Rutledge had seen too many dead as well. This was an unusual inquiry, with the dead already buried. He realized he was grateful.
Mason was looking out the window at the smaller stones in the quadrant nearest the inn. “The fact is, I don’t have much to occupy my time here in the village, my neighbors are a healthy lot for the most part, and quite frankly I was curious about the poor woman. Leslie interviewed every man in the village, but got nowhere. And he was frustrated, to say the least. No one saw or heard anything—no one recognized her—no one appeared to have a reason for bringing her here, much less murdering her.” He turned back to Rutledge. “I know the people here rather well. God knows I’ve treated most of them for everything from broken bones to last breath. We don’t see many murders here. And as far as I know this site never went in for human sacrifices, willing or unwilling. There isn’t a history here that would attract the mad. No wild tales of orgies or mass murder. Still, someone might not know that, and believe such things. I was worried about that at the start, but there’s been no other sign of ritual.”
Their tea arrived.
“It’s not like Leslie to give up. I don’t think he was very happy about it,” Rutledge said.
“Why did the Yard send you here? No disrespect, but if an experienced Chief Inspector hadn’t got very far, a younger Inspector probably won’t either.”
“For my sins,” Rutledge said. “Such as they are.”
Mason nodded. “Well, then. Do you want to go over the same ground? Meanwhile I’ll try to find out about that film negative I mentioned. We can speak to Rector about it. And I can see that you talk to anyone Leslie spoke to.”
“That would be helpful. When is Henderson coming back?”
“That will depend on his brother’s situation. Frankly, I don’t hold out much hope, but that’s not for anyone’s ears other than yours. Renal failure.”
“Forgive me, but I must ask. Henderson himself is above suspicion?”
“I’d trust him with my life. A good man. He’s been Constable here for a good many years, and no breath of scandal touching him.”
Thirty minutes later, they left the inn and began to make a circuit of the buildings closest to the quadrant of the circle where the woman’s body had been found. They began with those on the far side of the road that crossed the causeway, then worked their way down the street past Mason’s house.
By seven o’clock that evening, they’d found everyone Leslie had spoken to, or as Mason put it, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. And the results were the same: no one had heard anything that night and no one had seen either a motorcar or carriage on the road coming in. Rutledge, well aware of the statements each man and woman had given at the time, listened carefully to each response. And he heard nothing that would make him doubt the speaker or sense that he or she was hiding something. People were naturally curious about the new man from London, but no one appeared to be particularly worried by his arrival. A good few wanted answers.
Dr. Mason was tiring from the walking and the introductions he’d made, a task that Constable Henderson would have carried out if he’d been available.
“We can dine at the inn. But where are you staying tonight?”
Rutledge had already given that some thought. “The inn, I expect. It’s where Leslie stayed. Meanwhile, there’s the house with the bay window. I’d like to speak to that woman again. Mrs. Parrish? She had the clearest view of the stones where the murder occurred.”
Mason sighed. “Very well. I’ll not tell you how to do your work. But Mary Parrish is nearsighted and couldn’t have seen anything out there if it had been broad daylight. My old legs aren’t eager to walk back that far. I’ll find us a table, and tell Bryant that you’d like a room. It’s not like they’re full up with summer visitors.”
Rutledge left the doctor and the motorcar at the inn and walked on to his destination.
Mrs. Parrish opened the door only a crack, peering out into the darkness to see who had knocked. When she realized it was the man from London, she smiled and opened it wider to allow him to step inside. “I didn’t expect you again this evening,” she said, gesturing to the front room, where he and the doctor had interviewed her earlier. She looked past him, as if expecting Dr. Mason to follow him.
“I’ve left the doctor at the inn. It’s been a long day for him,” Rutledge told her as he stepped inside.
“Yes, he’s feeling his age this winter,” she agreed, shutting the door and leading the way to the parlor. “There’s a fire on the hearth. We can be comfortable in here.”
The lamp was already lit, picking out the darker greens of the carpet and lighter shades in the curtains. He could see that Mary Parrish had set aside her knitting to answer the door.
She was sixty, he thought, her hair that soft white that blondes often have when the color had faded, and worried hazel eyes behind rimless spectacles watched him take the chair she’d offered.
“I’ve some biscuits left from my tea,” she said, “if you’d care for some?”
“Thank you, no,” Rutledge said, smiling. “It won’t do to spoil my appetite. Dr. Mason is counting on dining at the inn.”
“He does like their roast chicken,” she agreed, “but mainly it’s the company, I expect.” She sighed. “I wouldn’t mind going to the inn occasionally, but I don’t care to be out after nightfall. Especially after what happened to that poor woman.”
“And are you sure you neither heard nor saw anything that night?” he asked. He’d posed the same question at three o’clock that afternoon. He couldn’t have said, really, why he’d come back here. Except for the view he had seen from the window as he’d sat there. The stones had been framed by the glass, enigmatic shapes in the distance. It was, as he’d discovered, the best view in the village.
“No,” she said firmly, picking up her knitting and winding the gray yarn around the needles before setting it in the bag by her chair. Blue forget-me-nots were embroidered around the opening, and below them he could just see the initials M F E P embroidered in a matching blue thread.
“I don’t think that’s quite true,” he replied gently, rapidly considering how best to approach her. “I think you did.”
“Young man, I don’t lie,” she retorted, her gaze holding his, a slight flush on her face.
“I’m not sure that you lied. But I have a feeling you are afraid to admit that you did see something. You aren’t sure who killed that woman, and you don’t want him coming after you next.”
She started to deny it vehemently, then stopped. “Guilty as charged,” she went on tartly.
“Did you tell Chief Inspector Leslie the truth?”
“No. And it wouldn’t have made any difference to his investigation.”
“He should have been the one who decided that. Not you.”
“No. I am the one at risk. It was my decision to make.”
“Then tell me.”
Mrs. Parrish glanced past him at the pretty green curtains, drawn now across the window. Leaning forward, she lowered her voice, as if fearful that someone might be listening.