by Charles Todd
Madsen took a deep breath. This wasn’t the place to open up the past. “Where was your husband last evening?”
Her expression changed. “Here. At the school. He was finishing going over papers that he’s submitting for an award. Mrs. Scott’s prize for the best essay on Richard III.”
Mrs. Scott was the widow of the former rector of St. Stephen’s, in Elthorpe. She was something of a local historian, having written a small pamphlet on the architecture of the village church and another on the abbey. Both were available for sale on the table in the church porch. Madsen had seen them. It was typical of her that she’d asked Crowell to read the essays. Like to like. The schoolmaster in Elthorpe was an upstart from Liverpool. Well enough at what he did, but not the sort one invites to present prizes in a social setting.
“And you were here with him? Sitting in his office?” It brought such a cozy domestic scene to his mind that Madsen clenched his fists.
“No, I was at home, sewing the fringe on a shawl I was making for my mother’s birthday.”
“Then no one can actually prove he was here?”
“Of course he was here. Why would he lie to me about where he was? Where else would he go?”
To meet a man he planned to kill and whose body he intended to leave in the ruins of Fountains Abbey, to throw off the police. Madsen hadn’t explained the presence of that book yet, but in time he would.
He found he was staring at her. “I’m married now, myself,” he said. “Did you ever love me? Truly love me?”
She stood up. “I take it you have no more professional questions to ask me, Inspector. And I shan’t answer personal ones.”
But he stayed where he was, between her and the door. “There’s a man dead. Didn’t your husband tell you that this morning when he asked you to carry on in the schoolroom for him? A man dead, with one of your husband’s books lying at his feet.”
She drew in a breath. “Who was it?” she asked. “Who is dead?”
As if that were more important than the book. “We don’t know. Your husband can’t identify him, there is nothing in the man’s pockets to tell us who he is, and all we can be certain of is that he didn’t live in this part of Yorkshire. Else one of my men would have known him. And more to the point, no one has been reported missing.”
“Well, then, if you don’t know who the dead man is,” she said tartly, “there’s no reason to keep me penned up in here or to take my husband away. Meanwhile, there’s the school to be seen to.”
Her words stung him. “I haven’t kept you penned up, Alice—Mrs. Crowell. I was doing my duty.” He stepped aside and she swept out of the door as if he were invisible.
He watched her walk down the corridor, and he felt an urge to clap her husband up and throw away the key.
At the door of a classroom a boy stood watching him, wary and uncertain.
“What are you staring at, then?” Madsen snapped, and the child disappeared as if by magic, shutting the door softly behind him.
Hugh Tredworth was waiting for his friends at the end of the school day. One glance at his face made Bill distinctly uneasy as he came up to join Hugh, and Johnnie, trailing him, stopped to study his boots at a little distance, as if uncomfortable in Hugh’s presence. Then Tad came through the door, starting at the sight of them standing together in silence.
“What’s happened?” he asked anxiously.
“Where’s Robbie?” Hugh demanded accusingly. “He wasn’t at school today.”
“Sick,” Tad answered shortly. “Couldn’t keep his breakfast down this morning.”
“He’s not telling, is he?” Bill wanted to know. “We swore an oath!”
“Of course he’s not telling,” Tad replied with more force than he’d intended. But he couldn’t hold their eyes.
“Remind him,” Hugh urged. “Remind him his tongue will turn black if he’s not in school tomorrow.”
“Leave him alone,” Johnnie spoke up, and they all wheeled to stare at him. “You’ll only make it worse,” he said, “trying to frighten him. Why were the police here? What did they want?”
“I couldn’t hear.” But Hugh had seen the book in the constable’s hands, if no one else had, and he had had to swallow hard to keep his own breakfast down, the shock was so great. “It was Mr. Crowell they wanted, wasn’t it? Nothing to do with us.”
“Why did they come for him?” Bill persisted. “All the way from Elthorpe. And then take him away.”
“They brought him back, didn’t they?” Hugh pointed out.
“Someone found the candle we dropped,” Tad said. “It’s a matter of trespass. None of us missed school, so there’s nothing to point at us. Not counting Robbie, but they’re not to know that, are they?”
The four of them had been walking down the road as they argued, earnestly trying to assure themselves that there was nothing to show they’d summoned the Devil and succeeded in raising him.
Then Bill shattered their illusions. “Did he leave scorched grass, where he lay? The Devil? Is that why they’re questioning schoolmasters, they’ve found the grass and want to know if anyone’s different?”
“How different?” Tad asked anxiously. “Nobody else has been sick, just Robbie.”
“He’s possessed,” Bill said. “That’s why he’s sick. He’s possessed.”
Tad shouted at him, “There’s nothing wrong with him. There’s nothing wrong with my brother!” And he marched off down the road, leaving them to look after him, their faces tight with sudden worry.
The doctor’s report was brought in to Madsen. The man hadn’t died where he was found, it was impossible that he could have, considering the cause of death. In fact, he’d been dead at least four-and-twenty hours before he was discovered.
Furthermore, there were no scars or other marks to make it a simple matter to identify him. He could be anyone. From anywhere.
And Madsen, though he didn’t care for unfinished business on his watch, reviewed the evidence and decided that his next step would have to be identifying the corpse before he could make any connection with Albert Crowell stick. If he could prove that Crowell knew the man, it would go a long way toward building his case. If there was anything between them, he could take the schoolmaster into custody.
But that was easier said than done. Where, for instance, should he begin?
He considered bringing Alice Crowell in to Elthorpe to look at the dead man. He even toyed with going back to the school to ask Crowell where he had been every minute of the past three days. But he already knew what Alice Crowell would say. Her husband had been with her—busy at the school—listening to her read. Standing by him even with a possible charge of murder hanging over the man’s head.
Madsen kept the file open on his desk where it could nag him every time he looked at it, and it became an obsession even when he was not there.
Why had Crowell’s book been found by the corpse’s feet? An old book, on alchemy of all things. He pondered that as he dealt with a quarrel between two farmers over the death of a prize ram. What did the book have to do with the dead man, except to betray the name of his murderer? Why had Crowell been carrying this book with him? Was it concealing something? Had it been the excuse that allowed Crowell to approach the victim?
Over his tea, Madsen was beginning to believe the two men must have met at the ruins, gone somewhere else, and the body had been carried back there to throw the police off. The caretaker could have been wrong, he might have simply glanced into the cloisters the day before and missed the corpse up against the wall. In a hurry as he made his rounds, and not wanting his employers to know he’d been slack.
Madsen went back to the doctor’s surgery and stood looking down at the corpse. Why the respirator that hadn’t saved the victim’s life, and why the cloak that at first glance looked like a monk’s habit? To lay a false trail for the police?
He tried to put it all together, but there was no making sense of it.
Walking back to his office he con
sidered the fact that neither Crowell’s house nor the village school was served by gas. So where had he taken the dead man to kill him? Why did the man have to die?
He shut himself in his office to think.
Debts owed? Some scandalous connection between the two men that didn’t bear looking at? Then why leave the body here, if the man hadn’t died here? It only made the killing more blatant. What was it in aid of, that respirator and the cloak? A warning to someone else?
What was the schoolmaster involved in and how would it affect Alice Crowell when the truth came out?
It all came down to that bloody book, he told himself for the hundredth time as he walked home for his dinner. If the book hadn’t been there, the police would have been mystified. An oversight, a mistake, the kind that got murderers hanged.
What was there in Albert Crowell’s life that he was desperate to hide?
By morning, Madsen was unable to stay away from the Crowells. Three more visits to the school, three more frustrating interviews with the schoolmaster, three more missed encounters with Alice, who seemed to have an uncanny ability to be other than where he wanted her to be. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to ask for her outright. Not while he badgered her husband.
In the dark hours of the night he’d even considered the possibility that she had killed her lover and left the book to muddle the case. But he knew it wasn’t true. The man, according to the doctor, was pushing fifty and not the sort who could sweep any woman off her feet.
Twice on his excursions to the Dilby School, he found himself faced with staring boys, nosy little bastards, more eyes than face. He never remembered being so fond of his own schoolmasters that he wouldn’t have cheered to see them taken away for a week.
He had spoken to one of them, the Tredworth boy. “What are you hanging about for? Know anything about this business, do you?”
Hugh had shaken his head vigorously. “No, sir. I—it’s just—” He took a deep breath and blurted, “Thought I might be a policeman when I grow up, that’s all. And nobody will tell me what’s happened. They change the subject when I come into the room.”
“It’s not a matter for children’s ears,” Madsen had said, annoyance creeping in. “Stay clear of it, or I’ll have you in for questioning myself.”
After that he saw no more of Hugh or his friends.
4
The dinner had, in many ways, been trying.
Rutledge had sat opposite Meredith Channing, and he had spent the evening trying to keep his mind closed to her. It was difficult, with Hamish restless and more intrusive as the hour stretched into two and then into three. The soft Scottish voice railed at him, warning him no’ to lower his guard, as if they stood in the darkness of France, waiting for an attack they couldn’t see but knew would surely come. For a moment he could smell the war again, and it shook him, it was so real.
Frances, beside him, had been brittle, her laughter forced, her smile too bright. Rutledge began to wonder if there had been more to Simon Barrington’s departure for Scotland than met the eye—or that Frances had been prepared to confide.
The Farnums, thank God, had been their usual cheerful selves, and Maryanne Browning seemed to revive in the warmth of conviviality. Widowhood had been a blow. Like most women of her upbringing, she’d relied on Peter for everything, and suddenly faced with taking charge of her own life and fortunes when Peter dropped dead in the second influenza epidemic, she had been at a loss to know how to begin. There had been no time to prepare, to learn how certain things were done, how to cope with lawyers and bankers and men of business. Peter had done all that. He should by rights still be here to lift the burden from her. The struggle had taken its toll, though to her credit Maryanne had never shirked her duty. That too had been part of her upbringing—to accept duty and responsibility, however difficult or distasteful they might be.
Frances had been right about this evening, a much-needed palliative for her.
He recalled his question to Frances—was this a matchmaking attempt, including him in the gathering? But it seemed to be the farthest thing from Maryanne’s mind. She treated Rutledge like the friend he was, Peter’s friend, and therefore someone to trust and turn to but not to consider romantically. A brother that Peter had never had. Consequently, he returned the compliment and treated her in much the same way he treated Frances, although without the worry that she would see through him as his sister did. Maryanne was not in Frances’s league when it came to reading people.
Without a conscious shift in thought, he found himself recalling that Meredith Channing never spoke of her late husband. He had no idea how she had mourned him, or what gaps he had left in her life. That innate composure seldom cracked far enough to show the woman inside.
Images of Meredith Channing as he’d first met her on the eve of the new year, when she’d conducted an amusing séance for Maryanne Browning and her guests, had stayed with him. She had known more about him than he’d felt comfortable with, and her voice was mesmerizing, soft and melodious and warm. Her eyes held secrets that he with all his experience couldn’t fathom. But she had stood by him when they met again in Northamptonshire, and he had been forced to trust her then.
She made no reference to that during the dinner, greeting him as a friend of friends and giving no indication she had seen him deal with murderers.
At one point under cover of the laughter surrounding them, she had said quietly, “I hope you are well.” It was a statement, not a question, as if she already knew the answer.
“Well enough. It was a long day.” He couldn’t for the life of him understand why he had added that, and swore silently.
She nodded, as if she could see he was speaking the truth, then joined in the general conversation. He began to relax a little, unaware until the meal was nearly over that somewhere in the course of the evening his fatigue had dropped away, the shocks of the day no longer weighing heavily on his mind. Mrs. Channing had not singled him out for attention, indeed he could hardly recall a word spoken directly to him save for her brief “I hope you are well.” And yet the warmth of her voice, something in her manner that was inexplicably soothing, and the stillness that was her nature seemed to touch him in some fashion.
He told himself that that was nonsense, it was the wine and the good conversation and the laughter that had done the trick. But Hamish was there, warning him to mind he didn’t betray himself, to keep a tight grip on his self-control.
To Rutledge fell the task of holding Mrs. Channing’s coat for her when they were leaving, and a faint fragrance like jasmine on a warm summer night’s breeze wafted toward him as she settled her scarf around her throat. He was used to the perfumes of England—lily of the valley, attar of roses, forget-me-nots—floral scents that most women wore, sometimes with the spicy touch of carnations or the richness of heliotrope. He found himself remembering the scent that Olivia Marlowe had used, even after her death still surrounding the desk where she had worked.
A line of Olivia’s poetry from the volume Wings of Fire—O. A. Manning’s poetry—filled his mind, unbidden.
I have not forgotten you,
The pleasure of your touch,
The depth of your voice.
It’s as if you never left me,
And my heart is full.
He nearly dropped the coat, but Meredith Channing appeared not to notice. Hamish had.
Rutledge had envied Nicholas Cheney, Olivia’s half brother. He still did. And Hamish knew that all too well.
There were general farewells, giving Rutledge time to collect his wits and shake hands, say the right thing, and turn away as the next cab drew to the curb. Frances was adding, “Mrs. Channing is going my way, Ian. You needn’t worry about seeing me home. Did you enjoy the evening? I hope you did.”
“Very much so,” he answered, kissing her cheek.
And then he was alone, traveling toward his flat. Damn Barrington, if he broke Frances’s heart!
Three nights later Rutledge met
friends for dinner, this one masculine and taken in a club off St. James’s Street. Their conversation avoided the war, but even so, the toast, “To absent friends…” had brought it back like a specter at the feast. One man had just returned from a tour of duty in South Africa, his face burnt brick red by the sun, and they spoke of his journey home, then moved on to where the government was heading with its policies, the state of the economy, and most depressing of all, a rise in the crime rate as ordinary people struggled to make ends meet. As the dinner broke up, Freddy Masters informed them that he was thinking of immigrating to Canada.
“My uncle has business interests there, and he lost his son—my cousin Jack—in the war. I’m what’s left of the family, and while I’m not particularly enthralled with providing electricity to millions, there you are. I don’t have much choice.”
There was general agreement, and Mark Hadley said, “My neighbor has much the same idea. He’d considered Argentina and even Australia, but Canada seems less of a change.”
Talk of Canada reminded Rutledge of Jean, married and living there now with her diplomat. If it hadn’t been for the war he’d have married her himself. When he came home from France shell-shocked, a broken man, she had been horrified, unable even to look at him. He’d released her from the engagement there and then, but it had taken him a very long time to come to terms with the anguish of her desertion. It had seemed to underline the bleakness of his future.
He was wondering if she missed England, just as Freddy continued. “My wife’s not best pleased, leaving schools and friends behind. I’ll let you know what we decide.”
“I can tell you my wife wasn’t best pleased with Cape Town,” Edward Throckmorton commented. “But we managed. You find a way.”
