by Charles Todd
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.
