A Pale Horse

24

Sarah Parkinson was just leaving her house when Rutledge drove up. She was riding the bicycle today.

“Miss Parkinson—”

“No. Go away.” She mounted the bicycle and pushed off, leaving him there.

Rutledge turned the motorcar and caught up with her, slowing his speed to a crawl to match hers.

“I haven’t come to talk about your father.”

“I’m uncomfortable being hunted this way. Is this what the police do, drive you to distraction until you can’t sleep or eat or think?”

“Put your bicycle into my motorcar and I’ll take you to your sister, or to Partridge Fields. Wherever you’re setting out to go.”

He could see her hesitate. She wasn’t as skilled with the bicycle as her sister, and she had wobbled once or twice.

“I can manage very well, thank you.”

“You can’t. Get down before you’re hurt. I swear, I won’t ask you any questions on the way.”

The front wheel jerked and almost threw her into a bank of late thrift, where the road narrowed a little.

Rutledge sped up and cut her off.

Getting out, he said, “You shouldn’t be riding this in your state of mind. Go on, let me put the bicycle into the back. I’ve given you my word.”

She stopped just inches from where he stood.

“I may be your enemy,” he said gently, “but accepting a lift from me doesn’t convict you of anything but good sense.”

“I hate you, did you know that?” she said with some force, but when he reached for the handlebars she dismounted and let him have the bicycle. He set it in the back, more concerned about invading Hamish’s space than anything else, his hands shaking as he maneuvered it to fit.

Hamish chuckled derisively, saying only, “When I’m ready to be seen, ye canna’ hide.”

Rutledge got back behind the wheel, his mind on Hamish, and nearly choked the motor.

Sarah Parkinson said tartly, “You’re no better driver than I am.”

She was goading him, and she’d succeeded, but Rutledge kept his promise, only asking where she wanted to go.

“To Pockets, my sister’s house.”

He took off the brake and set out. As they passed the cottages, she shivered, as if her father’s death were still too raw a reminder.

He said nothing, letting the silence grow heavy between them. Finally Sarah Parkinson said, “If you will let me out a mile before her house, I’ll pedal the rest of the way.”

“As you like.”

It was almost as if the silence accused her. Again she broke it first. “You weren’t there when my mother died. You can’t even imagine how we felt. And my father standing over her, after we’d summoned him, and saying that it had been a long time coming. Then why hadn’t he tried to prevent it? Why hadn’t he made her happier when it mattered?”

He didn’t answer her.

“Sometimes in the dark while I’m trying to fall asleep I can see all of it again. People talk about nightmares, but this was real, and it happens over and over again until I’m half sick, my head aching, my mind struggling to forget. You have no idea what that’s like. You must sleep well at night, duty done, and you have no idea what it’s like.”

But he did. He wanted to tell her that she was wrong, others suffered as she did, and that his hovering spirits were as fearsome as hers.

She must have read something of it in his face, for she snapped, “Oh, don’t sit there, pretending you can’t hear me.”

“Then I’d have to ask you if you killed your father to stop your nightmares. If it helped at all, to punish him for what he’d done to your mother and to you. I’d like to know. I can’t kill my ghosts, you see. I left them all on the battlefield in France.”

She stared at him. “You were in the war?”

“I was in France, yes.” He fought to get himself under control. “It was worse than anything you can imagine. Worse, even, than finding your mother dead. And it went on for four years, relentless, without respite. And there was no one to kill except the Germans, and even that wasn’t as easy as we’d thought. In the night sometimes you could hear them singing. Men’s voices, homesick and as frightened as we were. And the next day you were firing at them, trying to make every shot count, and using your bayonet when you had to, and trying to stay alive one more minute, one more hour, and after a while, you didn’t even care about that, only about not letting your men down, shaming them in the face of the enemy, trying to set a good example that they could follow. And the worst of it was, they trusted me, and I led them to slaughter as surely as if I’d been the judas goat at an abattoir. If you want to compare nightmares, Miss Parkinson, you’ve chosen the wrong man.”

She sat there stunned, her face pale, and her hands shaking in her lap, the gloves she wore bicycling clenched into fists to stop it.

“You see, your righteous defense of your mother is all very well. But if you killed your father, you are a murderer as surely as any other murderer in the dock. Your excuse may seem important to you, but it never is enough. Death is a very final solution, Miss Parkinson, and no matter how you try to excuse it, if you took a life without provocation, you will hang as surely as the man who killed two people back at the cottages. No better, no worse. The same.”

He suddenly realized that he’d lost track of where he was, where the motorcar was heading. The darkness through which he’d spoken began to recede and nothing was familiar, nothing as it should be. But then he recognized the tower of a distant church and knew he was on the right road.

Miss Parkinson was opening her door. He braked quickly to keep her from falling out into the road.

“I’ll take my chances with the bicycle,” she said, tears on her face. “I should never have trusted you to keep your promise.”

Rutledge said, “You were the first to speak, if you remember. You were the one who said I didn’t understand.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve had enough,” she said, getting out as the motorcar came to a stop.

“Go look at yourself in your mirror, Miss Parkinson. And ask yourself if your mother will be avenged by letting your father be buried in a pauper’s grave. It will be on your soul and not hers, if that’s what you do.”

He brought out her bicycle for her and set it on the road.

She took it, mounted, and pedaled off, her shoulders hunched, her head down.

This time he watched her go, not making any effort to stop her again.

Hamish said, “It wasna’ well done.”

“I think I’ll stay here a while, and see who comes back. Sarah Parkinson or her sister.”

He pulled the motorcar to the verge, staring across the fields at the rooftops of the next village, trying to interest himself in the people there. But all he could think of was what he’d said to the young woman disappearing in the distance.

It was all true. But who was he to judge her? Who was he to set his torment against someone else’s and make comparisons? He’d known Sarah Parkinson for a matter of days. It wasn’t his place. It wasn’t his duty.

He waited some time, thinking she might come back this way. It was useless trying to talk to Sarah when her sister was present and he could see no point in continuing on to Pockets to confront the two together.

Rutledge drove back to the inn, abandoning his decision to drive to London. He couldn’t remember the last meal he’d eaten, but he wasn’t hungry.

Upstairs in his room he stood by his window, looking out at nothing that was visible.

Hamish said, “What if you’re wrong about Singleton?”

“Then I’m wrong. The drawings were not Willingham’s style. I’ll stand by that.”

“Aye. But of the lot, there’s the man with the birds.”

“There is. If I’m wrong about Singleton, then I shall have to look at Quincy more closely. It isn’t his style either.”

“Ye’re no authority on drawing. There’s a darkness in him.”

It was true. He’d grasped his jeweled treasures in desperation, and he kept them with him because they were a talisman, in his eyes. Without hope, men go mad…

Small feathered defenses against the family that didn’t want him and enemies that wanted to see him dead.

Which brought Rutledge back to Parkinson. Two men, Madsen and Deloran, had tried to use his body for their own ends. Parkinson’s two daughters refused to claim it. And until they did, the case couldn’t be closed.

There were heavy clouds in the sky, shortening the day, and as the light faded, Rutledge considered turning on his lamp. And then decided against it.

Three lorry drivers were pulling in as another edged his vehicle back on the road. The men called to their departing colleague and then walked toward the inn, looking for food and something to drink. One of them was the man Rutledge had defeated at darts. Laughing, they made their way through to the bar.

In the distance he thought he saw a flash of lightning, but he could hear no thunder afterward. If there was a storm, it was far to the west still.

Hamish said, “Ye canna’ sit here in the dark and pity yoursel’.”

It wasn’t pity but a need for peace, he thought. In a little while, he would have to decide what to do next.

He hadn’t seen Sarah Parkinson pass along the road again on her way to her house. He thought it odd, by this time, unless she had decided to wait out the storm with her sister.

Rising, he went down the stairs and started through the door. One of the drivers was leaving, his lorry backing out of the yard and moving off down the road. Rutledge watched him go, then set out on foot for the White Horse. All was well there, lamps lit in the cottages belonging to Miller, Quincy, and Mrs. Cathcart, and a thin trail of wood smoke rose from her chimney. Singleton’s cottage was dark. Then Slater came up from the village and went in his door.

The White Horse offered ambient light, and Rutledge walked its lines, as he had done with his father. Then he turned and went back to the muzzle, standing there watching the sky.

He thought it was nearly simultaneous, the flickering of fire he could see in Willingham’s windows and Brady’s. Then Partridge’s were suddenly bright, with Singleton’s not far behind. They were burning—

Rutledge raced down the hill, shouting for Slater and Quincy, but he knew it was useless. The five of them could do nothing to stop the cottages from burning.

He cursed himself for not bringing his motorcar, then remembered that Partridge’s was in the shed next to the house.

Slater finally came to his door to see what the commotion was about, and Rutledge pointed. The smith turned to stare, then wheeled back to Rutledge.

Rutledge shouted, “Partridge’s motorcar. Go for help, fast as you can.”

Quincy had heard the shouting and came out to look. Then he was back inside, his door shut.

Hamish said, “He’ll protect the birds.”

Mrs. Cathcart answered his knock and was frightened when she saw the smoke and flames. Miller came out just then and swore as he realized that his house was in danger.

Rutledge knocked on Singleton’s door, and waited, then opened it and went inside.

It was burning as well, but there was no sign of the ex-soldier.

Where had he gone?

Partridge’s motorcar kicked over on the third try, and Slater was backing out, on his way to Uffington. Rutledge took Mrs. Cathcart with him, and called to Miller to come down as well, but he stubbornly stayed where he was. Quincy was occupied in the room where he kept his collection, and Rutledge pushed Mrs. Cathcart through the door, saying, “Help him.”

It would keep her busy.

That done, he began to run toward the inn, thinking about his own motorcar standing there in the yard. Singleton was no fool. Under the cover of the fire he must have slipped away, and his best chance of putting some distance between himself and any pursuit was to go fast and far.

The motorcar was still in the yard when Rutledge, his heart hammering and his lungs burning, reached the inn. He wouldn’t have put it past Singleton to take it. Another of the lorries was pulling out, and he shouted to the driver to wait. He was ignored. There was still one of the lorries left and he dashed inside, calling to Smith. But he stopped short in the bar.

Two lorry drivers were still there—and only one vehicle remained in the yard.

He said, forcing the words out, harsh and curt, “There’s a fire at the cottages. Take your lorry to Uffington, pick as many men as you can and bring them back to help.”

The drivers were on their feet, heading for the door, and then he heard shouting.

Rutledge said to Smith, “Have you seen Singleton?”

Smith shook his head. “I’ll fetch something to drink. They’ll be needing it. Is it bad, over there?”

“The fire may spread to the occupied cottages. Tell Mrs. Smith that she may need to make up beds for tonight.”

And then he was gone, cranking his motorcar with such energy that the motor almost missed fire, then caught. His headlamps found the road as the lorry drivers demanded to know what had happened to the other vehicle. He didn’t have time to tell them.

The lorry had headed west, away from the cottages, and he followed. Singleton was having trouble keeping it on the road at speed. By the time Rutledge caught him up, he could see the rear wheels swaying as Singleton took the curves.

Rutledge swore. To stop him meant finding a stretch where he could get ahead and block the road. He ran through the map in his mind, seeing where the bends would slow Singleton down, where he could gain time on the straightaway.

Singleton went through the next village far too fast, scattering people and brushing past a cart stopped at an angle in the road. The cart went winding, and someone cried out in pain.

Rutledge slowed, keeping Singleton in sight but trying not to hit anyone in his path. And they were out into the open again, moving far too fast for safety in the stormy light. Rutledge thought Singleton had a very good idea who was behind him, even if he couldn’t see the motorcar for its bright headlamps.

There was a long straight stretch, enough for Rutledge to gun the motor and make an attempt to pass, but Singleton swung the lorry into his path, and it was all Rutledge could do to keep from plowing headlong into a stone wall where the road angled to the right.

Hamish was shouting now, telling him to watch what he was doing.

“Kill us both, and he’ll go free,” Hamish reminded him.

Rutledge fell back. For the next mile or two there was a double bend, first one way, then a short interval, then the other way.

He wasn’t sure the lorry could make that at speed, but Singleton had got the hang of driving it now and in the dark made the adjustments necessary to keep his lumbering vehicle on the road, though it swayed dangerously, the load it was carrying sometimes shifting with the curves.

The road was straight again, houses and a barn flashing past, a roadside pub and then a long looping bend.

Singleton wasn’t prepared for it. He swung the lorry too hard around the first part of the bend, then overcompensated as he began to slip sideways on the rough surface. Dust flew up from his wheels and he lost speed as he struggled to keep himself upright.

The bend ended in another short, straight stretch, and then a copse of trees loomed ahead at the next bend. And then in the lorry headlamps a single bicyclist stood out with shocking clarity.

He had been lucky this far, Singleton had. The road had been empty and he had had the time and the strength to keep the wheel under control. But his first reaction as he saw the bicycle was to swerve, his tires failed to grip, and the side and rear of the lorry began to slide inexorably toward the oncoming bicycle.

It was like slow motion. Rutledge could see the bicycle, and then as the lorry slowly lost traction, it blotted the rider from view. The scream of the brakes was almost human, and like a juggernaut the lorry moved on, across the road now, blocking it from verge to verge. In the glow of the headlamps the bicycle rose in a gleaming silver arc, rising above the truck like a winged thing, and then the silver faded and it was lost to view.

Rutledge was braking with all the power of his arm, knowing it wasn’t going to be in time, that either the bicycle could catch him or he would slam at speed into the side of the lorry.

He fought the wheel, heard the bicycle crash into something just to the left of him, and saw himself sliding too, this time sideways, and his brakes could do him no good.

Somehow Rutledge managed to gun the motor at the last, forward momentum clashing with his sideways slide.

He wound up in a field by the road, came to a jarring stop, and was out of the motorcar while it was still rocking heavily.

The lorry was crashing into the wood, trees snapping as the weight of the vehicle mowed into them, metal rending with a high-pitched whine that was earsplitting.

He couldn’t see what had become of the rider, and his greatest fear was that whoever it was had been caught beneath the lorry wheels and dragged.

Suddenly everything was quiet.

From the verge of the road he heard a whimper, and went quickly toward it, cursing himself for not bringing his torch. There wasn’t a light for miles, it seemed, except for the lorry’s headlamps and his own.

She was lying in stubble and high grass, and he stumbled over a stone and nearly went headfirst into her.

He and Hamish saw her at the same time.

It was Sarah Parkinson, and she was badly injured. He thanked the gods wherever they were that she was still alive, and knelt beside her. He didn’t know what had happened to Singleton and he didn’t care.

His hand touched blood, wet and warm at the side of her head, and then as he ran his hands down her body, he could feel the odd angle of one arm. Broken, he thought, but the head wound was more serious.

She moaned as he touched her, and he was afraid to move her until he knew the extent of her injuries.

Another motorcar was coming from the east, and Rutledge stood up, not sure that the driver could see the lorry and his motorcar in time to realize what had happened. He moved to Sarah Parkinson’s feet, prepared to wave off the other driver, but the motorcar slowed, then stopped.

“Is anyone hurt?” It was a woman’s voice, frightened but steady. “Hello?”

“Over here,” Rutledge called. “Bring a torch, or fetch mine from my motorcar.”

The driver got out and ran toward Rutledge’s motor, rummaging for the torch. Rutledge had a fleeting thought about Hamish, from long habit.

She came racing back, nearly tripping on the rough ground, torch in hand, flicking it on and shining it inadvertently into his face.

She stopped. “Rutledge? What’s going on?” she demanded, as if he had staged the accident to throw her off stride.

He said, “It’s your sister. I don’t think the lorry struck her, but she’s here on the side of the road, one arm broken and a cut on her head. If there are internal injuries—”

Rebecca was beside him, pushing him away, shining the light on her sister’s face.

“Sarah? For God’s sake—Sarah.”

She began to work quickly, but there were tears spilling down her cheeks now and her voice began to quiver as she talked to her sister.

There was no response.

“I’ve killed her!” Rebecca Parkinson cried. “We had a quarrel, it was my fault—I shouldn’t have let her go alone in the dark—I tried to find her again—”

Her sister moaned, and Rebecca bent over her trying to cradle her head.

“Don’t move her,” Rutledge cautioned. “We don’t know the extent—you must go and find help at once. There’s a village back the way I came, no more than three miles? Four? Go there and ask if there’s a doctor.”

“I won’t leave her. It’s my fault, I tell you.”

He grasped her by the shoulders and shook her. “Hysteria wastes any time she has left. Get in the motorcar and go. There’s a murderer loose here, he was driving that lorry, and you can’t stay here alone. Go.”

She stumbled back to her motorcar and got in, pushing her foot down on the gas pedal with such force that the car leapt ahead as she turned it and he heard a wheel of the bicycle crunch under the tires. But she bumped over it and kept going, disappearing into the darkness with such abandon he wondered if she would make it herself.

He used the light to look for more injuries, and then bound Sarah’s head with his handkerchief to control the bleeding. As he moved her slightly, she cried out. Her arm or her back? He had no way of knowing.

Speaking to her quietly, he tried to reassure her, but she seemed not to know where she was or what was happening.

“A blessing,” Hamish said, at his shoulder.

Taking off his coat he rolled it and set it under the broken arm, then ran his hands down her legs. He could feel bloody bunches of stocking, blood soaking through her skirts, but there was no indication of a break on either.

She came to for a moment, and he said, “Rebecca is here. She’s gone for help. Hold on. It won’t be long.”

“I hurt. All over.”

He tried to smile. “That’s good. It means you can feel. Stay quiet, I’ll be here.”

From the lorry he could hear the sound of a door creaking open.

Singleton was still alive.

He did nothing. Said nothing. And listened.

After a time a voice from the darkness called, “I can see you, even if you can’t see me. I’ll kill both of you if you try to stop me.”

“You aren’t my case. You’re Hill’s. Go on.” He snapped off his torch.

“You aren’t armed. I am.”

“I said, go on.”

He could hear footsteps crunching in the dirt of the road and then fading as Singleton reached the grass verge.

Hamish said, “He’ll no’ leave witnesses.”

But Rutledge remained silent, listening from where he knelt at Sarah Parkinson’s side.

To Hamish he said, “I’d swear he wasn’t armed.”

“You canna’ chance it. He’s Hill’s case. You said so yourself.”

“Yes.”

He could hear the crank turning, and then the motor came to life. The driver’s door shut. Singleton was backing Rutledge’s car into the road. He could see the sweep of headlamps across the sky.

For an instant Rutledge thought Singleton might try to run them down, but the ground was too rough just where he was kneeling by Sarah, and the risk of doing serious damage to the motorcar was obvious.

And then the moment came where if Singleton was armed, he would fire.

Does he have a service revolver?

Many of the enlisted men had brought them home as souvenirs…

The motorcar idled in the road. Rutledge held his breath, keeping his back to Singleton, making sure that he was between the killer and the girl on the ground at his feet.

She said, “What’s wrong? I heard a motorcar. Is it Rebecca?”

Rutledge didn’t answer, counting the seconds as he waited.

And then Singleton was driving away, leaving them there in the night.

He could feel the tension in his back. To Sarah he said, “She’ll be here soon.”

It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes later that Rebecca was back, braking hard, calling to her sister. A door opened. A man carrying his medical bag hurried toward them. Rebecca was maneuvering the motorcar until the headlamps shone directly on her sister, giving them light to work.

The doctor was there beside Rutledge. “What’s most urgently needed?”

“The head wound. It’s bleeding heavily.”

Rebecca hadn’t emerged from the car. Rutledge thought he could hear her teeth chattering over the sound of the engine.

“Head wounds generally do. Next?”

“Right arm. Broken, I think. Cuts and bruises. I don’t know about her back. But she can feel pain. All over, she says.”

“A good thing.” He began to work, slowly at first and then with greater assurance as he learned the extent of Sarah Parkinson’s injuries. He did what he could to brace the broken arm, put bandaging over the head wound, and then turned to Rutledge.

“She’ll be all right, but I daresay there’s concussion, and shock is setting in. We need to get her to hospital.”

Rutledge said, “There’s a rug—” But his motorcar was gone. He called to Rebecca Parkinson. “Do you have a rug, there?”

“Yes, I think—”

He could hear her getting out now, coming toward them. “Is she alive?” Her voice was under control, but tense with stress.

“She’s all right,” he told Rebecca and took the rug from her, helping the doctor wrap Sarah in it. Between them the two men carried her to the motorcar and lifted her into the rear seat. It must have hurt like the very devil.

The doctor got in after her and made certain she was comfortable. Then he turned to Rutledge. “Anderson’s the name.”

“Rutledge.” He nodded to Rebecca. “I’ll drive.”

“All right, I’ll direct you. Can we get around that lorry?”

“I think so.”

“That’s the fastest way. What’s become of the driver? Is he dead?”

“He went for help.”

Anderson nodded. “Then we needn’t concern ourselves with him.”

Sarah regained consciousness several times, complaining of feeling cold and hurting. Anderson reassured her, but Rebecca, next to Rutledge, didn’t look back or answer her sister.

They drove into a medium-size town where there was a hospital of sorts near the church. It had, Anderson was telling him, been a lying-in hospital before the war and after that had been turned into a burn treatment center. “But most of the patients have been sent elsewhere now, and the town has taken it over.”

“Where are we?”

“Salverton.”

“I need to find a telephone as soon as possible. The lorry is still blocking the road.”

“Yes, of course. The hotel just down that street should have one. Give me a moment to find someone with a stretcher. Then you can go.”

Rutledge stayed until Sarah Parkinson was in a room on the first floor, nurses working over her with quiet efficiency. Rebecca, still silent, was with her. No one noticed as he slipped quietly out and went to the stairs.

The clinic had been a bank in an earlier life, Rutledge thought, noting the marble pillars in Reception and the ornate staircase sweeping up to the first floor. His footsteps echoed as he crossed to the door. A nursing sister passing through nodded to him.

He found the hotel, The White Hart, without any difficulty, put in a call to Uffington, and after a time heard Hill’s voice on the other end of the line.

Rutledge gave the inspector a brief report, and asked about the cottages.

“We couldn’t save the empty ones where the fire had been set inside. We couldn’t get enough water to them. The rest, the ones still occupied, will be habitable. Where’s Singleton?”

“I wish I knew. I told you, he left in my motorcar.”

“He wasn’t injured in the crash?”

“Not as far as I could tell.”

“Surely you could have stopped him.” Hill’s frustration came to the fore, backed by anger.

“I couldn’t leave the woman he ran down.”

“But she’ll live, you say?”

“It appears that way. Early days.” He saw again the doctor’s grave face as he examined the head wound and tested Sarah Parkinson’s reflexes. “The next twenty-four hours will tell us.”

“Where do you think Singleton went?”

“Where does he feel safe? I don’t know. I expect he’ll abandon my motorcar as soon as possible and find other means of transport. It could be a country bus or a train. One that isn’t crowded, I should think.”

“We haven’t got enough men to watch train stations.”

“No.”

Hill said, “I delayed, waiting to hear from London. Singleton wasn’t cashiered from an Indian regiment. That was all a lie. He’d been in the regular army, and was called up again in 1915. Seems he killed another soldier on the transport ship to France. Used a knife then, as well. He was put in irons, but somehow in the confusion when they docked, he got away. London thought he was still in France, hiding in the south, but he probably came home with the wounded, and just walked off. He must have thought Brady recognized him, and when you came nosing about, he was sure you were searching for him. We’ll find your motorcar for you. Pray God we find Singleton too.”

Rutledge walked back to the hospital. He found Rebecca sitting in the small waiting area down the passage from her sister’s room. Someone had kindly brought her a cup of tea, but she was holding it between her hands as if she didn’t know what to do with it.

He sat down across from her, waiting until she broke the silence.

“I told you, we quarreled. I should have never let her go back on that bicycle, but I was angry, I thought she deserved to suffer too. But not this, I never imagined this.”

“There was no way you could.”

“It’s partly your fault. You upset her, more than you know. She didn’t kill our father. Leave her alone.”

“I’d come to the conclusion she hadn’t. I don’t think it’s in her nature to kill.”

“Are you saying it’s in mine?” She looked up at him, holding his gaze, challenging him.

“I don’t know. You must tell me.”

“I haven’t killed anyone,” she said wearily. “At least not until tonight. She wouldn’t have been on that road if I’d kept her at Pockets or even driven her home.”

“What did you quarrel about?”

“She wanted to go to Yorkshire and bring home Father’s body. I was just as happy to leave him there to rot.”

“Why did he die?” He waited, and when she didn’t answer, he said, “Look, you might as well tell me what happened. I know most of the story, and can guess the rest of it.”

She gave him a withering glance. “Oh no. You couldn’t in your wildest dreams guess what happened to Gerald Parkinson. I don’t think any of us know.”

A young nursing sister stuck her head round the door. “Your sister is awake, Miss Parkinson, and asking for you.”

Rebecca got up and followed her. Rutledge, after a moment, went as well.

Sarah’s head was bandaged, her face pale, and by morning she’d have a very black eye. Her arm was in a cast, and she lay there trying to stand the pain.

“They can’t give me anything,” she said as her sister came into the room. “Not until they’re sure about the concussion. I can’t tell you how much it hurts. I feel sick with it.”

“I’m sorry, Sarah, truly—I had no way of knowing this would happen. I never meant for you to be hurt.”

“I thought I was going to die. It was terrifying. When the lorry struck the bicycle, I was thrown through the air. Can you imagine watching yourself die? And when I landed, there was such pain. I didn’t expect to live. But I did. For a reason. We might as well tell him, Becky. I want to get it off my conscience at least, but I can’t say anything without your consent. Please, will you let me tell him?” Her eyes were pleading, but dry. As if she’d already cried as much as she could.

Rebecca answered her with a coldness that startled her sister. “I thought we swore. On Mama’s memory. I thought it was agreed, Sarah.”

“You sound like Father, you’re as hard as he was.”

Rutledge stepped forward before Rebecca could vehemently deny the charge.

“There’s a solution here. I can take Rebecca into custody, and let the courts sort it out. The publicity will be painful, but that was your choice when you started all this.”

“Go ahead,” Rebecca told him defiantly.

Sarah said, “We neither of us killed him, you know. He was dead when we found him.”

Rebecca opened her mouth to deny it, but Sarah went on relentlessly. “He’d come to the house sometime in the night. We found his motorcar there the next morning. He hadn’t been there in two years, and we were horrified. When we went through the house looking for him, he was in Mama’s room, lying on her bed, and the room was filled with gas. We shut it off, opened windows—but it was too late. He was already dead, and had been for several hours.”

Her sister turned on her heel and went out the door.

Sarah watched her go, and then said, “It’s all true. I’ll swear to it under oath. What happened next was awful. We didn’t want him to be found there. Not in Mama’s bed. So between us we dragged him out of there and down the stairs.” She began to cry. “Do you know what it’s like to move a dead man? It was awful, but we were angry with him, and all we could think about was being rid of him. It was Rebecca’s idea to drive him away from the house. We got him into his motorcar, found the opera cloak in the attic and wrapped him in it, pulled his hat down over his face, and set out. I think we drove all day and part of the night. By that time we were beginning to come to our senses, but Rebecca wouldn’t take him back. I couldn’t bear to dump him at the side of the road. I wouldn’t have done that to a dog. And then we saw the wood. It seemed like a good idea, and we managed to get him that far. That’s when I glimpsed the abbey just beyond the trees, and I made her help me carry him there. Heavy as he was. She wouldn’t leave him in the nave. It was holy ground, and he didn’t deserve it. So we took him into the cloister and left him there, and she put the gas mask on his face, because she said it was his epitaph.”

He could picture them, the anger feeding on itself until they found the strength to do what had to be done. As the anger faded, a cold reality had set in, but Rebecca was still adamant. He had to be punished…

Sarah was saying, “When we got back to Berkshire, I waited by the side of the road in our motorcar, while Rebecca took his to the shed and left it, as if he hadn’t gone far and would be back soon. I was so exhausted, so anxious, I began to cry, and she told me I was not very brave. But then I saw she’d been crying as well, and she swore it was because she hadn’t killed him herself.”

“Did you believe her?”

“Of course I did—I was there with her when we found him. She couldn’t have been so shocked, if she’d already known. I saw her face. It wasn’t a lie.”

For the first time there was a ring of truth behind her words.

“Why does Rebecca hate your father so much?”

“She was older. She saw more. I don’t know. You must ask her.”

Sarah lay back against her pillows, exhausted. “Now it’s done. Over with. I can sleep at night.” She closed her eyes for a time, then said, “Are you still there, Mr. Rutledge?”

“I’m here.”

“When I was hurtling through the air, all I could think of was, God, let me live, and I’ll make amends, I swear I will.”

“It wasn’t a bad bargain.”

He stayed with her for some time, asking that a few more details be cleared up, but he couldn’t catch her in a lie or a mistake.

Afterward he found Rebecca in the waiting room, sitting there, he thought, like a martyr waiting to be led to the flames.

“I have no regrets.” It was all she said.

“No, I expect not. What had he done to you, Rebecca, that you could hate so well? I’d like to understand why a daughter could be—as your sister just said—so cold.”

She turned on him. “My mother lost a child when we were small. I didn’t know why she was ill, only that she stayed in her room with the curtains drawn for week after week. But then one day when I’d been a nuisance, the housekeeper we had then, Mrs. Fortner, told me what no one wanted us to know. The child was born alive, a boy. And so badly deformed that no one could bear to look at him. He died almost at once, and it was a blessing. My mother told my father it was because of all the things he did in the laboratory—that he’d brought something home that maimed and killed their son. And nothing was ever the same again.”

She broke down, alone and wretched and confused. “My mother was never the same either. And when she killed herself, she was holding the christening gown that was meant for my brother. Don’t tell me it was long ago in the past! She grieved for him until the day she died.”

Rutledge said, “He was born full term and died from natural causes. There was nothing in the doctor’s report to say he was deformed. I’ve read it.”

“But he was. The housekeeper was there.”

He remembered the words in the late Dr. Butler’s diary. “Had long talk with Parkinson, explaining situation. Question about who should see to burial. He left arrangements with me.”

What had that long talk been about?

And why had Parkinson slashed his hand in an angry moment in his lab?

Hamish said, “It isna’ wise to tell the lass aboot that.”

“I think your mother grieved for her son, and possibly even blamed your father for the child’s death. That much must be true. But the housekeeper created a monster for reasons of her own. She left shortly afterward, with no notice given. It’s likely your father discovered what she’d told you.”

Rebecca said, “I never told Sarah. I never wanted her to know. But I can remember the day, and the words spilling out of the housekeeper’s mouth, and her face leaning down to mine. I remember feeling sick, and not being able to eat my dinner. There must have been some truth to the story. Or my father would have come to me and tried to explain that Mrs. Fortner was lying.”

“He may not have known how to explain such cruelty. He could have told himself you’d forget in time. Remember, your father had suffered a great loss too. He couldn’t have been himself.”

After a moment, she got slowly to her feet. “I must talk to Sarah—”

Rutledge caught her arm to stop her. “You don’t intend to tell her this, do you? It would serve no purpose now.”

“No. Never. I couldn’t bear her to know.” She left the room.

Rutledge went to find transportation back to Uffington. That done, he put in a call to the Yard.

Hamish said, “How can ye be sure it was suicide and not murder?”

“Because,” Rutledge said, “it explains Rebecca’s behavior. That’s why she was ready to humiliate a dead man, because he wasn’t there to hate any more. If he came back to Partridge Fields to be buried in a churchyard, like a decent man, then it was over, he’d won. To be abandoned in Yorkshire was to leave him outside God’s grace, so to speak.”

He said good-bye to Rebecca. Sarah was resting and didn’t answer as he stepped briefly into the room. But Rebecca raised haunted eyes to his.

Then his driver was at the door and Rutledge left.

By the time he reached the inn, it was early morning, and Hill had left a message for him.

“Your motorcar is in Oxford. My sergeant will drive you there. As for Singleton, he was caught in the train station, as you’d expected. It’s finished.”