A pale horse ir-10

by Charles Todd

  And that didn't appear to be a simple matter.

  But he could see, he thought, what the army was about-searching out unidentified bodies in the expectation that one of them might be Gaylord Partridge. Because the man still hadn't returned to the cottages in Berkshire, or London would have recalled the Yard's emissary by now.

  Why did they think Partridge might be dead?

  Did he have other enemies? Or was it that the army didn't want to step forward and publicly claim the man's body? If Rutledge identified him in the course of a murder investigation, there would be no connection with officialdom.

  It was possible that Partridge's earlier forays had been made to prepare an escape route, so to speak, away from his watchers. And this time, unlike before, he had no intention of coming back.

  And instead of going missing and causing an uproar, he'd died and inconvenienced everyone.

  Rutledge was tempted to take the sketch to show at the Tomlin Cottages, to see what Quincy and Slater and the others might say about it.

  But early days for that, now.

  He found he'd driven back to Dilby, where the schoolmaster lived.

  Hamish said, "It willna' be useful."

  And yet Rutledge left his car by the church and walked through the village, getting a sense of it.

  He'd seen much of England over the years, both as a policeman and as an ordinary visitor. Wherever he had traveled, he'd found a sense of place-a shared history, a shared background. But this little spot on the map seemed to have none of that. No sense of the past in the square buildings with their slate roofs, gray in the cloudy light. No sense of history, no armies marching through the churchyard, no Roman ruin under the baker's shop, no medieval tithe barn on the fringe of the village. The abbey must have wielded some influence here-if not Fountains, then one of the others. Ripon, perhaps. What had the monks run here? Sheep, or even cattle? Or was this tilled land? Beyond the village, where he could see green and heavily grassed pastures, there must have been good grazing from the earliest days. Surely the inhabitants of Dilby had been tenants of the abbeys, not monks. Laymen or even lay brothers, earning their keep and owning nothing until the Dissolution of the Monasteries by Henry VIII had left them masterless and destitute, scraping out a living where they could or falling under the sway of whatever lordling had coveted these acres.

  He had come to the end of the village now, and turned to walk back.

  Hamish said, "It's no' a place of comfort."

  Rutledge was about to answer him when he saw a face in an upper- story window staring down at him.

  A young boy's face, so terrified that he seemed to be on the verge of crying. Glimpsed for only a moment, then gone, as if Rutledge had imagined it.

  It wasn't Hugh or his friend Johnnie. He was certain of that.

  What did these children know? What were they so frightened of?

  Rutledge walked on, an unhurried pace that took him back to his motorcar, nodding to men he passed on the street, touching his hat to the women. No one stopped him to ask his business.

  They already knew. The blankness in their eyes as they acknowledged his greeting covered something else, an unwillingness to be a part of what was happening.

  How long could the schoolmaster go on living here, if the cloud of suspicion wasn't lifted, and soon? He would be sent packing, no longer the proper person to form young minds. Miss Norton was right about that.

  Rutledge drove back to Elthorpe in a bleak mood, as if the village had left its mark on him.

  On the outskirts lines from the poetry of O. A. Manning seemed to express what he felt about Dilby. It had been written about a shell- gutted village in France, empty of people, empty of beauty, empty of hope.

  There is something cold and lost

  Here, as if the people died long ago,

  No one left to mourn them or tell me why.

  My footsteps echo on what was the street,

  A rose blooms in a corner where no one sees

  The beauty that it offers to the dead.

  I thought to pluck it and take it away,

  But it belongs here, a memorial to them.

  No birds sing in the ruined trees,

  No fowl scratch in unweeded kitchen gardens,

  No child's laughter answers a mother's voice.

  There's only the wind searching for something to touch

  And passing through unhindered.

  A fleeting memory came to him-Alice Crowell's welcome, as if she had been expecting him. And yet as far as he knew there was no reason why she should.

  8

  The next morning found Rutledge back at the Dilby school, encountering a surprised Albert Crowell in the passage just as he came out of a classroom. Rutledge had brought the sketch of the dead man back with him.

  "Inspector. What can I do for you?" Crowell asked.

  "I'd like a word with your wife, if she's here."

  There was a wary expression in his eyes now.

  "In regard to what?" Crowell asked bluntly.

  "I'm afraid that's police business at the moment."

  Crowell gave some thought to the request and then said, "She's in the small room we call the library. Four doors down and to your left."

  "Thanks." Rutledge walked on, feeling the man's gaze following him as he counted doors and stopped to knock lightly on the fourth.

  A woman's voice called, "Come in."

  But whoever it was Alice Crowell was expecting, it wasn't Rutledge this time. Surprise crossed her face, and she bit her lip before saying, "You haven't come to arrest my husband, have you? Please tell me you haven't."

  "Not at all. I didn't intend to alarm you," he said easily, coming into the room and shutting the door.

  As if Hamish knew now what he was about to do, the voice in his head seemed to swell into angry remonstrance.

  "No' here, it isna' wise, what if yon schoolmaster is guilty? "

  He ignored it as best he could.

  There were handmade bookshelves around the walls, most of them half full. The titles ranged from simple children's works to more serious books on history and geography and biography. He recognized a tattered copy of Wordsworth, and another of Browning, among the poetry selections. A meager library, but for this small place, it must seem handsome.

  Mrs. Crowell gestured to a chair across from the one where she was sitting. It was an intimate arrangement in the center of the room, two chairs and a scattering of benches for the children. A woven carpet covered the floor, and there was a fireplace in one wall.

  "It's here we read to the children at the end of the day," she said. "They may never have access to such books after they've left us. Sadly, most of them are destined to work on the farms for their fathers or their uncles. But on the other hand they've known that since they were old enough to understand anything, and they take it as a natural course of events."

  "It must seem to you a waste, at times. With a particularly bright student."

  "Education is never wasted. But yes, we've taught a few who might have gone on to university. We encourage them, of course we do. But who will work the farm while they're away? And what will happen to that farm if the son of the house comes to prefer London or Ipswich or Canterbury to Dilby? Do you have children, Inspector? Do you expect them to be policemen?"

  He could see that she was avoiding asking him what had brought him to her.

  "Sadly, I'm not married," he told her, "but if I had a son, I'd hope he chose the career most suited to him." He found himself remembering a small boy in Scotland, named for him but not his son. "Did the war reach as far as Dilby?" he went on quickly, before the memory took hold.

  "Oh, yes," she replied with sadness in her voice. "We paid a high price here, considering our numbers. Most of our men wanted to serve together, and so they were killed together as well. A good many of our children were orphaned. It's been very hard for them. And Albert lost his brother, Julian. But Mary has told you about him, hasn't she? I'm sure she has."
<
br />   "Your husband was in the war, I understand."

  The wariness crept back into her eyes. "Yes."

  "We didn't disparage the men who drove ambulances," he said. "They were very brave to go where they were needed most. And they were caring. In the worst of the fighting, they were often the last touch of England that many dying men knew."

  A smile brightened her face. "Thank you," she said softly. As if she too had wondered about her husband's bravery under fire and had had no one to ask.

  He went on, "I've come to make a request. I'd like to speak to several of your students, alone if possible."

  "Why? And which of them do you have in mind? I didn't think you knew any of them."

  "The one called Hugh. And his friend. Johnnie. The one who went home because he'd been sick."

  "Why on earth should you be interested in those two? They're troublesome, but nothing beyond the usual mischief one expects of boys who are not good students and find school boring."

  "Something appears to have frightened them."

  She frowned. "How do you mean? Are you saying that someone has frightened them?"

  "Not necessarily someone. Perhaps something."

  "But what has this to do with my husband?"

  "Nothing at all, for all I know. But until I speak with them, I can't tell you how they fit into this business. And it might be best to do that here, rather than in their homes. Less intimidating, perhaps."

  All the while, Hamish was reminding him that Crowell was the chief suspect. "Ye could verra' well be putting yon lads in harm's way."

  Mrs. Crowell was intelligent, her mind working quickly as she sorted through several thoughts pressing for her attention.

  "And if I say no?"

  "Mrs. Crowell, I would prefer your cooperation. But if you refuse to give it, I shall have to approach the families directly."

  "You don't seem to understand. John Standing isn't here today, he's not well enough to return. And for several days, another boy, Robbie Medway, has been ill. His mother was saying to me only last evening that she was at a loss to know what was wrong. His brother Tad and John's cousin Bill have been very distracted in class. And that's not like them. It isn't boredom. I expect they're worried about their friends. The four of them are also friends with Hugh Tredworth. He's not been himself either. Very subdued. It would be best not to add the distress of speaking to a policeman to the problems in their home situation just now. You see, one of our brightest boys died a few months ago of complications from measles, and any illness is disturbing to the children now. One of the younger students asked me only this morning if Robbie was going to die too. There's your frightening something."

  Hamish chided Rutledge, "You wouldna' heed me. They're afraid of yon schoolmaster."

  "I appreciate your concern for them, Mrs. Crowell. It's admirable. All the more reason to interview the boys here. If you would bring them to me now…" He left the words hanging in the air between them, leaving her no way out.

  "I believe as a teacher I'm in a better position to judge." She tried another tactic. "Inspector, these are children. It's cruel to drag them into something as horrid as a suspicious death. I don't understand how schoolboys here in Dilby could possibly know anything about your dead man at the abbey. I expect they've never set foot in the ruins."

  He cut her short. "It will be done, Mrs. Crowell. Here. At their homes. Or in the police station at Elthorpe. The decision must be yours."

  Mrs. Crowell capitulated with what grace she could muster. "Hugh is here. I'll find him and bring him to you."

  He could almost read what was running through her mind. Better to know what was happening than be in the dark.

  "Before you go. I'd rather you didn't tell Hugh or your husband why he's being taken out of class."

  She couldn't contain her fear any longer. "I know what it is you're intent on asking. If they've seen my husband out walking late at night. After all, their house windows overlook the street. But he does walk sometimes. Albert suffers from headaches, he has since the war, and the cool air helps at the end of the day. Inspector Madsen will use that against him, and it isn't fair." A slow flush rose to her cheeks. "I thought," she added accusingly, "that you had been sent here to put an end to this harassment of my husband."

  "I shan't know that until I've spoken to Hugh. If you please."

  Ten minutes later she returned with a very flushed Hugh Tredworth. He edged into the room, staring at Rutledge as if the Devil himself were awaiting him.

  Rutledge smiled at Mrs. Crowell. "Thank you. I'll let you know when we're finished."

  That alarmed Hugh, who was clearly not happy with being left alone with the tall man standing there by the window.

  "I think I should stay. In lieu of his parents-"

  But Rutledge cut her off again. "This is not a police interview, Mrs. Crowell. Merely a conversation."

  She left reluctantly, casting a last glance at Hugh as she closed the door behind her. It could have been interpreted as a warning or as encouragement. Rutledge rather thought that Hugh took it as the former. He seemed to shrink, as if his last protector had betrayed him.

  He stood there, waiting for martyrdom, staring at his executioner with a complex mixture of bravura, fright, and a deep-seated worry.

  And it was the worry that intrigued Rutledge.

  "Hugh, my name is Rutledge. I've come from London to help the local police in a matter that perplexes them. You had nothing directly to do with this problem, but I have a feeling that you might know some small piece of the puzzle that will help us sort out what really happened at Fountains Abbey."

  "I don't know anything. I told you that yesterday, didn't I?"

  "Is that true? Your friend Johnnie was very upset yesterday. Is he the one I ought to be speaking with this morning?"

  "No!" It was explosive. As if Hugh were afraid that Johnnie could be persuaded to tell more than he should.

  Rutledge gestured to the chairs in the center of the room. "Sit down, Hugh, I'm not here to persecute you or your friend. No, not on the bench. On the other chair. This is man to man."

  Hugh sat gingerly on the chair, as if suspecting a trick. His face was set now, his mind racing. But his stomach was about to betray him, his nerve close to breaking.

  "Who are your friends, Hugh?" Rutledge asked, trying to put him at ease.

  But it was the wrong question.

  "Don't have any," he said gruffly. "Nobody likes me."

  "That's not true. You were very concerned about Johnnie yesterday."

  "He's not my mate," Hugh said stubbornly. "He doesn't like me."

  "Are you protecting someone? Is that why you're so afraid?"

  "I'm not afraid of anything!" It was almost a shout, but one that rang of pain rather than anger.

  "Who left the village on Monday night, the evening that someone was killed in the Fountains Abbey church?"

  "No one, I didn't see anyone."

  It was a plea now, and Rutledge heard more than Hugh intended.

  Hugh and at least one of his friends had been out that night, bent on some adventure of their own. One that their parents knew nothing about. And that was keeping them tongue-tied. The knowledge that any confession would get them into serious difficulty with their fathers, never mind the law. Rutledge wondered if Hugh had made a habit of late-night forays.

  I didn't see anyone…

  No, I was in my bed that night…

  He said, while Hamish thundered in his head, "Hugh. You'll be safer if you tell me what's been happening. You know, don't you? You and John Standing, his cousin William, Tad and his brother Robert."

  Rutledge had no way of guessing that in Hugh's mind, not even a London policeman was a match for the Devil. Probing, listening, he was trying to build a picture of what had so disturbed this distraught, tense child. But he was going about it from an adult's perspective, knowing the truth and trying to work backward from it. That these boys had actually been in the abbey ruins was the last thi
ng to cross his mind.

  Hugh was living in a different reality, one in his mind that was so unforgivable he could find no way back to the safety of his old life. What had begun as a daring escapade had turned into a nightmare. His knowledge of history, scant as it was, included burning witches at the stake for summoning the Devil. It hadn't even occurred to him on his way to Fountains Abbey that he was going down that path, but it had struck him forcibly later. His concept of the Devil had been a simple one, more like the spirit in a magic lamp than the fiend they'd met. Something to brag about, not something that could destroy him.

  Hugh's brows flicked together, and Rutledge could almost hear the thoughts rushing through his head. Who told? Who spoke out of turn?

  "If you won't tell me, I must ask the other boys. Robert is younger, he might not be as stubborn as you are, or as determined to protect his friends."

  "Robbie has nothing to do with us." The words were angry, and full of fear as well. "Leave Robbie out of this."

  "I'm afraid I can't. There are suspicious circumstances surrounding a man's death, you see, and I've come north to find out why he died. If he was killed."

  It was all Hugh could do to stop himself from blurting out, None of us killed him-it was the Devil!

  Rutledge tried another direction. "Do you know the book on alchemy that belongs to Mr. Crowell?"

  "I've seen it," Hugh said warily. He had nearly forgotten the book by the time the Elthorpe inspector brought it back to the school. That had shaken him. But with a child's sense of what was important, he could now safely deny all knowledge of it. It was where it ought to be, wasn't it, and no one knew he'd borrowed it. Now he dredged up his first acquaintance with it. "He shows it when he's trying to explain how people get things wrong, but in the end, each bit of knowledge helps the next person looking for the truth."

  Even to his own ears that sounded very much like a memorized lesson he was parroting.

  "Police work is much the same," Rutledge told him, seizing his opportunity. "We try this bit of knowledge and that bit, and in the end, we learn the truth. We-the police-found that book in Fountains Abbey the night a man died. And so we came to speak to Mr. Crowell. His name was in it, you see. And the police believe he might have been in the ruins of the cloister talking with the man who was later killed."