A Pale Horse

by Charles Todd

  Rutledge wasn’t sure how he had driven to the Tomlin Cottages. When his mind cleared, he was there, the motor still ticking over quietly and the White Horse washed clean in the rain.

  He got out and walked to one cottage he hadn’t called on yet. He knocked on the door and waited.

  It was opened finally by a broad-shouldered man whose prematurely white hair was brushed back from a young face. It was hard to judge his age, but when he spoke, it was clear that he was of a class that possessed Victorian manners.

  “Good morning. Are you lost?”

  Rutledge introduced himself. “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” he went on. “Mainly about one of your neighbors, Mr. Partridge.”

  “Silly name,” the man said. “I should think he dreamed it up. We’re not a friendly community, you see. I’ve often wondered how many of us use the name we were born with. Come in out of the rain, man.”

  He stepped aside and allowed Rutledge to enter the main room of the cottage. It was a parlor, with a Georgian desk in one corner and a tall shelf of books along the inner wall.

  “Singleton is the name,” he continued. “Tell me why you’ve been looking for Partridge.”

  “You know he was away, then?” Rutledge asked, taking the chair offered him. “His friends have been anxious about him.”

  “Were they indeed? I shouldn’t have thought he had many friends. No one ever comes to call.” He smiled, the austerity of his face relaxing. “I can see the horse from my desk, and his cottage as well. We have very little to occupy us, you see, and while none of us is anxious to have his own business bruited about, we are curious about our neighbors to the point of nosiness.”

  “There was, I understand, a young woman who came to his door.”

  “Yes, I remember. But she wasn’t admitted, and I found myself thinking that she had stopped to ask directions. She never came again, you see.”

  It was a possibility that Rutledge hadn’t considered.

  In the pause, Singleton asked, “In the war, were you?”

  “France,” Rutledge answered.

  “Then you were lucky to survive. I salute you. It was quite different in my war. Skirmishes in the Empire mostly, though some of them turned nasty of course. For the most part we played polo, set a good example, and dined rather well.”

  “India?”

  “For the last ten years. I spent some time at the Khyber Pass, for my sins. The tribesmen were a wretched lot, troublesome in the extreme, and knew the country far better than we did. Keeping them bottled up was a bloody business, any way you looked at it.”

  Rutledge gestured to the cottage. “This is not the England you fought for.”

  It was a statement.

  Singleton shook his head. “Sadly, no. It’s far from that. We learn to cope, you know, it’s what we’re trained to do. I’m writing about my experiences. Not for publication, you understand, but for my own satisfaction. We’re too busy living to fully understand our lives, you see. Where we came from, where we were going. What went wrong. It’s a way of making sense of the past.” As if he’d said enough about himself, he changed the subject. “Is there anything else I can tell you about Partridge? We spoke, the usual platitudes—‘good morning, lovely weather we’re having, I see your hollyhocks were knocked about by the wind last night, yes, a pity isn’t it, cold enough to be thinking about a fire again, heavy mist this morning, wasn’t it.’ Nothing of consequence.”

  “Was he interested in the chalk horse on the hill?”

  “Strange that you should ask that. I sometimes saw him standing in front of his door, staring up at it at odd times of the day. Or by those trees just down the lane, where he could see the beast at night. It has an ambient glow, you know. Starlight, I suppose. I’m sure most of us have noticed that. Slater, the young smith, is fascinated by it as well. I expect we are all aware of the horse in one way or another, living here. But some more than others.”

  “I’m told Partridge left a time or two, for several days. Did you see him leave? Or return?”

  “I don’t think he wanted us to know when he went away. The chap in Number Nine takes care of the cat when it comes to him for food, but there’s no formal announcement about leaving. He’s there and he’s not there.”

  “Any idea where he might have gone on these occasions?”

  “Good Lord, no. We don’t pry. Not in that way. If it can’t be seen at a distance, then we leave it alone.”

  “That makes for good neighbors,” Rutledge said dryly.

  “Actually it doesn’t. One of us could die here and no one would wonder, until the smell reached him. Have you spoken to the man in Number Four? He seems to spend an inordinate amount of time studying Partridge’s cottage. I’ve seen him at his window, using field glasses.”

  Number 4 was Brady’s cottage. Deloran’s man.

  “No, I haven’t. I’ve just stopped at the cottages closest to Partridge’s.”

  “Yes, we’ve all seen you coming round. I had wondered when it would be my turn.”

  Rutledge smiled. “I’ve called on a few of the residents, yes. Quincy, Slater, Mrs. Cathcart, Willingham—”

  “He gave you short shrift, didn’t he? I think I’ve spoken to him fewer times than I spoke to Partridge.”

  “—and there’s Brady. Who are the other two?”

  “There’s Miller in Number Seven, just up from Mrs. Cathcart. He’s a curmudgeon by nature and we leave him alone. I’d go to anyone else before him if I needed help. And the last of our happy little family is Allen. My neighbor in Number Six. He would have made our dear patroness proud. I’m told he’s dying of tuberculosis. Sometimes of a summer’s evening, one can hear him cough. Not precisely leprosy, but a wasting disease, nonetheless.”

  “I appreciate your time, Mr. Singleton,” Rutledge said, rising. “And I’ll be on my way. I have business to attend to in London. But I expect to be back before long. If you see anyone at Mr. Partridge’s door, make a note of it.”

  “I shall, if the occasion arises.” Singleton saw Rutledge to the door and added, “I hope you conclude your business with us shortly. We’ve all secrets here, and none of us enjoys the attention of strangers.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Rutledge replied, and before he was five paces down the path, the door behind him was quietly closed.

  Hamish said, “We’re no’ what you’d call sociable in the Highlands, but we’re no’ sae unfriendly as this lot.”

  “As he said, they have secrets. Not necessarily murder, but to them just as important.”

  “Aye. Important enough to kill for?”

  It was a thought that had already occurred to Rutledge, sitting in Singleton’s tidy parlor.

  But how would any of these eight householders manage to take a body to Yorkshire?

  “Partridge has a motorcar.”

  “And it’s still here.”

  “Aye, so it is. But that doesna’ mean it never left.”

  Rutledge settled his account with Mrs. Smith and turned the bonnet of his motorcar toward London.

  He hadn’t been in his flat five minutes when he saw the note propped up on the small table by his bed.

  It was in Frances’s handwriting and said only, “If you are home to read this, call Gibson at the Yard.”

  She had been to his flat in his absence and found a messenger on his doorstep. What had brought her here? Simon Barrington? A need to talk to someone? Another invitation to a dinner she didn’t want to attend alone?

  Rutledge put the thought aside and looked at the time. He could just catch Sergeant Gibson, if he hurried.

  Turning on his heel, he went back to his motorcar and drove to the Yard.

  Gibson was just coming down the walk as Rutledge was looking for a space in which to leave his vehicle.

  The sergeant recognized him at once and came to the nearside of the car. He was a big man, and he bent down to see Rutledge’s shadowed face.

  “There’s trouble,” he said.
r />   “Bowles?”

  “Not this time. For one thing, I couldn’t find Henry Shoreham. No one has seen him since he left Whitby. Vanished from the face of the earth.”

  Damn.

  “You’re quite sure?”

  Gibson drew back, offended. “I’m sure.”

  “Sorry. I meant to say, given the case in Yorkshire, that this is the worst possible news.”

  “That it is. For one thing, if he’s nowhere to be found, he can’t speak for himself. And Inspector Madsen has taken it in his head to send his men for the schoolmaster, to help in his inquiries.”

  Rutledge swore again. “I told Madsen the book on alchemy had nothing to do with the dead man.”

  “He said as much. But since no one can produce Mr. Shoreham, Inspector Madsen is convinced he’s the victim.”

  “And what does the Chief Constable say? Or Bowles, for that matter?”

  “They’re reserving judgment.”

  There was no point in going to Deloran. He’d washed his hands of this business. He would say now that since Partridge hadn’t died in Yorkshire, there must be some truth to Madsen’s suspicions. And leave Crowell to deal with the consequences.

  But where was there any connection between a man named Parkinson, from Wiltshire, and Albert Crowell? Partridge—Parkinson—hadn’t attacked Mrs. Crowell in Whitby. The man Shoreham had been taken into custody; he was a clerk, known in his community. He’d admitted his responsibility.

  But turn the coin the other way—

  Rutledge said, “Do we have a photograph of Shoreham? Was there one taken when the newspapers carried the story about Mrs. Crowell’s injuries?”

  “I’ve not been told there were any.”

  All right then, look at it from a different perspective, Rutledge told himself.

  In the dark, how much did Henry Shoreham resemble Gaylord Partridge or rather Gerald Parkinson? Could a man with a grudge mistake one for the other?

  But then where had he taken his victim to kill him? Not to the school. And Parkinson hadn’t died along the road. Why, when the evidence might in the end point in his direction, had Crowell left the body in the ruins of a medieval abbey, where it was bound to be found, and only miles from where he lived?

  Was he so arrogant that he didn’t believe a connection would be made? Or when he realized he’d killed the wrong man, had he felt sure he was safe?

  Hamish said, “There’s Mrs. Crowell. He would ha’ done his best to keep her out of it, even if she’d killed her tormenter.”

  Rutledge didn’t relish the long drive back to Yorkshire. But there was no other choice now. Damn Deloran!

  “Is Bowles sending anyone north?” he asked Gibson.

  “He sent a constable to see if you’d returned home.”

  “Then I’ll report to him first thing in the morning.” He said good-bye to Gibson and went back to his flat.

  There he found Frances sitting in his parlor drinking his whisky.

  She lifted her glass to him. “I saw your valise by the door. So this time I stayed.”

  “I’m leaving tomorrow for Yorkshire.”

  She pretended to pout, pursing her lips and looking at him out of the corner of her eyes. “I might have known. Here my life is in total crisis, and you’re nowhere to be found.”

  “How’s Simon?”

  The pretense vanished. “Would that I knew.”

  “Frances.”

  She put down the glass. “No, I didn’t come for a lecture. I just needed to hear a friendly voice.”

  “Frances,” he said again, but in an entirely different tone.

  “I don’t want to talk about it. Take me to dinner and make me laugh.”

  He rephrased her response. “Would that I could.”

  “I sometimes do wish that Mother had had a large family.”

  Rutledge laughed. “All right, dinner it is. Let me change.” But at the door to his bedroom, he stopped. “Do you know a Gerald Parkinson?”

  “Parkinson? No, I don’t think I do.” Her interest sharpened. “Should I?”

  “I doubt it. I ran across the name in Wiltshire, and I didn’t want to ask the Yard who he is. At least not yet.”

  “Forget him for one night. I’m sure he’s not going anywhere at the moment.”

  As he went through his door, he said to himself, “No, he’s not going anywhere. He’s dead. And I don’t know for certain what name will be on his stone.”

  Dinner was quiet, Frances in a mood of reminiscence and Rutledge distracted by his thoughts and Hamish’s crushing presence. Hiding his demons from his sister proved to be trying.

  But the next morning he presented himself at the Yard, found a glowering Bowles waiting for him as he walked down the passage toward the Chief Superintendent’s door, and with a sinking heart, followed him into his office.

  “Well? I’ll not be made a fool of, Rutledge. Who’s this dead man stirring up trouble in Yorkshire?”

  “I’ve reason to believe he’s one Gaylord Partridge, who also answers to the name of Gerald Parkinson. His neighbors and a postmaster confirm that.”

  “And Inspector Madsen has reason to believe he’s one Henry Shoreham. He can’t be both, damn it!”

  “I’ll go to Yorkshire and get to the bottom of it.”

  “See that you do. Who’s Gerald Parkinson, when he’s at home? Never heard of him.”

  “He’s from Wiltshire. He’s known there, he has an estate there. For some reason he left it and moved to Berkshire, not far from Uffington, content to live in a small cottage under a different name. His neighbors found him aloof, and none of them seems to know he had a past different from the one he’s given out to them. Which is precious little.”

  “Are you certain this sketch of yours is a good likeness? You’ll look a fool and so would I if it’s off the mark.”

  “No one in Yorkshire admitted to recognizing the body—or the sketch.”

  “Humph.” Bowles rubbed his eyes. “Well, it’s time to get to the truth. Find out why Inspector Madsen is hell-bent on causing trouble. Or what he knows that we don’t. Either way, settle it. Don’t come back until you do.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “No, man, you’ll do more than your best. If we’re to have a hornet’s nest burst about our ears, we want to make certain we can survive it.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I have no more use for this Deloran than you do. I don’t like outsiders meddling in an inquiry, and above all I don’t relish being made to look a fool. Do you understand me?”

  Bowles had been an unexpected and unwilling ally when they faced a common enemy in the War Office. Now he was back to his irascible self.

  Rutledge took a deep breath. “I’m fairly certain Deloran is hiding information that might make our work easier. But I can’t find a way to get at it without bringing Partridge to his attention again.”

  “If you’re asking me to beard the lion in his den, you’ve another think coming. You’re expendable, Rutledge. And don’t you forget it.”

  During the long drive north, Rutledge had much on his mind, and there was only Hamish to break the silence that pursued him mile after mile. When, the next morning, he pulled into Elthorpe, he had the odd feeling that nothing had changed since his first arrival only days ago. As he switched off the motor, he could have sworn the same faces were on the street, the same wares displayed in the shop windows, and the same rain clouds hovered in the distance. He sat for a moment looking at nothing, considering how best to say what must be said to Inspector Madsen.

  A cold wind blew across the dales and into the narrow streets, reminding him that here April had not brought the same spring softness that was awakening the south of England.

  Finally he got out of the motorcar and crossed the road to the police station.

  There was a distinct pause in conversation when he entered and asked for the inspector.

  Madsen was not pleased to see him. He met Rutledge’s gaze with righteous hostility as he came thr
ough the door, waiting for him to speak first.

  “I’ve been told that Albert Crowell has been taken into custody.”

  “Oh, yes, you explained away that book on alchemy very well. It’s harder to explain away Henry Shoreham’s disappearance less than a week before we found our corpse in the abbey.”

  Rutledge said, “I’ve had a positive identification of your victim. He lived in Berkshire, and as far as I know, never met Alice Crowell.”

  “From a sketch.”

  “You yourself saw both the sketch and the victim. Are you telling me that the sketch is faulty?”

  “Then what was your Berkshire man doing, hanging about in Yorkshire?”

  “I don’t have the answer to that. Yet. My sergeant told me,” Rutledge went on, “that Shoreham had left Whitby shortly after the Crowells refused to press charges against him, and no one has seen him since. Where has he been, these last few years?”

  Madsen sat down in his chair and leaned back, suddenly smug. “London isn’t as thorough as a good Yorkshire man can be when he puts his mind to it. We ran Shoreham to earth in the village of Addleford, living quietly with a cousin. Only, he went to stay with another cousin, and vanished. This cousin, one Lewellyn Williams, swore he never arrived. And he left Addleford because a family from Whitby moved there and he feared he’d be recognized.”

  “Why didn’t one or the other of these cousins raise the alarm when Shoreham failed to arrive in Wales? Surely they were concerned about him?”

  “The one in Wales thought Shoreham had changed his mind about coming just then. The one in Addleford thought he was snug in Wales. Constable Pickerel got the distinct impression that the cousin in Addleford hadn’t been in any great hurry to contact Williams.”

  “How did Crowell find Shoreham, if it was impossible for the Yard to locate him?”

  “It’s our view that Crowell ran into him quite by chance. Lucky for him, not so fortunate for Shoreham. The Crowells weren’t living in Dilby when the accident happened. Shoreham had no way of knowing his danger.”

  “For the sake of argument, let’s say you’re right—”

  Madsen smiled. “Very well.”

  “Where did Shoreham die? And why did Crowell take the risk of leaving him in the abbey ruins? It was not the cleverest thing to do.”