloran's interest? He could have been drummed out for reasons even the army preferred to keep quiet. And that might explain the watcher, Brady. Whatever toes Partridge had trod upon, they were still very sensitive about what had happened. Better to let him die and be buried in Yorks.h.i.+re as an unidentified victim of murder than bring the whole matter up again.

Did Partridge know about the watcher? Had he cared?

Was g.a.y.l.o.r.d Partridge, for that matter, his real name?

It was the first time Rutledge had considered that, although looking at Quincy's birds, he had been amused by the coincidence of "Partridge" and an aviary. Perhaps this man had thought so as well, and on the spur of the moment, rechristened himself? It wouldn't be long before Brady reported the new name to London.

It would also explain why Deloran had felt so certain that it was safe to send Rutledge to Berks.h.i.+re-it wasn't likely he'd learn more than he should know, while he was searching for "Partridge." And now, even if the other residents identified the face in the sketch as Partridge, that was as far as Rutledge could take the matter. Meanwhile Yorks.h.i.+re would soon see the missing man into a pauper's grave. And there would be the end of it.

g.a.y.l.o.r.d Partridge would no longer be a problem for the War Office.

But he was still very much a problem for the police.

If Deloran had his way, the daughter would never be told what had become of her father. That might not matter to her now, but if there was a will to be sorted, in time her father's fate would become important legally.

Martin Deloran be d.a.m.ned-Partridge hadn't walked back to that cloister on his own, there was someone else involved. And whether the man died by accident or was killed, Rutledge was determined to get to the bottom of what had happened. If there was a murderer somewhere, who could say if he'd killed before this, or if he would kill again?