A Pale Horse

Charles Todd

To Martha Lynn,

Whose voice is her gift,

As words are mine…

With much love for so many reasons

T.

Contents

1
It was nearing the full moon, and the night seemed…

2
Ian Rutledge walked into his flat and sat down in…

3
Hugh Tredworth, the ringleader, possessed a goodly amount of charm.

4
The dinner had, in many ways, been trying.

5
Walking back to his motorcar, Rutledge tried to see if…

6
It was a long drive to Yorkshire, and Rutledge…

7
Ten minutes later Miss Norton climbed into Rutledge’s motorcar and…

8
The next morning found Rutledge back at the Dilby school,…

9
Inspector Madsen, in fact, was livid.

10
Rutledge was awake when at the back of the inn…

11
Where to begin a search? The only information Rutledge had…

12
Rutledge wasn’t sure how he had driven to the Tomlin…

13
Addleford was a small dale village that had begun to…

14
Rutledge put in a call to Bowles when he stopped…

15
Frances was waiting, as she’d promised.

16
Rutledge dressed swiftly, asking questions as he worked. But Smith…

17
Rutledge found a telephone in a small hotel along the…

18
If she had intended to shock him, Sarah Parkinson succeeded.

19
It appeared to Rutledge, looking down at the body, as…

20
As soon as it was first light, Quincy had been…

21
It was late, but Rutledge went back to Rebecca Parkinson’s…

22
When he got back to The Smith’s Arms, Rutledge was…

23
For a time Rutledge stood by the hearth in Allen’s…

24
Sarah Parkinson was just leaving her house when Rutledge drove…

25
Rutledge arrived in London and went to his flat to…

Author’s Note

About the Author

Other Books by Charles Todd

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

BERKSHIRE
Early April 1920

It was nearing the full moon, and the night seemed to shimmer with light.

He walked down the lane and turned to look up at the hillside.

The graceful white horse cut into the chalk by ancient Britons galloped across the green slope without stirring from its place.

He couldn’t see it without remembering. That was the only reason he had chosen to live in this Godforsaken place. To torment himself until he couldn’t bear it any more.

The horses had died too, in that first gas attack. It wasn’t just the men. The poor beasts couldn’t know what the low-lying mist wafting toward them brought in its wake.

An eyewitness had likened the cloud to a great horse moving across a barren meadow, ambling toward the barn for its dinner. Not hurrying, not drifting, just moving steadily, without apparent purpose, without apparent design, following the wind as the horse followed the scent of its stall and the fresh hay heaped in the manger. But like the pale horse of the Apocalypse, on his back rode Death. And Hell had truly followed them.

He smiled grimly at the imagery.

He hadn’t been there when the Germans unleashed the chlorine attack against the Allies at Ypres. Yet it had changed his life in ways no one could have foreseen.

He wished he’d never heard the name of that medieval Belgian town. He wished the Germans had never reached it. Or that the British had left well enough alone and let them have the wretched place.

There was a silver flask of brandy in his pocket, and he felt for it, uncapped it, lifted it to his lips, then paused.

What if he drank it to the dregs and crawled into the ruins of Wayland’s Smithy to die, like a wounded animal hiding itself away until it either healed or breathed its last?

Would anyone care?

A shadow was coming up the road toward him. It was Andrew Slater, the smith. It was impossible not to recognize him, even at this distance. Andrew was built like a church tower, tall and broad and solid. But the man didn’t turn at the lane. He passed by without speaking, as if sleepwalking, moving on toward the Smithy. Like to like.

It would be crowded inside with the two of them there, he told himself with black humor. Not counting whatever ghosts lingered in that narrow Stone Age tomb.

I envy Andrew Slater, he thought, there in the darkness. He lives only in the present, while I have only the past.

He drank a little of the brandy, for courage, saluting the pale horse with his flask. Then he turned and trudged back to his cottage and turned up all the lamps for comfort.

2

LONDON
Late April 1920

Ian Rutledge walked into his flat and sat down in the darkness. He was too tired to deal with the lamps. It had been a long and trying day. The hours he’d spent searching for a murderer had ended in the man’s attempt to leap through the tenement window on the wild chance he could still elude capture. It had taken Rutledge and two constables to prevent it, and all three of them bore bruises to show for their efforts. Rutledge’s shoulder ached, and the top of his left thigh felt as if it had been kicked by a horse. But then desperation had lent strength to the man.

In the darkness the voice of Hamish MacLeod answered him. A dead man’s voice, but for nearly four years now it had seemed to Rutledge as real as his own. He had never grown used to hearing it, and yet with time he had come to terms of a sort with it. It was either that or madness. And he feared madness more.

“Ye nearly went out yon window with him.”

It was true, he’d been faster than the stunned constables, and got there first. He’d read the flare of intent in the man’s eyes, and reacted to that just as the man’s muscles had tightened to turn his back on them and race for the casement.

“A better death than hanging,” Rutledge said, “if he’d succeeded. But he’d have gone scot-free if he’d been lucky enough to land on that shop roof just below and to the left. I couldn’t chance it. He’d have killed again. It was in his nature.”

Rutledge let the silence wrap him, closing his eyes and resting his head on the back of his chair, waiting for jangled nerves to find solace if not peace.

He had nearly let himself drift into a shallow sleep when there was a knock at his door.

Shaking off the torpor of exhaustion, he got up reluctantly and crossed the room. When he opened the door, he found his sister Frances standing there.

“Ian? Are you all right?” Her gaze went beyond him to the dark flat, and that sixth sense of hers seemed to catch the atmosphere like a sleek cat scenting danger.

“Tired, that’s all. Come in. I’ve yet to turn up the lamps. I haven’t been home long.”

“Well, I’m here to dig you out of your cave. I’m meeting friends for dinner, and I need an escort.”

“Frances. There must be half a hundred men who would gladly take you anywhere, including Paris. What’s happened to them? They can’t all have decided to throw themselves off Westminster Bridge in despair.”

Laughing, she followed him into the flat and waited as he lit the lamps and made the shadows retreat. Those in the room, she found herself thinking, as well as those of the spirit. Her instincts to come here had been right.

“Yes, well, they’re none of them as handsome as you, Ian, and I might as well take the veil. It’s hopeless.”

Beneath the humor, her voice betrayed her. Either she was lying, or there was something wrong that she wasn’t ready to talk about.

“Is there truly a dinner party?” he asked quietly.

“As a matter of fact, there is. You remember the Farnums. They’re taking Maryanne Browning out to dinner, invited me, and included a friend of yours. At least I think you count her among your acquaintances if not your friends.”

Maryanne was a widow, her husband Peter a victim not of the war but of the Spanish flu. Rutledge had spent New Year’s Eve at her house, at a party that he didn’t care to remember.

“You aren’t matchmaking, are you?”

“Good God, no! I’m truly fond of Maryanne, but I’m harboring no hopes in that direction. We’ve been trying to keep her busy, Ian, rather than leaving her to mope. And so all of us in her circle take it in turns seeing to it that she’s not forgotten. Or left out of things.”

He believed her. It was a kindness Frances would think of—and do.

“I’m tired, I told you. Do you really need me to make up your numbers?”

He caught something in her expression as she said offhandedly, “Simon can’t come tonight. He’s in Scotland.”

And that was the nub, of course. She was growing quite fond of Simon Barrington. She hadn’t shown a preference for any of her suitors, not for years. Not since Richard, who never was her suitor, but possibly the only man she’d loved. She was clearly disappointed that Barrington was out of the city.

More than usually disappointed.

He made a mental note of it, then answered, “All right, I’ll come, if you give me a quarter of an hour to change. Help yourself to a drink, if you like.”

She gave him a swift embrace. “I knew I could count on you.”

As he walked into his bedroom he called, “Who is the other person? You mentioned that I knew him?”

“It isn’t a him—it’s a her. Meredith Channing. She and Maryanne have become friends.”

He stopped on the point of taking off his coat.

Meredith Channing…

An attractive woman who knew far too much for comfort. About him, about the war, about—

He’d almost said Hamish, but he was nearly certain she hadn’t read that nightmare in his mind. He’d blocked it for so many years now that it was habit to keep the Somme and Hamish and the firing squad shut firmly away where no one could find it.

Hamish said, “Don’t go.”

And Rutledge caught himself just in time, before he answered aloud. “I’ve already promised,” he said silently. “I can’t go back on it without explaining why. And that I shan’t do.”

3

YORKSHIRE
Late That Same Night

Hugh Tredworth, the ringleader, possessed a goodly amount of charm. It was his stock-in-trade. Whispers claimed that his real father had been a Scottish tinker, but Hugh’s grandfather had had the same red hair and wicked smile—and his auntie as well, come to that. As his mother was fond of pointing out. Hugh had also been cursed with older brothers, the butt of their jokes and malicious tricks for as long as he could remember. These had sharpened his wits and taught him cunning, which he was careful to conceal.

At eleven, he was the eldest of his four cohorts. Johnnie and Bill, cousins, were ten, as was Tad. Robbie, only nine, tagged along because he had always been his brother Tad’s shadow. They had fallen under Hugh’s spell when he’d missed a year of schooling after complications of scarlet fever. Their scrapes and escapades had never drawn blood, and for the most part their parents looked the other way.

This night—it was well on toward morning in point of fact—the five boys had tramped nearly five miles cross-country to reach their destination.

Robbie, tiring, lagged a little now, and Tad threatened to leave him by the wayside. Hugh hissed them to silence. “Hurry! Or we’ll be too late.”

Ahead lay the grounds of the estate and, beyond, the ruins of the great abbey. One of Hugh’s neighbors had worked as undergardener there for a summer, regaling everyone with descriptions of all he’d seen. Only, everything appeared larger and harder to find in the dark. Or else Mr. Pritchert had been a liar and made up half his tales. Hugh moved his precious book from one hand to the other, unfamiliar nerves getting the better of him.

He’d purloined the book from the schoolmaster’s shelf. The subject was alchemy, about which he knew nothing. But there were spells in these pages, and he intended to try them out.

Bill, the tallest, carried a sack with apples, a corner of cheese, and a heel of bread in it. Like Napoleon’s army, he traveled on his stomach. They’d wanted to bring cider, but hadn’t discovered a way to steal a stone jar for the night.

They skirted the grounds of the estate—Mr. Pritchert swore it had dogs that bit first and barked later—then threaded their way through a wood so dark the moon vanished. But soon enough they arrived at a point where they could see what lay ahead.

It was awe inspiring. An enormous complex of mellow stone stood before them. Ranges of monastic buildings jutting across the lawns, a square soaring tower, great arches running high into the moonlit sky, tall, haunted windows with no glass, doorways that opened into blackness unlike any they’d ever looked into.

“Gor!” Johnnie whispered, stopping short.

Robbie felt his bowels stir.

“It’s naught but a ruin,” Hugh scoffed. “At least, naught until we work the spells. Come on.”

He started forward toward the nave, but when they didn’t follow, he said in disgust, “I should have brought my sisters.”

They crept at his heels then, hoping that whatever struck him down would spare them if they could only appear small enough. Bill, trying for bravado, said, “It’s stood empty long enough for bones to rot.”

Robbie squeaked.

An owl flew out of the empty west window above their heads, gliding on silent wings across the moonlit sward.

“I told you there were owls,” Hugh whispered. “Has to be, if there’s spirits here. And a black cat.”

“We could have brought Cinders,” Tad offered.

“And have Ma down on you like a thunderclap?” Robbie demanded. “He’s her cat, not yours.”

“Not to harm him, silly. Just to borrow.”

“I thought people sacrificed to the Devil,” Johnnie asked.

“Only if you want something. Do you?” Hugh retorted.

“No,” Johnnie admitted, minding his footing as they went through the gaping door.

Now they were in the shadows cast by the massive columns, in the long roofless nave with moonlight visible above. The moon was past the full, but it helped, a little, with the gloom. The high walls seemed to stretch forever, pinning them in the eye of God.

“We aren’t desecrating the altar, are we?” Tad was an altar boy. “Vicar won’t care for that.”

Even Hugh was having second thoughts. “We’ll begin in the cloister. There should be a way to it along there. Nobody can say we didn’t show respect.”

With more relief than they cared to admit to, the other boys hurried after him in the direction of the doorway leading into the cloister.

There was brighter moonlight here, but the gallery was ominously dark. It seemed to be peopled with the unseen dead. Whispers of sound came to their ears, like monks walking to compline and condemning the souls of interlopers on sacred ground.

“The wind,” Hugh told them when his followers stopped to listen. “See? Over there. We can use that stone in the center. It’ll work a treat.” He glanced up at the moon, then went sprawling. Scrambling to his feet, he looked down. But nothing he could see had tripped him up.

He’d have sworn a hand had caught at his ankle. The fingers had felt cold on his flesh.

Shaking off his own fears, he blamed them on his companions.

“Didn’t anybody think to bring a candle? We’ll break our necks, without.”

Tad held out three, with a fistful of matches. Hugh lit them with a flourish, dripping wax onto the round stone and then setting the candles into each puddle. They formed a rough triangle.

He opened the schoolmaster’s book at random and found a page where there was a drawing of a great iron kettle on the boil and an oven red hot to one side.

He scanned the words, found them very unlike a spell, and turned the page. Ah, much better. This was what he’d seen a week ago and determined to try out. He’d only a nodding acquaintance with Latin, but if God understood it, so would the Devil.

He stood up straight, his hands above his head, palms out in supplication, and began to intone the words on the page, turning them into gibberish as he struggled with them. An echo, soft and unintelligible, sent a shiver down Robbie’s spine, and he clutched his brother’s hand.

The words rolled on, and Hugh thought his voice had deepened toward the end as his confidence grew.

But nothing much happened, and he was disappointed.

He tried twice more with other spells, and still the Devil was afraid to come to him.

Tad said, tentatively, “He’s busy elsewhere?”

But Hugh wasn’t to be deterred.

“It’s not sacred enough ground here in the middle. We need to stand closer to the church wall,” he told them, as if he knew what he was doing. “See, just over there.”

They turned to look, then got up from their haunches and followed him into the shadows, carefully shielding their candles. But the night wind blew out one of them, just as Robbie tripped, plunged headlong into the cold grass. He began to scream, high-pitched and terrifying.

They turned to clamp a hand over his mouth, then saw what he had seen first.

The Devil was already there, sitting against the wall, his grotesque face staring up at them with wide, blank eyes and the long nose of a donkey disappearing into the hood of the cloak he was wearing.

They ran until their lungs were ready to burst and their legs were trembling with the effort.

Away from the ruins, through the dark wood, as far as the road, and on toward the path they’d taken across the fields to reach the abbey.

When Robbie fell behind, Tad stopped for him, and then Bill, his hands on his knees and his breath still coming in frightened gasps, stopped too. His cousin pulled up, and Hugh, a little ahead, turned back to them.

“What was it?” Tad asked, his voice quivering.

“The Devil,” Hugh retorted. “It must have been.” He had never been so shaken.

“No, it was a man,” Bill said. “He was wearing shoes.”

“Do you think the Devil goes about with that cloven hoof in plain sight?” Hugh demanded, regaining a little of his confidence.

“What are we going to do about it?” Tad asked. “If we tell, we’ll be blamed. Pa will take a strap to me!”

“What if Vicar won’t let us come to service?” Robbie added. “Mama won’t like that.”

“We’ll swear a blood oath never to tell,” Hugh suggested dramatically. “I’ve my pocketknife. We’ll cut our thumbs and swear.”

“I don’t want my thumb cut,” Robbie said, and to his great shame, began to cry.

“Ma will see the cuts,” Tad agreed. “She won’t give us any peace over them until she knows everything.”

“Why can’t we just swear?” Johnnie asked. “And we’d better hurry about it, or someone will be up milking before we’re back in our beds.”

They swore, as fierce an oath as Hugh could devise on the spot.

“May our tongues blacken, and our faces run down our chins like hot pudding, if we speak one word about tonight to any soul, living or dead, good or evil. So help us God!”

They turned then to hurry home. But Johnnie spoke for all of them when he said, halfway there, “What if he follows us? What if he wants us to be dead, because we’ve seen him?”

It wasn’t until the next morning that a caretaker stumbled across a dead man in the ruins of Fountains Abbey.

The owner of Studley Royal was in London with his family, and so the caretaker took it upon himself to summon the police.

The local man, standing over the body, took note of three things. That there was no immediate indication of cause of death. That the man was wearing a cloak like a monk’s, complete with a hood that had fallen away from his face. And that over his face there was a respirator, one from the war. He reached down and pulled the mask away.

He didn’t recognize the face staring back at him.

“No one from around here,” Inspector Madsen said aloud to the two constables standing at his back.

“No,” the older of the two said. “But what’s he doing here?”

“If I knew that,” Madsen answered repressively, “I might know how he died and who has killed him. If anyone did.” He had been called out before he’d had time to eat his breakfast and his wife had had a thing or two to say about that. She was a great one for cooking, and expected those she cooked for to enjoy and appreciate her efforts.

“Yes, sir.” The younger constable trailed him as he turned to survey the cloisters and began a slow circle. “There’re three puddles of wax, sir, on that stone in the center. A stub of candle over here, and that book you’ve noticed, just by his foot.” He had been first on the scene.

Madsen examined the wax puddles, noted they were in the shape of a triangle, and grunted. He went next to the stub of candle. The kind, he told himself, his unthrifty wife would throw out. She was particular about her candles.

“Was this one longer to start with?” he mused. “Was this the third night of a vigil? It would explain the three puddles.”

“The caretaker swears no one had been here before last night. He says he’d have noticed.”

“Any sign that someone else was with the dead man?”

“It’s hard to say, not knowing how active he himself was.”

“All right, then, let’s have a look at yon book.”

Madsen picked it up and closed it to examine the title on the spine. “Alchemy, for God’s sake.” He flipped it open and saw the name of one Albert Harris Crowell on the name plate, and under it, Nether Bromley School.

“Is this Crowell, then?” he asked, lifting his gaze to Constable Hood, his voice flat.

“No, sir. I’ve seen Mr. Crowell, sir. He comes sometimes to The Dog and Cart—that’s the pub near Dilby. A quiet man. Before the war he was schoolmaster in Nether Bromley, and now he’s at Dilby School. Well respected, from what I’m told.”

The younger constable stirred. “He was a conscientious objector in the war, sir. I’ve heard my father speak of it.”

Madsen turned his gaze to Constable Pickerel. Pickerel’s father had been a policeman as well, retiring from the Elthorpe force as sergeant just at the end of the war. Six months before Madsen himself arrived. “How does your father know what Crowell did in the war?”

“My father also drops in to The Dog and Cart from time to time. It’s the talk there, some evenings.” Madsen was still staring at him, and Pickerel found himself adding, “The pub was never on his patch, you might say, and he likes that. Nobody to bring up what’s past.”

The next village over might as well be in a foreign land, in the eyes of most. Though the war had changed that notion to some extent, people clung to their prejudices.

“Does he never come to Elthorpe? Crowell?” Madsen asked him.

Pickerel glanced at Hood for confirmation. He shook his head.

Madsen held up the book. “Then he’s made an exception last night. Maybe he can tell us who it is we have on our hands.”

Later that morning he found the schoolmaster in a classroom, seven or eight boys busy with a project involving, as far as Madsen could tell, catapults and castle walls of small mud bricks.

Crowell came out to speak to the inspector. Madsen tried not to stare at him like a specimen under glass, but this was the first time he’d set eyes on the man. Youngish, with that fair slimness that came from long lines of pedigree. His manner was composed, and his voice well bred. Glasses perched on the end of his nose, and he removed them as if suddenly aware that they were there.

If he felt any anxiety about confronting an inspector of police, he hid it well.

“Inspector Madsen, isn’t it?” Crowell extended his hand. “What brings you to Dilby? Not one of my students, I hope.” He smiled and nodded his head toward the half-closed door behind him. “They’re a handful, but there’s no meanness, I can tell you that.”

“Yes, sir.” Madsen took the proffered hand, then held out his own to Constable Hood just behind him. Hood passed him the book. “Can you tell us, sir, if this is by any chance your property?”

Crowell took it, frowning. “Yes, here’s my name in it, but if you’d asked me, I’d have told you my copy is in the bookshelf in my office.”

“Shall we have a look?”

Crowell cast a glance into his classroom. Three of the lads were staring back at him, their eyes large with alarm, as if the police had come for them. He made a mental note to discover what mischief they’d been up to, and said repressively, “Young Tredworth, mind you finish your section of the wall. Don’t be standing about just because I’m not there. That applies to your workmen as well. I want to see progress when I return.”

Hugh Tredworth ducked his head and turned back to his task. His cronies followed his example with suitable haste. “Very well, then,” Crowell said to the policemen, and led the way.

As Madsen followed him down the passage, he asked Crowell, “Interested in alchemy, are you, sir?”

“Not particularly. When I teach science, I often make more progress with something that’s exciting than I do with dull experiments. I say, how did you come by this? It’s an old book, I doubt it’s still in print.”

“We’ll attend to that in a moment, sir. This your office, is it?”

Crowell went in and crossed directly to the low bookshelf behind his desk. But when he put his finger out to tap his copy, the finger stopped in midair. “It isn’t here.” He turned back to Madsen, frowning. “I’m at a loss to explain how it got away, but I thank you for taking the trouble to return it, Inspector.” He slid it into its proper slot, then straightened and waited, as if expecting Madsen either to take his leave or explain why it was an inspector and a constable had come to deliver a lost book.

“The problem is,” Madsen began slowly, “that this book—your book—was discovered lying by the foot of a dead man.”

“Good God!” Crowell was speechless for a moment, then recovering, said, “I don’t understand, Inspector, but I expect we should discuss this. I’m available at three o’clock.”

“Indeed, sir. Is there anyone who can take over your class, sir? I’d like you to come with me.”

“What? Now? In heaven’s name, can’t it wait until the end of the school day? We’re in the middle of a very important lesson. I have no idea why this man or anyone else would be interested in my book on alchemy, but surely it isn’t a pressing matter? This is a harmless enough study, it can’t do anyone any harm.”

“I’m afraid not, sir. It could be a case of murder we’re looking at.”

Crowell stood there, uncertain quite what was expected of him. Then he said, “I shall have to ask my wife to step in. At this age, boys are inclined to rowdiness if left unsupervised.”

As he went to find his wife, accompanied by Constable Hood, Madsen walked back to the classroom.

There was a ripple of wariness as the students turned one by one to look at him. He saw boys at the edge of the group hang their heads as if wishing the floor would swallow them up, and he smiled to himself. He could remember when he was that age and small sins loomed large.

“I’m having to borrow Mr. Crowell for a bit. I don’t want to hear you’ve been rude or rowdy with his missus,” he said, his voice stern. “You’ll answer to me if there’s any complaint of your behavior. Is that clear?”

There was a chorus of Yes, sirs! that made the rafters echo.

He nodded to the class collectively as he heard footsteps approaching. A young woman with a scar across her face walked past him into the room, taking the chair at her husband’s table. She ignored Madsen, but he saw that her hands were trembling as she folded them together, and he shoved his own into his pockets as if to still them as well.

The students went quickly back to work, and Crowell smiled reassuringly at his wife before following Madsen out into the passage.

It was a long drive back to Elthorpe, not so much in miles but in the silence that neither Madsen nor Crowell felt free to break. But as they stopped in front of the police station, Crowell said, “All right, I’m here. As you asked. It’s time you told me what this is all about.”

“Where were you last evening, sir?” Madsen asked as he led the way into the station and back to the office where he kept his files and his pipe. “If you don’t mind telling us?”

“I was at the school. Reading. My wife can verify that, you needn’t have dragged me here. And what’s this about a dead man and possible murder?”

“I was just coming to that, sir.” Madsen sat down, leaving Crowell standing. “We found a body early this morning in the abbey ruins. A man none of us recognizes. But he’d spent some time there, from the looks of things, and it’s likely he wasn’t alone. My question is this. If he died of natural causes—and we’ll know the answer to that when the doctor has examined him—why didn’t the person or persons with him come for help?”

“As I wasn’t there, I can’t answer you.”

“But you were there, in a manner of speaking. There was candle wax on a stone in the center of the cloisters, a stub of candle nearby, and at the dead man’s foot, your book, with your name in it. A book you admit is kept in your private office.”

“And I’ve explained to you that I have no idea how it came to be there. I’d have sworn it was on my shelf along with the rest of my books. I can’t even tell you when it went missing, or how.”

“Indeed, sir. You’ve told me the book was old, out of print. There can’t be that many other copies floating about, and none of them, I expect, with your book plate inside. What we’re hoping is that you can put a name to our dead man. If he had your copy in his possession, he very likely knew you. If it wasn’t in his possession, why did you bring it to this meeting? No, don’t interrupt, let me finish. Did the shock of seeing him die put the book out of your mind? Was that how it got left behind? There has to be a simple explanation, sir, and we would be greatly obliged if you could tell us why he was hanging about in a medieval abbey ruin in the middle of the night. It must have been important, whatever it was you met to discuss, and a private matter at that.”

“Look, I’ve told you—I wasn’t in the abbey ruins last night or any night this past year. I don’t know who the dead man is or why my book should be there. I didn’t meet him, and when you find out who stole my book, you’ll have your other person.” Crowell was angry now, and feeling more than a little defensive as the evidence against him was being presented.

“Then you’ll have no objection to coming with us to look at the dead man.”

“I—don’t like the dead. That is, I’ve seen more than my share, and I’ll live very happily if I never see another one.”

“That’s as may be,” Madsen said. “All the same, I shall have to ask you to tell us if you can identify him.” He rose. “We can walk to the doctor’s surgery from here. I’m sure I can accept your word that you won’t make any trouble for us?”

“Make any—of course not, damn you.”

Madsen smiled as he led the way. He had his man now, he was sure of it.

But in the back room of the doctor’s surgery, where the body had been taken, Crowell stared down at the face on the bed and slowly shook his head. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

“Can you swear to that?”

“Of course I can. I have never laid eyes on him as far as I know.”

But there was a subtle shift in what he’d said before and what he was willing to swear to. Madsen made a note of it.

The doctor came in just then and nodded to Madsen. “As far as I can tell on first examination I’d say he was overcome by gas. Which means he couldn’t have been wearing that respirator when he died. Nor could he have died in the ruins.”

Madsen frowned. “Are you saying he died elsewhere, was brought to the abbey, and left where he was found?”

“I can tell you he didn’t walk there himself,” the doctor retorted dryly. “Someone else was involved. Make of it what you will.”

Crowell, standing there between the doctor and the inspector, flinched. “I don’t have gas lamps. Not where I live.” He’d blurted it out, nerves getting the better of him. His brother had died from chlorine gas at the second battle of Ypres. He had spent years trying to wipe that memory away. It had been a horrid death. He had carried the dying too many times not to know what his brother had suffered.

Madsen and the doctor turned to stare at him.

“I’ve never seen him before,” Crowell repeated. “Can we go now? I’ve no taste for this.”

“Conscientious objector in the war, were you, sir?” Madsen asked, making no move to leave.

“How did you know—” But it was obvious that the police had already looked into his background. “If you’ve seen my record, you’ve also read that I served in France driving an ambulance. I didn’t want to kill, that’s all. But I could do something about the suffering.” He gestured toward the dead man. “And I’ve seen far worse than this poor devil, so making me stand here isn’t going to help you.” His voice had risen just a little, and he tried to get himself under control again. But it was hard. His temper these days was uncertain at best, and his wife had urged him to speak to someone about it. He wondered what Madsen would make of that if he’d learned of it.

But the inspector had already decided there was nothing to be gained here by trying to push the schoolmaster into betraying himself in the face of his victim. He nodded to the doctor and led the way out to the street.

Crowell felt himself sweating. A cold sweat that seemed to bathe him. “Am I free to return to my classroom, Inspector? I don’t care to leave my wife alone with the older boys any longer than need be. They tend to rowdiness after a while.”

“We shall have to speak to Mrs. Crowell. I’ll take you back myself.”

And so it was that Inspector Madsen found himself alone and face-to-face with Alice Crowell in the school’s small office.

“How did you come by that scar?” he asked before he could stop the words. “You didn’t have it when I knew you.”

“It’s not your concern.” Her voice was husky, but he couldn’t be sure whether it was fear or nerves.

There was a silence, fraught with what was not said.

“Did he do that to you?” Madsen pressed. “You may as well tell me, I’ll find out in the end.”

“What did you wish to see me about?” she asked. “Are you going to take my husband into custody?”

“Should I?” Madsen countered.

She made an impatient gesture. “Don’t play with me, Harry. I saw your face when you took Albert away. Whatever has happened, it isn’t just a matter of a truant student.”

“Is there one? A truant student?”

“You know there isn’t. I meant—never mind. What did you wish to see me about?” she repeated.

She had a very mobile face, her feelings clearly expressed. The scar seemed to alter with her emotions, emphasizing them in some fashion he couldn’t understand. He wanted to run his finger along it, and tell her she was still beautiful. But he knew she could lie too. She had lied to him about her parents and how they had felt about a policeman in the family. That, he tried to tell himself in the face of his bitterness, was a kind lie. And she had told him another, that she hadn’t loved him. He believed it then, but later convinced himself that it was to cover the first lie.

Madsen took a deep breath. This wasn’t the place to open up the past. “Where was your husband last evening?”

Her expression changed. “Here. At the school. He was finishing going over papers that he’s submitting for an award. Mrs. Scott’s prize for the best essay on Richard III.”

Mrs. Scott was the widow of the former rector of St. Stephen’s, in Elthorpe. She was something of a local historian, having written a small pamphlet on the architecture of the village church and another on the abbey. Both were available for sale on the table in the church porch. Madsen had seen them. It was typical of her that she’d asked Crowell to read the essays. Like to like. The schoolmaster in Elthorpe was an upstart from Liverpool. Well enough at what he did, but not the sort one invites to present prizes in a social setting.

“And you were here with him? Sitting in his office?” It brought such a cozy domestic scene to his mind that Madsen clenched his fists.

“No, I was at home, sewing the fringe on a shawl I was making for my mother’s birthday.”

“Then no one can actually prove he was here?”

“Of course he was here. Why would he lie to me about where he was? Where else would he go?”

To meet a man he planned to kill and whose body he intended to leave in the ruins of Fountains Abbey, to throw off the police. Madsen hadn’t explained the presence of that book yet, but in time he would.

He found he was staring at her. “I’m married now, myself,” he said. “Did you ever love me? Truly love me?”

She stood up. “I take it you have no more professional questions to ask me, Inspector. And I shan’t answer personal ones.”

But he stayed where he was, between her and the door. “There’s a man dead. Didn’t your husband tell you that this morning when he asked you to carry on in the schoolroom for him? A man dead, with one of your husband’s books lying at his feet.”

She drew in a breath. “Who was it?” she asked. “Who is dead?”

As if that were more important than the book. “We don’t know. Your husband can’t identify him, there is nothing in the man’s pockets to tell us who he is, and all we can be certain of is that he didn’t live in this part of Yorkshire. Else one of my men would have known him. And more to the point, no one has been reported missing.”

“Well, then, if you don’t know who the dead man is,” she said tartly, “there’s no reason to keep me penned up in here or to take my husband away. Meanwhile, there’s the school to be seen to.”

Her words stung him. “I haven’t kept you penned up, Alice—Mrs. Crowell. I was doing my duty.” He stepped aside and she swept out of the door as if he were invisible.

He watched her walk down the corridor, and he felt an urge to clap her husband up and throw away the key.

At the door of a classroom a boy stood watching him, wary and uncertain.

“What are you staring at, then?” Madsen snapped, and the child disappeared as if by magic, shutting the door softly behind him.

Hugh Tredworth was waiting for his friends at the end of the school day. One glance at his face made Bill distinctly uneasy as he came up to join Hugh, and Johnnie, trailing him, stopped to study his boots at a little distance, as if uncomfortable in Hugh’s presence. Then Tad came through the door, starting at the sight of them standing together in silence.

“What’s happened?” he asked anxiously.

“Where’s Robbie?” Hugh demanded accusingly. “He wasn’t at school today.”

“Sick,” Tad answered shortly. “Couldn’t keep his breakfast down this morning.”

“He’s not telling, is he?” Bill wanted to know. “We swore an oath!”

“Of course he’s not telling,” Tad replied with more force than he’d intended. But he couldn’t hold their eyes.

“Remind him,” Hugh urged. “Remind him his tongue will turn black if he’s not in school tomorrow.”

“Leave him alone,” Johnnie spoke up, and they all wheeled to stare at him. “You’ll only make it worse,” he said, “trying to frighten him. Why were the police here? What did they want?”

“I couldn’t hear.” But Hugh had seen the book in the constable’s hands, if no one else had, and he had had to swallow hard to keep his own breakfast down, the shock was so great. “It was Mr. Crowell they wanted, wasn’t it? Nothing to do with us.”

“Why did they come for him?” Bill persisted. “All the way from Elthorpe. And then take him away.”

“They brought him back, didn’t they?” Hugh pointed out.

“Someone found the candle we dropped,” Tad said. “It’s a matter of trespass. None of us missed school, so there’s nothing to point at us. Not counting Robbie, but they’re not to know that, are they?”

The four of them had been walking down the road as they argued, earnestly trying to assure themselves that there was nothing to show they’d summoned the Devil and succeeded in raising him.

Then Bill shattered their illusions. “Did he leave scorched grass, where he lay? The Devil? Is that why they’re questioning schoolmasters, they’ve found the grass and want to know if anyone’s different?”

“How different?” Tad asked anxiously. “Nobody else has been sick, just Robbie.”

“He’s possessed,” Bill said. “That’s why he’s sick. He’s possessed.”

Tad shouted at him, “There’s nothing wrong with him. There’s nothing wrong with my brother!” And he marched off down the road, leaving them to look after him, their faces tight with sudden worry.

The doctor’s report was brought in to Madsen. The man hadn’t died where he was found, it was impossible that he could have, considering the cause of death. In fact, he’d been dead at least four-and-twenty hours before he was discovered.

Furthermore, there were no scars or other marks to make it a simple matter to identify him. He could be anyone. From anywhere.

And Madsen, though he didn’t care for unfinished business on his watch, reviewed the evidence and decided that his next step would have to be identifying the corpse before he could make any connection with Albert Crowell stick. If he could prove that Crowell knew the man, it would go a long way toward building his case. If there was anything between them, he could take the schoolmaster into custody.

But that was easier said than done. Where, for instance, should he begin?

He considered bringing Alice Crowell in to Elthorpe to look at the dead man. He even toyed with going back to the school to ask Crowell where he had been every minute of the past three days. But he already knew what Alice Crowell would say. Her husband had been with her—busy at the school—listening to her read. Standing by him even with a possible charge of murder hanging over the man’s head.

Madsen kept the file open on his desk where it could nag him every time he looked at it, and it became an obsession even when he was not there.

Why had Crowell’s book been found by the corpse’s feet? An old book, on alchemy of all things. He pondered that as he dealt with a quarrel between two farmers over the death of a prize ram. What did the book have to do with the dead man, except to betray the name of his murderer? Why had Crowell been carrying this book with him? Was it concealing something? Had it been the excuse that allowed Crowell to approach the victim?

Over his tea, Madsen was beginning to believe the two men must have met at the ruins, gone somewhere else, and the body had been carried back there to throw the police off. The caretaker could have been wrong, he might have simply glanced into the cloisters the day before and missed the corpse up against the wall. In a hurry as he made his rounds, and not wanting his employers to know he’d been slack.

Madsen went back to the doctor’s surgery and stood looking down at the corpse. Why the respirator that hadn’t saved the victim’s life, and why the cloak that at first glance looked like a monk’s habit? To lay a false trail for the police?

He tried to put it all together, but there was no making sense of it.

Walking back to his office he considered the fact that neither Crowell’s house nor the village school was served by gas. So where had he taken the dead man to kill him? Why did the man have to die?

He shut himself in his office to think.

Debts owed? Some scandalous connection between the two men that didn’t bear looking at? Then why leave the body here, if the man hadn’t died here? It only made the killing more blatant. What was it in aid of, that respirator and the cloak? A warning to someone else?

What was the schoolmaster involved in and how would it affect Alice Crowell when the truth came out?

It all came down to that bloody book, he told himself for the hundredth time as he walked home for his dinner. If the book hadn’t been there, the police would have been mystified. An oversight, a mistake, the kind that got murderers hanged.

What was there in Albert Crowell’s life that he was desperate to hide?

By morning, Madsen was unable to stay away from the Crowells. Three more visits to the school, three more frustrating interviews with the schoolmaster, three more missed encounters with Alice, who seemed to have an uncanny ability to be other than where he wanted her to be. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to ask for her outright. Not while he badgered her husband.

In the dark hours of the night he’d even considered the possibility that she had killed her lover and left the book to muddle the case. But he knew it wasn’t true. The man, according to the doctor, was pushing fifty and not the sort who could sweep any woman off her feet.

Twice on his excursions to the Dilby School, he found himself faced with staring boys, nosy little bastards, more eyes than face. He never remembered being so fond of his own schoolmasters that he wouldn’t have cheered to see them taken away for a week.

He had spoken to one of them, the Tredworth boy. “What are you hanging about for? Know anything about this business, do you?”

Hugh had shaken his head vigorously. “No, sir. I—it’s just—” He took a deep breath and blurted, “Thought I might be a policeman when I grow up, that’s all. And nobody will tell me what’s happened. They change the subject when I come into the room.”

“It’s not a matter for children’s ears,” Madsen had said, annoyance creeping in. “Stay clear of it, or I’ll have you in for questioning myself.”

After that he saw no more of Hugh or his friends.

4

The dinner had, in many ways, been trying.

Rutledge had sat opposite Meredith Channing, and he had spent the evening trying to keep his mind closed to her. It was difficult, with Hamish restless and more intrusive as the hour stretched into two and then into three. The soft Scottish voice railed at him, warning him no’ to lower his guard, as if they stood in the darkness of France, waiting for an attack they couldn’t see but knew would surely come. For a moment he could smell the war again, and it shook him, it was so real.

Frances, beside him, had been brittle, her laughter forced, her smile too bright. Rutledge began to wonder if there had been more to Simon Barrington’s departure for Scotland than met the eye—or that Frances had been prepared to confide.

The Farnums, thank God, had been their usual cheerful selves, and Maryanne Browning seemed to revive in the warmth of conviviality. Widowhood had been a blow. Like most women of her upbringing, she’d relied on Peter for everything, and suddenly faced with taking charge of her own life and fortunes when Peter dropped dead in the second influenza epidemic, she had been at a loss to know how to begin. There had been no time to prepare, to learn how certain things were done, how to cope with lawyers and bankers and men of business. Peter had done all that. He should by rights still be here to lift the burden from her. The struggle had taken its toll, though to her credit Maryanne had never shirked her duty. That too had been part of her upbringing—to accept duty and responsibility, however difficult or distasteful they might be.

Frances had been right about this evening, a much-needed palliative for her.

He recalled his question to Frances—was this a matchmaking attempt, including him in the gathering? But it seemed to be the farthest thing from Maryanne’s mind. She treated Rutledge like the friend he was, Peter’s friend, and therefore someone to trust and turn to but not to consider romantically. A brother that Peter had never had. Consequently, he returned the compliment and treated her in much the same way he treated Frances, although without the worry that she would see through him as his sister did. Maryanne was not in Frances’s league when it came to reading people.

Without a conscious shift in thought, he found himself recalling that Meredith Channing never spoke of her late husband. He had no idea how she had mourned him, or what gaps he had left in her life. That innate composure seldom cracked far enough to show the woman inside.

Images of Meredith Channing as he’d first met her on the eve of the new year, when she’d conducted an amusing séance for Maryanne Browning and her guests, had stayed with him. She had known more about him than he’d felt comfortable with, and her voice was mesmerizing, soft and melodious and warm. Her eyes held secrets that he with all his experience couldn’t fathom. But she had stood by him when they met again in Northamptonshire, and he had been forced to trust her then.

She made no reference to that during the dinner, greeting him as a friend of friends and giving no indication she had seen him deal with murderers.

At one point under cover of the laughter surrounding them, she had said quietly, “I hope you are well.” It was a statement, not a question, as if she already knew the answer.

“Well enough. It was a long day.” He couldn’t for the life of him understand why he had added that, and swore silently.

She nodded, as if she could see he was speaking the truth, then joined in the general conversation. He began to relax a little, unaware until the meal was nearly over that somewhere in the course of the evening his fatigue had dropped away, the shocks of the day no longer weighing heavily on his mind. Mrs. Channing had not singled him out for attention, indeed he could hardly recall a word spoken directly to him save for her brief “I hope you are well.” And yet the warmth of her voice, something in her manner that was inexplicably soothing, and the stillness that was her nature seemed to touch him in some fashion.

He told himself that that was nonsense, it was the wine and the good conversation and the laughter that had done the trick. But Hamish was there, warning him to mind he didn’t betray himself, to keep a tight grip on his self-control.

To Rutledge fell the task of holding Mrs. Channing’s coat for her when they were leaving, and a faint fragrance like jasmine on a warm summer night’s breeze wafted toward him as she settled her scarf around her throat. He was used to the perfumes of England—lily of the valley, attar of roses, forget-me-nots—floral scents that most women wore, sometimes with the spicy touch of carnations or the richness of heliotrope. He found himself remembering the scent that Olivia Marlowe had used, even after her death still surrounding the desk where she had worked.

A line of Olivia’s poetry from the volume Wings of Fire—O. A. Manning’s poetry—filled his mind, unbidden.

I have not forgotten you,

The pleasure of your touch,

The depth of your voice.

It’s as if you never left me,

And my heart is full.

He nearly dropped the coat, but Meredith Channing appeared not to notice. Hamish had.

Rutledge had envied Nicholas Cheney, Olivia’s half brother. He still did. And Hamish knew that all too well.

There were general farewells, giving Rutledge time to collect his wits and shake hands, say the right thing, and turn away as the next cab drew to the curb. Frances was adding, “Mrs. Channing is going my way, Ian. You needn’t worry about seeing me home. Did you enjoy the evening? I hope you did.”

“Very much so,” he answered, kissing her cheek.

And then he was alone, traveling toward his flat. Damn Barrington, if he broke Frances’s heart!

Three nights later Rutledge met friends for dinner, this one masculine and taken in a club off St. James’s Street. Their conversation avoided the war, but even so, the toast, “To absent friends…” had brought it back like a specter at the feast. One man had just returned from a tour of duty in South Africa, his face burnt brick red by the sun, and they spoke of his journey home, then moved on to where the government was heading with its policies, the state of the economy, and most depressing of all, a rise in the crime rate as ordinary people struggled to make ends meet. As the dinner broke up, Freddy Masters informed them that he was thinking of immigrating to Canada.

“My uncle has business interests there, and he lost his son—my cousin Jack—in the war. I’m what’s left of the family, and while I’m not particularly enthralled with providing electricity to millions, there you are. I don’t have much choice.”

There was general agreement, and Mark Hadley said, “My neighbor has much the same idea. He’d considered Argentina and even Australia, but Canada seems less of a change.”

Talk of Canada reminded Rutledge of Jean, married and living there now with her diplomat. If it hadn’t been for the war he’d have married her himself. When he came home from France shell-shocked, a broken man, she had been horrified, unable even to look at him. He’d released her from the engagement there and then, but it had taken him a very long time to come to terms with the anguish of her desertion. It had seemed to underline the bleakness of his future.

He was wondering if she missed England, just as Freddy continued. “My wife’s not best pleased, leaving schools and friends behind. I’ll let you know what we decide.”

“I can tell you my wife wasn’t best pleased with Cape Town,” Edward Throckmorton commented. “But we managed. You find a way.”

Mark smiled at Rutledge. “Lucky man, you have no wife to make your decisions for you.” And then he too remembered Jean and looked away.

Rutledge said only, “I don’t know if it’s luck or a curse. My sister keeps me in line.”

Freddy said, thoughtfully, “I saw Frances some ten days back, walking along Bond Street with Simon Barrington. Good man, Simon.” As if to say he’d seen which way the wind blew there. And as if to reassure Rutledge that she might make a worse choice.

“He’s in Scotland at the moment,” Rutledge answered.

“Scotland?” Mark was surprised. “He dined with the Douglases last night. I’m sure of it.”

Rutledge heard him, but managed to say, “I must be wrong, then. I may not have a wife, but I know how to listen with half an ear.”

That brought a round of laughter, and they said their good nights.

Driving to his flat, Rutledge tried to recall some of the evening’s conversation, but it was a blur, already fading. All he could hear was Hadley’s voice: He dined with the Douglases last night. I’m sure of it.

Tomorrow he would make it his business to find out what had happened between Frances and Simon Barrington. It had been a long day, and a good night’s sleep would show him how best to go about it.

A night’s sleep he was not to have. There was a constable on his doorstep, standing there with the stoic air of a man prepared to remain at his post until Doomsday, if that was required of him.

When he saw Rutledge step out of his motorcar, he waited until his quarry turned toward him to say, “Evening, sir. Chief Superintendent Bowles’s compliments, sir, and will you come to the Yard at once.”

Rutledge doubted that the chief superintendent had said anything about compliments. But he nodded and replied, “Come in, while I change.”

“I’m to bring you as soon as I find you, begging your pardon, sir.”

“Constable Burns, isn’t it? Well, Constable, I am not appearing at the Yard in evening dress, and there’s an end of it. Another five minutes won’t matter.” He unlocked the door to his flat and added with more humor than he felt, “I won’t tell him if you don’t.”

“No, sir. Yes, sir,” Burns replied woodenly, and followed him into the flat as if expecting him to escape through a back window.

It was, in fact, seven minutes before Rutledge was ready to leave. He felt as if he were moving in treacle, every task seeming to require more effort than he could muster.

Rutledge drove, and Burns sat silently beside him like a waxwork figure. Rutledge found himself thinking that he would be asleep before he reached the Yard. In an effort to keep himself alert, he said, “How long have you been waiting, Constable?”

“Two hours, sir. A little over.”

“At least it was a pleasant night.”

“Yes, sir.”

Was I ever that green? Rutledge found himself wondering. It seemed a long time ago that he’d been a constable. Centuries. Eons. But it hadn’t been ten years.

They arrived at the Yard, and Burns waited while Rutledge saw to the motorcar, then accompanied him inside and to the door of the Chief Superintendent’s office, as if half afraid his quarry would bolt if left alone.

Rutledge knocked, and then entered at Bowles’s curt command.

Burns disappeared down the shadowy passage, duty done.

Rutledge shut the door and faced his superior.

Bowles was in a subdued mood. Instead of what Rutledge expected to hear from him—“It took you long enough to get here!”—the Chief Superintendent said, “I want you to leave tonight for Berkshire, if you will. Your destination is half a dozen houses not far from Uffington. They’re called the Tomlin Cottages. Hardly enough of them to dignify the name hamlet, but there you are. You’ve a watching brief, nothing more.”

“Why not use a local man?” Rutledge asked.

“It’s not something for the local people to worry themselves about. The War Office has misplaced one of its own, and they don’t want him to get the wind up, thinking they’re watching him. But the fact is, they are. Rather an odd sort, I’m told, tends to do things his way, disappears sometimes, and for all I know gets roaring drunk and alarms the neighbors. A routine look-in was unsatisfactory, and in the event he’s got himself into trouble, they want it dealt with quickly and efficiently, to avoid gossip.”

“But the Yard—”

“Isn’t in the business of minding fools. My view as well. But when you’ve been asked nicely, you do as you’re told.” He turned to look out the window. “They were impressed, they said, with the way you handled matters in Warwickshire last June. See that you don’t disappoint them now.” It was grudging, as if the words were forced out of him. Or required of him?

“What excuse do I have for being there?”

“There’s that damned great white horse on the hillside.” Bowles turned back to the room. “Done in chalk. People come to stare at it, and strangers are taken for granted. Not liked, mind you, but for the most part ignored.”

The damned great white horse was a chalk figure from the prehistoric past, and of all the chalk figures, possibly Rutledge’s favorite. He’d been taken to see it as a child and allowed to walk the bounds.

“Who is the man I’m to watch? How will I know him?”

“It’s Partridge, of all the bloody names. Gaylord Partridge. The cottage with the white gate. He matters to the War Office, and that’s what you’re to keep in mind at all times.” He passed a sheet of paper to Rutledge.

Not even on official stationery, he thought, scanning it. A name, a direction. Nothing more. Spoken rather than written instructions. Sydney Riley, the infamous spy, could have done no better in the cloak-and-dagger world.

Rutledge left soon afterward, not happy about the long drive that lay ahead, but in other ways glad to be out of London. The daffodils would be rioting among the hedgerows, and the air was sweet in the countryside.

Hamish reminded him, “There’s yon Simon Barrington,” as Rutledge put the kettle on and then went to pack his valise.

“He’ll still be in London when I return. It can wait.” But Frances’s face when she’d come to ask him to take her to dinner with Maryanne Browning was before him, even as he answered Hamish aloud.

He could hardly pound Barrington into admitting he’d lied to Frances, or arrest him for cruelty to his sister. And there was always the possibility that perhaps it was Frances who lied about Scotland, to keep herself from blurting out the truth—that something had gone wrong between the two of them.

“It can wait,” he said again to Hamish as much as to himself. “It might work out better without my meddling.”

Hamish said derisively, “Aye, that’s a comfort.”

Rutledge filled his Thermos with tea, then turned out the lamps. He paused there in the darkness, wondering again if he should leave a message for his sister, then thought better of it. A letter was no way to deliver bad news, if she truly didn’t know where Simon was. And it was always possible that he had dined with the Douglases and then traveled north with them.

Cutting across London, Rutledge set out in the direction of Uffington, and drove through the darkness, stopping only to stretch his legs when he felt himself drowsing at the wheel and to drink from the Thermos.

It was a remarkably soft night, one of those April evenings when the world seemed pleased with itself. When he’d left the busy towns ringing London behind, he could sometimes smell plowed earth and, once or twice, the wafting fragrance of fruit trees in bloom. The road emptied as the night moved on toward the early hours of morning, a handful of lorries making their way to the east and the occasional motorcar passing him. At one point he smelled wood smoke, and wondered if gypsies were camping in a copse of trees in the middle of nowhere. The policeman’s instinct was to stop and investigate, but he drove on, ignoring it.

Around two in the morning, he pulled into a small clearing and slept, awaking to the dampness of an early dew. For several seconds he was disoriented, not sure where he was, in France or in England, but then his mind cleared and he got out to walk again and to finish his tea.

It was just getting light when he drove past his destination, a cluster of nine cottages that seemed to stand in the middle of nowhere, much of a sameness in design as if they were built to match. Stone and thatch, they seemed out of place here. He saw that one a little to itself boasted a white gate in a low stone wall.

On the hillside above him was the White Horse, pale in the morning light, an early mist hiding its feet, giving it the appearance of floating across the ground, silent and mysterious.

He stopped the motorcar in the middle of the road, swept by such an intense emotion that he could feel his heart thudding heavily in his chest.

The mist, moving gently, blotted out everything else until it was all he could see.

Gas. Floating across the battlefield, and the shout going up, Masks!

He was back in France, the tension and fear spreading around him as he and his men watched the slow-moving cloud, fumbling to put on their gas masks, hastily making sure not an inch of skin showed. He thrust his hands in his pockets, unable to find his gloves, digging them deep until he could feel his knuckles hard against the fabric. And Hamish saying in his ear—

“Are you lost, then?”

He came back to the present with a jolt, staring at what appeared to be a giant of a man standing at his elbow.

For the life of him, he couldn’t have told how long the man had been there or what he’d been saying.

“I—Admiring the horse,” he managed, trying to bring it into focus against the backdrop of his slip into the past.

The young man turned to look at it. “Impressive, right enough. I like it best at moonrise. But you’re blocking the road.”

Rutledge glanced in his mirror and saw a large wagon behind him and a patient horse between the shafts. On the wagon was a harrow.

“Sorry.”

He let in the clutch and drove on, still lost in that nightmare world that all too often shared his real one.

The cottages were behind him, and ahead lay Wayland’s Smithy in a copse of beech trees. He could make it out clearly, an arrangement of great stones that encompassed a small space with a narrow opening. It had probably been a Stone Age tomb, not a blacksmith’s shop. Still, legend maintained that if a man left his horse there overnight to be shod, and a coin to pay for the work, the animal would be waiting for him in the morning. More likely, local smiths had discovered a way to expand their trade. For centuries fire and those who used it to work metal were held in high regard, and sometimes feared as well.

A few miles along, he found a small inn by the road, lorries in the yard and a motorcar or two as well.

He stopped to ask if they were serving at this hour, and inside saw a pot of tea standing on a small table near the door, a stack of mugs beside it, sugar and a pitcher of lukewarm milk just behind it.

He poured himself a cup, wandered into the tiny reception area, and sat down by the window overlooking the road.

It was two hours later that he opened his eyes again.

A woman was clearing away the tea things, and she smiled as he stirred and then straightened up in his chair.

“You’re not the first to nod off in that chair,” she said, her eyes merry, “nor the last. That your motorcar by the lilacs?”

“I’m afraid so. When do you begin serving breakfast?”

“Lord love you, we closed the kitchen more than an hour ago. Most of the lorry drivers have moved on. I’d have thought their racket would’ve wakened the dead.”

“Not this dead,” he said, standing and stretching his shoulders. “Do you by any chance have rooms here?”

“We keep a half-dozen beds for travelers. Clean sheets and good food, as well as good cheer. That’s what we offer. And all we offer.” She considered him. “It’s not very posh—”

Rutledge smiled. “Still, I’d like a room for tonight, if you have one. I’m here to see the horse.”

“Oh, yes? It’s early for the day-trippers, but I expect you aren’t the usual visitor. What are you, then?”

Her face was red with the morning’s rush, her hair pinned back out of her way, and her clothing sober, as if she worked hard and had no time to worry about how she looked.

He hadn’t been prepared to deal with questions of this sort.

“I was tired of London, and I drove all night.” Following her into the dining room, he added, “I needed to see something besides walls and pavement and people.”

“Disappointed in love, are you?”

He was on the point of vigorously denying it when he realized that she was teasing him. And he must have looked the picture of the rejected lover, unshaven, his clothes unpressed, his face marked with fatigue.

“No. Foolish in the extreme.”

She laughed. “Sit down over there in the corner—that cloth’s clean—and I’ll bring you whatever’s left from breakfast. There’s usually cold bacon, bread, and hard-boiled eggs in the cupboard. There’s coffee as well as tea. Some of the lorry drivers prefer it to keep them awake.”

“I’ll stay with tea.”

When she brought his plate it was large as a charger, and as promised there were rashers of bacon, eggs, toasted bread, and pots of butter and jam. Rutledge thanked her and added, “I’ve just come past those cottages not far from the spot where you can look up and see the White Horse. Odd place to put them, I should think, unless they’re intended for viewers to stop in.” He couldn’t remember seeing them there when he’d come to Uffington as a boy, but then the horse had been all that mattered, firing his imagination.

“Well, I hope you’re not thinking of wanting one. They’re taken, the lot of them. They were put up near the beginning of the late Queen’s reign, leper houses they were. But no lepers came, and then they were let to anyone who was willing to live there. The local people don’t much care for them, but there’s no dearth of people who do.”

“Why leper houses? Was leprosy a problem here?”

She paused on her way back to the kitchen. “It was a Miss Tomlin, they say, who was set on them, having been a missionary and seen her share of suffering. And there’s a leper in the Bible, you know. I expect that was what put her in mind of doing something for them. She sold off another parcel of land her grandfather had left her and sent for a builder to make cottages where the poor things could live without being tormented. But she never found any ‘children of God’ as she called them, and she died not long after.”

“At least she cared enough to try.”

“Well, there’s that, I expect. Or a guilty conscience. The fact is, she could have done more good with her money in other directions, in my opinion. A touch of the sun, it’s what my granddad always said. Too much sun and too long in heathen lands. She’d lost sight of what truly needed doing in England. And I’ve dishes to see to. My husband’s gone to market, and the girl who dries for me has a bad thumb, so I’m on my own. Give me half an hour, and there’ll be a room for you.”

She was gone, leaving him to the hearty breakfast.

Afterward she showed him to a small room that seemed Lilliputian, and he remembered the young man on the road. He’d have played the very devil getting himself into this box, he thought.

And the cramped space sent his claustrophobia reeling. The first order of business was to open the only window, which looked out on the road. He stood there breathing in the morning air and fighting an urge to run back down the stairs after Mrs. Smith, begging for something larger. But there weren’t any larger rooms, given the size of the building.

Fatigue overtook him after a few minutes, and he lay down on the narrow bed, asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. The fragrance of sun-dried sheets folded with lavender was the last thing he remembered.

It was late morning when he drove back to the White Horse and climbed the hill. His legs were longer than they had been at age nine, and he made short work of it now. As a child he’d huffed and puffed in his father’s wake, trying to keep pace but stumbling as he tried to see everything at once.

Hamish, unhappy with this heathen horse, kept him company with a vigorous objection to having any part of it.

When one stood on the crest of the hill looking down at the figure, it was difficult to pick out what the expanse of white chalk represented. Aware of what the design was, it was possible to identify the flowing tail, the legs stretched in a gallop, the reared head. But the ancient people who had cut the turf here to create the figure must have had someone standing on the ground below, guiding them.

As, he realized, someone was standing now, looking up at him.

He began to walk back the way he’d come, and the man stayed where he was. It wasn’t the young giant from early this morning, but an older man with gray in his hair and a lined face. His eyes, when Rutledge was near enough to see them, were brown but the whites were yellow.

Malaria.

Rutledge had seen troops from the Commonwealth, especially India, with just such yellowing.

“Good morning,” he said to the man, for all the world a traveler taken with the local sight. “It’s quite a piece of work, isn’t it? I expect it was dug with wooden mattocks or antler horn. I wonder how long it took to create the full figure.”

“Don’t ask me, I don’t know a damned thing about it. And care less. Is that what brought you here, the horse?”

Warily, Rutledge said, “Should there be another reason?”

“Well, Partridge has gone missing again. There’s generally someone from London looking in on him or waiting for him to come back when he’s on one of his walkabouts.”

It was an Australian term, and the man seemed to use it as if from habit.

“How do you know he’s—er—gone missing?”

“I feed his cat, don’t I? When he’s not to home, she comes to my door. That’s the arrangement we have. And I don’t mind, she’s a good mouser.”

Rutledge held out his hand and introduced himself.

“Quincy,” the other man said, briefly. “Well, since you’re down, you’ll want to come for a spot of tea.”

“Thank you, Mr. Quincy.”

“No, just Quincy,” he retorted, turning on his heel to lead the way to the cottage across from the one with the white gate.

Rutledge bent his head to follow his host inside. The rooms were small but of a size for one man to manage well enough. Or one woman. He’d glimpsed a woman’s face peering out at him from her windows as he had turned from the road into the lane that linked the cottages.

“That chair’s got better springs,” Quincy said, pointing it out.

Rutledge sat down and looked around. From the sitting room/ parlor, he could see a kitchen in the back where Quincy was busy, a second room across the entry from this one, its door shut, and in the middle of the house, stairs up to a loft.

“Quite comfortable here, are you?” Rutledge asked.

“If you like small places,” Quincy answered, putting on the kettle. “I’ve had to store some of my belongings under the bed upstairs. Where did you drive from?”

“London,” Rutledge answered and they talked until the kettle whistled about the city, which Quincy seemed to know, although his information was often more than a little out of date as if he hadn’t been there for some time.

The closed door creaked, a paw came out and around it, followed by a long gray cat with orange eyes. Behind her, Rutledge could see a burst of color in the room, as if tins of paint had been splattered everywhere.

“Dublin!” Quincy, catching sight of the cat, swore and came to scoop her up to put her outside. But first he’d shut the inner door quickly as if not wishing Rutledge to know what was in the room beyond.

But Rutledge had already guessed. Birds, in every hue, every size, all naturally posed. And all quite dead.

He said nothing, accepting the cup of tea he was offered. “These cottages are interesting. What’s their history?”

“Not much,” Quincy told him bluntly. “Built at a guess some fifty years ago by a woman who had more money than sense. Comfortable enough, but I need a bicycle to go anywhere. It’s out back.”

“And how did Partridge get around?”

“He had a motorcar. It’s in the shed behind his house. I expect he wasn’t going far and left it in favor of his own bicycle.”

“Does he usually wander off like this?”

“He’s mad as a hatter,” Quincy responded sourly. “Goes where the wind blows.”

“And who comes here looking for him?”

“Business associates. So they tell me. It seems he worked for a firm in London before he was put to pasture, and apparently someone there still cares what becomes of him.”

“That’s thoughtful,” Rutledge answered.

“Not thoughtful, careful. I expect he was someone important enough that they didn’t want the world and its brother knowing he’s gone balmy.”

“When was the last time he left?”

“February, it was. The man here when Partridge came back told me he’d been spotted on a street corner in Birmingham, preaching peace and harmony to the world.”

“That’s cold work in February.”

“Yes, well, I don’t think he cares. I don’t think he cares for anything except Dublin, the cat. A young woman came here once and he wouldn’t let her in. I expect it was his daughter. There was a resemblance, at least.”

“His wandering off must worry her.”

“Most of the time it’s only a day, a day and a half that he’s away. Occasionally it’s a longer period of time. Someone told me, I forget who it was, that he must have another house elsewhere. That that’s where he goes. But he’s never spoken of it, so my guess is that it isn’t true. Gossip is not always reliable. And in his case, not always helpful.”

“And his daughter never came back?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“A pity. It sounds as if Partridge needs her.”

“He doesn’t need anyone when he’s right in his head. Which is most of the time. You’re very interested in him, for a passerby.”

“Yes, well, I’ve time on my hands. And people intrigue me. Partridge’s walkabouts as you call them. Your birds.” As a diversion, it worked beautifully.

“Seen them, did you? Well, there’s no law broken in having them.”

“None that I know of.”

Rutledge had finished his tea, and stood up. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“If you’re needful of seeing in the cottage, Partridge never locked it.”

Surprised, Rutledge said, “I have no right to trespass on his privacy.”

“The other watchers weren’t so particular about that.”

“Yes, well, as it happens, I’m not one of the other watchers. Thank you again, Quincy.”

“I’ll see you about. Watcher or not.”

Rutledge left. The woman who had been peering out her window at him was in her back garden, hanging a morning’s wash on the line. He wondered if it was to see who he was and what he did next. A better vantage point than the window.

He walked back to his motorcar to find the young man he’d met earlier with his head deep in the bonnet.

He jerked it out as he heard Rutledge approaching, and said, “I like mechanical things. Engines. Whatever. Do you mind?”

“Not at all. The name’s Rutledge.”

The other man held out his hand, saw that it was filthy and drew it back again. “Andrew, Andrew Slater.”

“I’ve been admiring the White Horse,” Rutledge said as Slater dove back into the inner workings of the engine.

“I saw you this morning. Asleep on the road.”

“Yes—” He let it go at that.

“We don’t get many visitors this time of year,” Slater went on, voice muffled. “The horse is most popular in the summer. People bring baskets and spread out a cloth and have their lunch or their tea there. I don’t think the horse much cares for that.”

“I needed to get away from London,” Rutledge said. “This was as good a place as any. Why should the horse care?”

“Someone put him there, a long time ago. He was a god, then. But we’ve forgotten why today. And so to most he’s only a chalk figure.”

Slater withdrew his head and folded the bonnet back in its place. “She runs sweetly, your motorcar.”

“Thank you.” Rutledge looked at the filthy hands, the black ground into the creases and whorls of the skin. “A smith, are you?”

Slater grinned widely. “Yes. Or to say it another way, I was. Until the war came and took away the horses. I work with motors now, and mend things. My dad didn’t have the knack of that, but I do. Do you want to see?”

Without waiting for an answer, he led Rutledge to one of the cottages, the outer one in the half circle they formed.

Slater dwarfed it just walking through the door, and Rutledge felt a spasm of claustrophobia when he went in and was asked to shut the door behind him.

The house was surprisingly tidy. On a table under the back window, an array of work was set out.

“I don’t keep such things at the forge,” Slater was saying as he gestured shyly to the table. “Don’t want anyone walking off with them. They do, thinking I won’t notice.”

Rutledge saw a set of hinges in wrought iron, with matching knobs in the shape of a beaver, and the cabinet for them on the floor next to a table leg. They were beautifully done, as was the butterfly hook for hanging a plant by a door and a set of fire irons, shaped like deer, with the basket made to look like entwined antlers.

It was remarkable workmanship.

To one side stood a lovely Georgian teapot, where Slater was in the process of setting the handle back in place.

He saw Rutledge’s glance and said proudly, “That’s from St. Margaret’s, part of the tea service, and the handle had worn right off. They’ll never know it’s been repaired when I finish with it.”

“You’re very good with your hands,” Rutledge told him. “It’s fine work.”

Slater seemed to expand with the praise. “It’s a gift. I was given it. Do you know those great stones in the beech grove farther along this road? The ones they call Wayland’s Smithy?”

It was the prehistoric tomb. “Yes, I do.”

“I slept there one night. As a boy. And I was given the gift. Even my father had to admit to it. He could shoe horses and mend wagon tongues and put a latch on a barn, whatever needed doing. But this work—” Slater swept his hand above the table. “He couldn’t do it. Even he said as much.”

“He must have been very proud of you.”

A rueful smile dimmed the brightness in his face. “He told me I was dreaming, thinking the smithy had anything to do with gifts. Foolishness, he called it.”

“What do your neighbors think of your work?”

“I don’t show most people. I don’t know why I showed you.” He seemed to consider that for a moment. “You have a way of listening. Most people don’t hear what I say to them. It’s always been like that.”

“How well do you know your neighbors?” Rutledge persisted.

Slater shrugged. “I see them from time to time. Mr. Partridge stands in the dark and looks up at the White Horse. I’ve lost count of the evenings I walk by him and he never speaks. I’m one to like walking in the dark, I go to the Smithy if there’s moonlight. But he just stands there. And the lady—she’s quite strange, you know. I think she’s afraid of the dark. House is shut up tight long before sunset, and stays that way until full light in the morning.” He frowned. “We’re outcasts, if you ask me. That’s why we live here. Nobody else would have us. I was always the biggest in my school, bigger than many of the older boys. And the parents, they was always protecting their little ones from me, thinking I’d do them a harm.” He looked down at his hands, huge and strong. “I’ve never hurt a thing, not so much as a butterfly. But I wasn’t allowed to play with the other children, and they laughed at me sometimes. Gullible, they called me, after a giant in a book. I learned soon enough to stay away from them.”

Rutledge could see the hurt in the big man’s face. “I expect they didn’t understand that giants could be—gentle.”

“They never tried to know.” Slater took a deep breath. “I didn’t mean to trouble you with my life.”

“People are people,” Rutledge said. “Each one interesting in his or her own way. Good or bad, mean or generous, helpful or not, they make up the human race. You must take them as you find them, because few of them ever really change.”

“I’ve been happy here, going in to the forge when I have heavy work to do, staying clear of them all when I can. But it’s lonely, all the same.” He studied Rutledge’s face. “Did you fight in France?”

“Yes, I did.” He answered the question simply, wondering where it was going.

“Aye, I thought as much. You brought it home with you. And you aren’t the first I’ve met with such a look. No offense meant, it’s there for anyone to see. The army wouldn’t take me. I told them I was strong, but they told me I wasn’t up to the work. I told them I could shoe the horses and keep the wagons and caissons moving, but they didn’t believe me.” He shook his head, the disappointment still raw. “I don’t read very well. But what’s that got to say to what I can do with my hands?”

“Very little,” Rutledge answered and turned toward the door. “All the same, you were lucky. It was not a war you’d have liked.”

“What does liking have to do with it?”

He followed Rutledge out into the sunshine again, and noticed when Rutledge took a deep breath, almost unwittingly. “You don’t like small spaces. I’d not sleep in the Smithy, if I were you.” He stood there on his threshold, looking up at the sky.

“Ever think about the old gods?” Slater asked. “The ones before we was all Christians?”

Rutledge remembered a woman named Maggie in Westmorland, who knew the Viking gods in her own fashion. “Sometimes,” he answered.

“They’re still out there, aren’t they? Displaced, but still there, waiting to come back. And they will, one day, and catch us all off our guard. That will be a day of reckoning, when it comes.”

He nodded to Rutledge and went back inside, shutting the door quietly.

5

Walking back to his motorcar, Rutledge tried to see if Partridge’s own motor was still in the shed by the house, but it was impossible, given the direction of the sun, to judge if the light struck metal.

Hamish said, “If ye’re here to see yon horse, ye’ve done precious little to show an interest.”

“I thought you didn’t like the horse.”

“Oh, aye, it’s a wicked beast, but it wasna’ me who told the world and his brother it’s the thing that brought ye here.”

“I could hardly explain that I was looking for Partridge.”

“They ken you arena’ a day-tripper wi’ a taste for what’s cut into the chalk. If ye stay anither day, they’ll no’ need to be told the truth.”

“Then let’s hope Partridge comes home before that.”

Hamish said, “I dona’ think he will.”

“Why?”

“Ye ken, this time they sent a policeman.”

Rutledge climbed the hill again and walked to the head of the great horse. There he stood and looked across the valley. There was another hill here where Saint George slew the dragon—Dragon Hill, as he remembered it was called. One of many places where the militant saint was said to have encountered dragons. Rutledge recalled a page in one of his mother’s books where Saint George on his white horse—this one?—quelled the dozen-headed, fire-breathing beast with a single spear. Gilt edged and delicately painted, the scene was taken from a plate in an ancient manuscript, and the artist had captured the quality of the original work. Saint George was handsomely robed in crimson and sapphire velvet, no workaday dented armor for him.

He turned to study the cottages. Nine of them. It would have been more efficient if the War Office had given him the names of the other residents here. He had met two of them, seen a third, and Partridge made a fourth. Where had the other five inhabitants been as he wandered about, walking into Quincy’s house like a welcomed guest, and then into Slater’s?

He drew himself a mental map of the cottages. They were set out like a horseshoe, appropriate enough here. Four to a side and one at the top of the bend. A lane ran between them, cutting the horseshoe in half, and from the lane paths led to each door.

Slater lived in Number 1 on the left, then Partridge at Number 2, his white gate distinctive, as if shutting out his neighbors. Quincy was the first cottage on the right-hand side, Number 9 on the map, and the woman with the wash hanging on the line lived in Number 8.

Someone opened the door of Number 4 and stepped out into the sunshine, shading his hand to see better as he scanned the cottages and then turned slightly to stare up at the horse. Even at that distance, his eyes seemed to meet Rutledge’s, and he stood there, not moving, for a dozen seconds more. Then he turned his back and stepped inside, shutting his door firmly behind him.

That accounted for five of the residents. And this hadn’t been a casual interest shown by a curious resident. There was more to it. Not a challenge precisely, but an acknowledgment.

“Anither watcher?” Hamish said.

Rutledge wouldn’t have been surprised. Someone who knew that Rutledge would be coming and while having no intention of working with him, at least wanted it to be known that he was present as well.

The government kept an eye on certain people. Quietly and unobtrusively as a rule.

What had Partridge done to excite interest? Knowing that might make a difference in deciding where to look for him.

His only choice now was to wait for dark and then search Partridge’s cottage. He could come to it by a roundabout way, passing unseen. He’d been told this was merely a watching brief. But if Hamish was right and Partridge wasn’t coming back, there could be an advantage in knowing what the man was up to.

Rutledge left the hill of the White Horse half an hour later and went back to The Smith’s Arms, where he had taken a room. He found he was in time for luncheon served both in the dining room and at a handful of tables that had been set up outside with benches round them for the lorry drivers.

It was a rough crowd. Men who drove long distances for a living were often footloose by nature and had more in common with one another than with families left behind. They’d cast glances in Rutledge’s direction when he drove up and walked into the inn, curious and suspicious. Then conversation had picked up again when he disappeared from view.

The innkeeper’s wife—Mrs. Smith—greeted him with a harried nod and went on serving tables with quick efficiency and a laugh that kept the men jolly and at arm’s length. Rutledge glimpsed Mr. Smith; the swinging doors into the nether regions showed him briefly. He was the cook here, not his wife.

Rutledge wondered if their name was Smith or if they enjoyed the play on words as well as their anonymity. It would explain why they kept their inn for transient custom and showed no ambition to cater to a different clientele.

Mrs. Smith reappeared from the kitchen with a tray for Rutledge. “If you won’t mind eating it upstairs,” she said apologetically. “There’s not a table to spare for a single.”

He took the tray and thanked her. In his room he looked under the serviette that covered it and found generous sandwiches of beef and pork, a pickle, a small dish of tinned fruit, and a glass of beer.

Sitting by the window he ate with an appetite, listening to the voices rising from the tables below. Someone had started a political argument and found himself shouted down by his comrades good-naturedly calling him a fool. But he stuck to his guns, clearly possessed of a grievance against a proposed tax on goods shipped to France or the Low Countries.

“It’ul put me out of business, I tell you, and you as well,” he said gruffly. “Wait and see.”

“Rumor,” another voice replied. “It’ul never happen, see if I’m not right.”

They moved away, still talking, and then it was quiet for a moment before lorry engines roared into life and began to roll out of the yard.

A bird was singing now, a chat, the song filling the air with brightness.

Then a male voice called, “Betty?”

And Mrs. Smith answered from the doorway almost at Rutledge’s feet, her voice was so clear. “If you’re hungry, you’re out of luck. That lot ate everything but the rats in the barn and the straw in the mangers.”

“That man—the one who owns the motorcar in the yard. Is he staying here? What do you know about him?”

“Only that he’s from London and unlucky in love.” Her voice was light, deflecting his questions.

Rutledge set his plate aside and stood up, hoping to see who had come to the inn. But the man was just out of sight.

“I need to know, Betty,” he went on urgently. “Are you sure he’s from London?”

“I don’t think he said,” she answered him. “I just assumed…”

“I don’t like it. Is he staying?”

“He’s taken a room for tonight.” It was a reluctant admission. “You’re building castles in quicksand,” she added. “What would he want with the likes of you?”

The man’s answer was lost in the clatter of feet on the stairs and someone calling, “Good-bye, love, I’m off to make my fortune—oh, there you are! Thought you were in the kitchen. Well, then,” the voice went on, “I’ve left what I owe on the table. And you can count on me again in a fortnight. Anything you’d like from Wales?”

“Wales, is it? I’ll take one of those wool shawls, in a paisley pattern. Like the red one you brought Ma.”

“Right you are!” And a young man who looked enough like Mrs. Smith to be her brother dashed into sight heading for the last lorry, standing by a plane tree.

When he’d gone, there was no further conversation. Rutledge could hear Mrs. Smith moving about below, humming to herself. The man who had questioned her had gone.

Hamish said, startling Rutledge, “Ye canna’ ask her who it was.”

“No. But it wasn’t Quincy or Slater. Someone else. I didn’t recognize the voice. And there’s no certainty he came from the cottages.”

He sat down again, finished his meal, and then carried the tray back to the dining room.

It was interesting, Rutledge thought, walking out the inn door, that Mrs. Smith asked no questions of him. Her pleasant nod as he passed indicated no curiosity about where he might be going or why. And she had answered the man at her door with circumspection, as if she were accustomed to keeping secrets.

He drove back toward the Tomlin Cottages, but passed no one walking in that direction.

The remainder of the afternoon he spent prowling about the chalk horse, while keeping a surreptitious eye on the cottages below him.

Rutledge had the strongest feeling, supported by the uneasiness of Hamish, that he was being watched in his turn.

But if Partridge had come home, learned of Rutledge’s presence, and then questioned Mrs. Smith at the inn, there was no sign of him here at the cottages.

Rutledge drove some twenty miles for his dinner, lingering over the meal far longer than its quality justified, and it was nearly dark by the time he drove back to the inn. He left the motorcar in the yard, went up to his room, and stretched himself on the bed.

When he heard the clock in the downstairs dining room strike one, he got up, dressed in dark clothing, and quietly left the inn. In his pocket he carried his torch. From the companionable snores coming from the room where the Smiths slept as he went down the stairs, Rutledge was certain they hadn’t heard him go. As far as he could tell, he was the only guest this night.

Rutledge walked back to the cottages, standing under a tree for some time to let his eyes adjust to the ambient light and listening to the sounds around him.

There were steps coming his way, and he faded into the shadows where he was fairly certain he couldn’t be seen.

Andrew Slater appeared farther up the road, heading for his own cottage. He carried something in his hands, Rutledge couldn’t see what, and disappeared through his door without any indication that he knew someone was about.

But as Hamish was busy pointing out, a man like Slater often knew more than ordinary people, as if to make up for his simplicity. Not so much a sixth sense, but a knowledge that often came to such people. Not animal, either, that wariness of a fox or even a deer, but something generated by the need to protect himself from those who would trick him, take advantage of him, or cheat him.

Rutledge gave the smith another hour to fall asleep and then walked softly across the dew-wet grass to the house with the white gate.

He didn’t pass through it, but went over the wall on the side that couldn’t be seen from the other cottages.

The door was unlocked, as Quincy had told him it would be.

He opened it cautiously, listening for sounds inside that indicated someone was there. Silence came back to him.

He went inside and began his search. But there was nothing of interest in the cottage. Shielding his torch, he looked around at the furnishings—mainly castoffs, he thought, though there was a chest under a window that appeared to have come from a different life. It was locked. He glanced at the books on the low shelf by the hearth, and found that most of them were scientific, although there was an odd mixture of historical materials as well. Renaissance Italian history, African exploration, South American botany, and a Chinese herbal. Heavy reading for one’s spare time. Sections marked were often macabre, descriptions of the way everyone from Socrates to victims of curses died.

The bedroom was tidy, the kitchen cleared, and dishes set as if by habit to drain by the sink. Nothing out of place, an empty valise under the bed, clothes still hanging in the armoire.

Wherever Partridge had taken himself, he clearly intended to come back.

Rutledge returned to the sitting room and looked at the desk there. He found nothing of interest, as if it were seldom used.

There was a single framed photograph on the desktop, grainy and yellowed, showing a man and a small boy standing together in what appeared to be the marketplace of a Georgian town. There was nothing in the shop windows to indicate which town or where in England it might be. Rutledge lifted the frame, slid open the back, and looked to see if there was any inscription on the other side of the photograph. And indeed there was. A schoolboy hand had scribbled, “the day we climbed the white horse.”

Had Partridge come here as a boy? Was that what brought him back as a man?

Rutledge reassembled the glass and the frame, and set it where he’d found it.

In the basket to one side of the desk, however, was a crumpled sheet of paper. He reached for it, spread it out, and in the shaded light of his torch found that there was only one line on it.

My dear

The start of a letter? To a friend, a lover, a relative? There was no way of knowing.

He crumpled it again and dropped it back into the basket.

Nothing here to tell him who Partridge was, where he might have gone, or when he intended to return.

Certainly nothing mysterious enough to make London worry about where he was.

When Rutledge stepped out of the cottage, he nearly leapt out of his skin as something warm and sinuous wrapped itself around his legs.

“’Ware!” Hamish warned in the same instant.

It was all he could do to stifle a yelp even as his brain absorbed the sound of a soft purr.

Dublin the cat.

He bent down to pet her, and she accepted the salute but was more intent on finding her way into the house. He managed to get the door shut first, and as if displeased, the cat stopped purring and trotted off.

Rutledge stood there for a moment as his heart rate steadied and then made his way to the shed where Partridge kept his motorcar. It was still there, and a bicycle stood in the deeper shadows beyond the bonnet.

The only unusual thing was a small length of carpet that lay crumpled by the boot, a trap for unwary feet. The oil stains down its length, dark as blood in the little light there was, explained its use.

Wherever Gaylord Partridge had gone, he had left on shank’s mare, not his bicycle or his motorcar.

But then he needn’t have gone far to find someone to take him away. For a price, the lorry drivers at The Smith’s Arms would have been willing to let him ride with them as far as he liked. From there he might have gone anywhere by train or bus.

And come back just as inconspicuously.

Gaylord Partridge’s walkabouts, as Quincy had called them.

Rutledge slipped out of the shed and made his way through the darkness in the deepest shadow he could find, until he was well past Wayland’s Smithy.

Where did Partridge go, and why? he asked himself as he walked without haste, listening to the night around him.

Hamish said, “If he was in the war, it’s possible he doesna’ remember where he goes, or why.”

At the clinic where Frances had taken Rutledge to learn how to deal with his own shell shock, there was an officer who went away for days at a time. Physically present, but his mind lost in some other world where his body couldn’t follow, Lieutenant Albany would sit by his window staring inward, and simply not hear or see or feel anything. As if the empty shell of himself waited for him there knowing that in the end he would come back to it. And then, quietly, he did just that, moving and speaking and acting as if nothing had happened, incurious about the hours or days that had passed meanwhile.

Rutledge had no way of knowing if Partridge was a victim of the war. Nothing in his cottage indicated military service, not the way he’d made his bed or the clothing in his armoire. But then that might have been deliberate.

The letter beginning “My dear” could mean there was someone he regularly went to see. And if the Government had no knowledge of that someone, it could well be a woman he preferred to keep secret.

A rendezvous far from the War Office’s prying eyes, a brief escape from whatever it was he’d done to have people watching his every move?

It was distasteful to spy on a man, entering his house without his knowledge, looking at his personal correspondence. The fact that the search hadn’t yielded any useful information made matters worse. No body in the bedroom to explain away Partridge’s absence, no souvenirs of Brighton to point to his whereabouts, no letters giving Rutledge the direction of the man’s family. Was the young woman who’d knocked on Partridge’s door a daughter—or a lover?

Which brought him back to the unseen man who had been questioning Betty Smith at the inn door. If that was Partridge himself, back again and worried about the stranger hanging about in his absence, he’d taken off.

Rutledge reached the inn, and removing his shoes, went up the stairs as silently as he could. The snores from the Smith bedroom rumbled in counterpoint.

Rutledge woke to the early arrival of three more lorries, and as he shaved, he considered his instructions from London.

A watching brief. Waiting for Partridge to come home, and then reporting to the man’s masters, whoever they were, through Chief Superintendent Bowles.

How long had the man been gone? Three days? A week?

It was time to find that out.

At breakfast he asked Mrs. Smith who it was she’d been talking with just after lunch the day before.

“Just as your brother was leaving. I happened to hear the man mention my motorcar.” Rutledge added when she frowned, “He seemed to know you well. He called you by your first name.”

“Lord have mercy, half the people in and out this door know me by my Christian name. It was a busy day from the time I opened my eyes until I shut them again, and with Larry underfoot as well, I was behind most of it.”

“It wasn’t a man named Partridge, by any chance? I’d been hoping to see him.”

“Partridge? No, that’s not likely. And if it was your motorcar whoever it was had an interest in, he’s not the first nor will he be the last. Most of my reg