A Pale Horse

by Charles Todd

  “He’s one of my pupils—”

  “But not your son, is he? And he wasn’t in school at the time. If he requires discipline, leave it to his father.”

  “I don’t understand how that boy could clear me of a charge of murder. My book was there, beside the dead man. How does a child explain that away?”

  “If you wish, I’ll take you to speak to Mr. Madsen. He’d like very much to see you charged. We can try to persuade him otherwise, but I’m not sure you’ll be successful. He has a grudge against you, as far as I can tell, and if he pursues this matter, it’s very likely to cost you your position here at Dilby.”

  Crowell considered that. “It’s true. He’s not counted amongst my friends.”

  “Then leave me to deal with him. I haven’t much time. Make your decision.”

  “Very well. But I can tell you, it’s against my better judgment.”

  “And leave Hugh Tredworth alone. Don’t question him yourself. If you do, it’s likely that he won’t be able to testify on your behalf at any trial, should it come to that.”

  “Did Hugh take my book without my knowledge? But he couldn’t have carried it to the abbey, not that far, in the middle of the night. Who did?”

  Rutledge could follow his line of thought—that somehow the pointing finger of accusation was swinging toward his wife.

  “It has nothing to do with Mrs. Crowell. Stop second-guessing me, you’ll do more harm than good.”

  He could see that Crowell had a tenacious mind and it would worry at the problem until it came up with a satisfactory conclusion.

  It was also the kind of mind that might harbor a wrong until it grew into a monstrous weight that had to be addressed. Or avenged…

  Hugh Tredworth had explained away the alchemy book. Albert Crowell might still bring down on himself a charge of murder because he couldn’t let well enough alone.

  Driving alone back to Elthorpe, Rutledge listened to Hamish in his mind.

  “Ye’ve cleared the schoolmaster, aye, but there’s still a dead man with no name and no suspects to take the schoolmaster’s place.”

  There was also one Henry Shoreham, who had to be found and discounted. For the record.

  “Are you saying you don’t believe Hugh Tredworth?”

  “He told the youngest lad his tongue would turn black and drop oot if he spoke.”

  “He told all four of them that.”

  “But it was the youngest lad who believed it.”

  “I think because Robbie needed so badly to confide in someone.”

  “Yon inspector willna’ be happy you’ve spoiled his chances.”

  9

  Inspector Madsen, in fact, was livid.

  He paced the small office and asked Rutledge what he was about, to make an arbitrary decision about a case that was his only by courtesy.

  Rutledge said, “You can’t hang a man for murder because you dislike him, Madsen. And there’s no other proof Crowell was involved in any fashion, now that the book is explained away.”

  “Too conveniently explained away if you ask me. I should have been present when you interviewed Hugh Tredworth. Why wasn’t I sent for? You don’t know this part of the country the way I do. How can I be sure he was telling the truth? Damn it, you don’t know these people.”

  Rutledge said only, “I know when I’m being lied to. Your case is wide open, man, it’s time to get on with it. If London can place the victim from the sketch, then you’ll be the first to know. Meanwhile, you’re letting what evidence there is grow cold. I’d speak to the undergardener on the estate, for one. And talk to the nearest stationmaster. He may remember a stranger arriving by train. Hold the inquest, and ask the coroner to bring in the verdict of murder by person or persons unknown, to give you more time.”

  “Don’t teach me how to run an inquiry,” Madsen went on, fuming. “And why are you here in the first place? Because Alice Crowell’s father has friends in high places, looking after his daughter. I tell you, the schoolmaster thought he was killing the man who’d scarred his wife, and you’ll not convince me otherwise. Oh, yes, I got that story out of Mary Norton.”

  “It’s a dead end, Madsen. I’ll have to return to London tomorrow. I need to look into several other possibilities.”

  Or to put it another way, reporting to the Colonel, Madsen told himself in disgust. “Good luck to you then.”

  It was bitter, far from wishing him well.

  As Rutledge walked out of the station, Madsen watched him go. The man from London hadn’t come to discover who the dead man was, whatever he said, Madsen told himself. He’d been sent by Alice’s bloody family to keep her precious husband safe. Once that was done, it was good-bye to Yorkshire, leaving the local man with an unidentified corpse and no murder suspect.

  He let the legs of his chair slam back to the floor, relishing the sound. He’d have liked to throw the chair after the departing Londoner, but that would be the end of his own career. And he was having none of that.

  There was one thing to be done to spike the Londoner’s guns.

  Find Henry Shoreham, or failing that, someone who knew him well enough to say if the dead man was Shoreham or not.

  And if it was, then Crowell could damned well take his chances in a courtroom, Colonel Ingle be damned.

  During the long drive back to London, Hamish was insistent, railing at Rutledge for his handling of Madsen and Crowell alike. “Ye didna’ gie yon inspector the whole truth.”

  “It’s not mine to give, is it?”

  “It would ha’ gone a long way toward placating him.”

  “The War Office can look at this sketch and tell me if we’ve found our man. If we have, then I’ll be back in Yorkshire before the week is out, to discover what happened to him and why.”

  “And if it isna’ Partridge?”

  “Then very likely I’ll be sent back by the Yard. The Chief Constable will be involved by that time. Madsen will complain to him before we’ve reached Cambridge.”

  “Ye should ha’ told him as much. That you’d be back.”

  “I’m not at liberty to explain why I think there’s more to this case than he realizes. If those boys hadn’t confessed, Crowell could well be facing the hangman. And if the victim turns out to be Shoreham after all, he’s still the chief suspect.”

  “Then why the robe, why the mask?”

  “To throw us off. As it did. Although if it was Crowell, he should have been clever enough to rid himself of the body altogether.”

  “He couldna’ leave his wife long enough to take the body verra’ far.”

  “I’m still not convinced that dying so easily would provide a satisfying retribution. A shotgun in the face perhaps, or throttling with one’s bare hands would be a more convincing vengeance.”

  “Aye, but there’s nae weapon, in a gassing.”

  Which was an excellent point.

  Rutledge arrived in London too late to return to the Yard, but the next morning, he was there before Chief Superintendent Bowles had arrived.

  Sergeant Gibson, passing Rutledge in the corridor, said, “Walk softly.”

  Which meant that the Chief Superintendent was not in a good humor.

  Rutledge stopped him and said, “Can you find me information on one Henry Shoreham, of Whitby, Yorkshire? Taken up for public drunkenness after accidentally knocking a young woman into an iron fence and scarring her badly.”

  “I’ll speak to a constable I know in Whitby police station, if you like. What’s he done?”

  “Nothing that I’m aware of. But he could well be a murder victim. In Yorkshire. I’m particularly interested in his appearance—whether he has a cleft in his chin.”

  Gibson nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

  Gossip had it right. Superintendent Bowles had just had a dressing-down by his superiors, and he was nursing his wounds. No one was safe.

  There had been a very careful watch set up for a killer cornered in the East End, and somehow the man had slipped quietly
through the net and escaped. Bowles had borne the brunt of official displeasure.

  As Rutledge came through the door, Bowles looked at him with narrowed eyes. “And what are you doing here? I thought I’d sent you north to Yorkshire.”

  “You had. I brought back a sketch of the dead man. I think someone in the War Office ought to have a look at it.”

  “Very clever of you,” Bowles declared in a growl. “What makes you think they want to meet with you, pray? Sketch or no sketch?”

  “Because I don’t think they’re very keen on traveling to Yorkshire themselves to see the body. There are no distinguishing marks, and any description would fit half the men walking past our door. If they want Partridge badly enough, they’ll agree.”

  Bowles grunted, but picked up the telephone and put in a call. It took nearly a quarter of an hour for someone to get back to him.

  He sent for Rutledge and told him shortly, “Martin Deloran. Someone at the War Office will take you to meet him. They’re waiting. Bloody army.”

  Rutledge retrieved the sketch from his office and left.

  When he was finally admitted into Deloran’s presence, Rutledge had had enough of secrecy and chains of command. He sat down in the chair pointed out to him and said without preamble, “It’s possible I’ve found Partridge. It’s for you to decide.”

  Deloran took the folder that Rutledge passed across the desk and said, “I’m told by Chief Superintendent Bowles that this body was found in the ruins of Fountains Abbey, wrapped in some sort of cloak, with a respirator on his face. Hardly sounds like the man we’ve somehow mislaid.”

  “The respirator was torn. The cloak I think is theatrical.”

  He had a sudden image of his parents leaving for a party, his mother in an Elizabethan costume, the ruff around her face framing it becomingly, the scent of her perfume mixing with the heavier one of cedar shavings. And his father, looking like Charles II in a wig that reached below his shoulders.

  Deloran said, “Well, that’s not Partridge, I can tell you. I doubt he ever went to the theatre in his life.”

  “A masquerade,” Rutledge said. “Not theatrical.” It fit—the fineness of the weave and the quality of the robe…

  Nothing changed in Deloran’s face. But the fingers holding a pen tightened. He said, “I doubt Partridge would have been caught dead in a masquerade.” Then he realized what he’d just said, and smiled. “Sorry. But you take the point, I’m sure.”

  He picked up the folder, almost as if to satisfy Rutledge rather than from any curiosity on his part. Looking at the sketch, he said thoughtfully, “It’s hard to say, given the inferior quality of the drawing. But I can tell you that this looks nothing like our man.”

  He closed the folder and passed it back to Rutledge. “It appears we were wrong about Yorkshire. I expect Partridge will show up in his own good time, whether we look for him or not.”

  “This man was very likely murdered,” Rutledge told him bluntly. “He didn’t die there in the ruins. He was carried there, after he was dead.”

  “Yes, very sad.” Deloran prepared to stand, ready to dismiss Rutledge. “Thank you so much for your help in this matter. We are more grateful than you know.”

  He was standing now, and he gestured to the sketch. “I hope there’s a successful conclusion to this case. Are you returning to Yorkshire?”

  “At the moment, no.” Rutledge stood also.

  “Just as well. Let them sort out this inquiry. I’m sure they’ll manage very well. Local people know best, oftentimes, deep roots in their patch, and all that. Sorry to have muddied the waters.”

  “Are you quite certain this couldn’t be your man Partridge?”

  “Absolutely.” Deloran offered his hand, and Rutledge took it. “Innis will see you out.”

  As they walked out of the room, Hamish said, referring to Deloran, “I wouldna’ care to play cards wi’ him.”

  Innis was waiting to escort him out of the building. Rutledge, considering the gray-haired man, would have placed him as a retired sergeant-major, ramrod back, calm face, an air of unquestioned authority that had nothing to do with a uniform.

  On the street once more, Rutledge answered Hamish. “I’ll give you any odds you like that our dead man is Partridge. The question is, why wouldn’t Deloran admit to it?”

  “He’s deid,” Hamish said. “And that pleases someone.”

  “Yes,” Rutledge answered slowly.

  His dismissal rankled. The bland lies, the willingness to abandon a man who was inconvenient, even though someone had murdered him, the arrogance of the assumption that Rutledge would walk away as well, case closed, not even warning him off so much as believing that a policeman could be so easily gulled, left a bad taste.

  And in the meantime, Inspector Madsen, with a corpse on his hands and his main suspect cleared, was to be left in the dark.

  Back at the Yard, Gibson was waiting for him outside his office.

  “I’ve been on the horn to Whitby. They remember your man Shoreham. He was never tried for the injury to Mrs. Crowell. The family refused to take the matter further. Shoreham left town shortly after that, and Whitby has quite lost track of him.”

  “Shame, I should imagine.”

  “Very likely,” Gibson responded. “After losing his position, he found there was no use staying on where he wasn’t wanted. Another town, another life.”

  “Quite,” Rutledge answered.

  “No one remembers his chin.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “And so far as Whitby knows, he never came to the attention of the police again. No inquiries in regard to a troubled past.”

  “A lesson learned. Yes. Thank you, Sergeant. Well done.”

  He was about to walk on, when Gibson added, “No inquiries, that is, until this morning. From an inspector in Elthorpe, or so I was told.”

  Rutledge stopped in his tracks. “Indeed.”

  “Seems they have a dead man they can’t identify. And they’re coming round to thinking it could be Shoreham.”

  Rutledge swore.

  “Keep searching for Shoreham, then. I need to be sure he’s alive. More important, I need to know where he’s currently living.”

  “That’s a tall order,” Gibson said doubtfully.

  “Yes, well. If we don’t find him, someone is going to hang for his murder.”

  Rutledge walked on down the passage to Chief Superintendent Bowles’s office. As he went, he made up his mind about what he was going to say.

  Bowles looked up as he entered the cluttered room.

  “Well?”

  “The case is closed. At least as far as Mr. Deloran is concerned. I’m not so sure.”

  “You don’t want to run afoul of that lot.”

  “No. On the other hand, I have a feeling that they’d rather sweep a murder under their carpet than tell us the truth. There’s a man dead in Yorkshire, and they would just as soon ignore him. I’d like to clear up a few loose ends before I accept their verdict. Frankly, I wouldn’t put it past them to have got rid of this man Partridge themselves.”

  “We can’t go meddling into matters that are none of our business.” There was alarm on Bowles’s face now. He’d already run afoul of his superiors this week.

  “The dead man could be anyone. From anywhere in England. But if Inspector Madsen has his way, he’ll call him Henry Shoreham and take one Albert Crowell, the schoolmaster, into custody on a charge of murder. We can’t seem to lay hands on Shoreham. Before we can say with any certainty that he’s the victim, we must make certain to eliminate the choice that sent me to Yorkshire in the first place. I’d like to ask someone who knows—knew—Partridge well to tell me the man in the sketch I had made is not Partridge. It will clear the field to pursue the issue of Shoreham’s whereabouts. If it is Partridge, we can save a good many man hours searching for Shoreham.”

  Bowles considered his options. In the end, it would be his duty to report to his own superiors how and why Rutle
dge came to be meddling in affairs that were none of his business. On the other hand, the Chief Constable of Yorkshire was not to be trifled with. He was vocal and did not suffer fools lightly. If there was any chance that one of Bowles’s men was intent on pursuing a wrong course that could lead to a public embarrassment—

  He wiped a hand across his face.

  “Damned if we do, and equally damned if we don’t,” he said. “All right. Look into the business. But hear me, Rutledge! I won’t have toes stepped on for naught. You’ll go about this quietly, whatever you do. Tying up loose ends is all very well, but we needn’t bruit it about. Ask your question without prejudice and come back to London with your answer. Understood?”

  “Understood, sir. I’ll leave in the morning.”

  He went back to his flat that evening, packed his valise with fresh clothing, ready to set out for Berkshire.

  He got a late start through no fault of his own.

  His sister was at his door just after breakfast, and he could tell from her face that all was not well.

  She toyed with a slice of toast in the rack, buttering it and then putting it down untouched.

  The purpose of her visit was—ostensibly—to ask his opinion of a new hat she’d bought the day before.

  It was quite fetching, as her hats generally were. On the other hand, Rutledge thought, on her, most anything would look fetching.

  “You aren’t here at this ungodly hour because you have doubts about your milliner,” he said lightly. “What’s happened?”

  “It’s Simon,” she said, keeping her voice steady with an effort. “He’s been avoiding me. I know that for a fact, I have it on good authority, so don’t tell me I’m imagining things. I don’t know why he’s doing this. I thought—well, I thought we were good friends.”

  “Why should he avoid you?” He threw up a hand, adding, “No, I’m not saying you’re imagining anything. I want to know what reason you think he might have. Something you commented on, for instance, that you regretted as soon as it was out of your mouth. A remark you shouldn’t have made about one of his friends. Something you said that might have led him to believe your feelings for him were stronger than his for you.”