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 seance 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 Uffing- ton. 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 Rut- ledge 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 Uff- ington, 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.