A pale horse ir-10

by Charles Todd

  "Mr. Crowell wouldn't kill anybody. Not even in the war, he couldn't."

  "Then how did his book come to be in the ruins beside a dead man? Who else could possibly have left it there? That's our dilemma. That's why we must know who might have met the man that night. Someone did. We found candle wax in the cloister as well. They must have stood there and talked at some point."

  Hugh was silent, confused, his face working with his thoughts, his body tense as a cornered animal's.

  "We have a body, we have a book with another man's name in it, Mr. Crowell's name, and no answers to the puzzle," Rutledge persisted. "You can see, surely, that we must get to the truth if we're to show whether Mr. Crowell is to blame for what happened. Otherwise, he'll be held responsible."

  Hugh said, as if he thought it was all a trick, "There's no one dead I heard of. Who is it, then? And what was he doing in the abbey late at night?"

  Rutledge answered him with honesty. "We don't know his name. He's a stranger." He reached for the file on Mrs. Crowell's desk and opened it to show the sketched face to Hugh. The boy hesitated, then curiosity got the better of him.

  "That's him, then?" Hugh stared at the face. "He doesn't look dead."

  "I assure you he is. We don't know where to find his family."

  After a moment Hugh looked away. "What killed him?"

  "He was-er-overcome by gas." Rutledge had debated what to say, knowing that the question would surely come up. It was important to be honest with the boy, now.

  That took Hugh aback. "Like in the war?"

  "No. Not like in the war."

  "I never saw him before." There was a wealth of relief behind the words. "Never."

  "He hasn't come to call on someone in Dilby? Perhaps met him by the church or at the edge of the village? On the road, or even out in a field?"

  Hugh shook his head vigorously.

  "Perhaps you didn't see his face, only his back or a silhouette. The problem is, who did he come here to see?"

  "He never came to Dilby that I know of. It's God's truth."

  "And so we're back to the book of alchemy. And why it was left at this man's feet. In an ancient abbey cloister, of all places."

  Another thought had struck Hugh. He frowned fiercely, as if concentrating on something. What was running through his head was the fear that the Devil they'd raised had found another victim after they had fled the ruins. If this were true, he was as good as a murderer. He felt sick again, his stomach clenching and twisting.

  Rutledge was saying, "He was lying on his back, this man. He wore a respirator on his face and was wrapped in a dark cloak."

  Drawn out of himself, Hugh was staring, his face so pale Rutledge realized he'd touched on something that was shocking to the boy.

  "Say again?" It was a croak, coming out of a tight, dry throat.

  "I didn't mean to frighten you, Hugh."

  "No, sir, tell me that bit again." There was urgency in the boy's posture and his voice.

  "The dead man was wearing a respirator. You've seen them, during the war. We don't know why this was on his face, and it was broken, but there you are. And the cloak was heavy, black. What is it, Hugh, what's wrong? "

  Rutledge was on his feet as the boy slumped in his chair, starting to shake as if he were running a fever.

  His eyes stared at Rutledge accusingly, begging.

  "For God's sake, young man, what's wrong?"

  "You're lying to me." It was a whisper.

  "I don't lie, Hugh. I can take you to Elthorpe and show you these things."

  Hugh nodded. "I want to see them."

  But he sat there, as if he couldn't manage to stand on his own two feet.

  Rutledge was watching him. "What is it, Hugh? Tell me what you're afraid of."

  Hugh struggled with himself, then got up and said, "Can I go now? "

  Rutledge thought he meant, was he free to leave. Then realized he was actually asking to be taken to Elthorpe.

  "Yes, now."

  Hugh nodded, followed Rutledge from the room, and in the passage outside he ran into another boy Rutledge hadn't seen before. The boy was staring at Hugh, and he said shortly, "There's nothing wrong, Tad. There's nothing wrong!"

  Rutledge said, "Do you want Tad to come with you?"

  Hugh shook his head forcefully, and Tad seemed to melt back into the wall, making room for the policeman and Hugh to pass.

  It was a silent ride to Elthorpe, though Hamish was still vocal just behind Rutledge's right ear. At one point, Rutledge retorted sharply, "It was the right thing to do."

  Hugh looked across at him, startled. Rutledge tempered his voice and repeated, "It was the right thing to do, Hugh. You're a brave lad."

  When they reached the doctor's surgery, Rutledge explained that he'd come to show Hugh Tredworth the clothing that the dead man had been wearing. The doctor's nurse took them back to a door at the end of the passage, and Hugh began to drag his heels.

  "I don't have to see him, do I? You didn't say I had to see him. Just his things."

  "That's right. I'll bring them out to you."

  The nurse opened the door into a room lined with shelving, storage for blankets, medical instruments, an array of bottles, and other paraphernalia. On a lower one, tidily boxed, was the folded cloak and on top of it was the respirator.

  On a bench outside the closet, Rutledge spread the cloak out for Hugh to see, and set the mask in at the head, the way it had covered the dead man's face.

  Hugh stood there, absorbing the image Rutledge had created. His eyes squinted, as if he were comparing a memory with what lay before him. Then he looked up at the man from London. There was a mixture of emotions in his expression. Understanding, alarm, confusion, distress. Rutledge could have sworn that among them was disappointment.

  "It wasn't the Devil, then." The boy's voice was flat, without feeling.

  "The Devil?"

  Hugh turned and marched out of the surgery, Rutledge hastily thanking the nurse and following him out to the motorcar.

  Hugh was leaning against the wing, his face hidden.

  Rutledge gave him time to recover and then said quietly, so that passersby couldn't hear, "Will you tell me what you know, Hugh?"

  "I want to go home now." Hugh turned and scrambled into the passenger's side, waited for Rutledge to crank the motorcar, then join him.

  They were nearly out of Elthorpe before Hugh spoke.

  "We thought it was the Devil lying there," he said, beginning at the end of the tale, tears suddenly welling in his eyes. He looked away. "That's when I dropped the book, we were all so afraid."

  "You were there?" Rutledge tried to absorb that. "What took you there, Hugh? Why should you think it was the Devil?"

  "Because we'd been trying to raise him, weren't we? With that book of Mr. Crowell's."

  "That's a book of alchemy."

  "There's spells in it. That's why I took-borrowed-it."

  The story came tumbling out, relief so great that there was no stopping the pent-up words. Backward, leaping ahead, sometimes garbled, but clear enough. The boy ended, "It wasn't Mr. Crowell who carried the book there. It was me. I went to his office when I was running an errand for Mrs. Crowell, and I took it. Must you tell him? Must you tell my father? There'll be the strap for the lot of us-even Robbie."

  Rutledge said, "Have you told the whole truth, Hugh? Nothing left out, nothing made up?" But he was sure nothing had been held back. The boy had needed the release of telling the whole story to someone. Even a policeman.

  "It's the truth," Hugh said fervently, "I swear it!"

  "Is this why you and your friends were so afraid? Because you believed you'd raised the Devil?"

  "We swore an oath not to tell. But Robbie wanted to tell, he was so afraid. I warned him his tongue would turn black." He brushed his lips with his own tongue. "And look who it was broke first." There was disgust in his voice.

  "You swore not to tell about raising the Devil. But you didn't raise him. What you
saw was a human being, lying there in the shadows."

  "It doesn't matter, does it? An oath is an oath."

  "It matters a great deal. What you've done today is help with a police inquiry. You can rightly be proud of that. Should I speak to your friends, tell them you've done your proper duty? They may remember details that you haven't."

  "I'd rather you didn't. I've told you the lot. What about Mr. Crow- ell, then?"

  "Leave this to me. Once the book has been explained away, there's nothing to link him to this other man, is there?"

  Hugh still seemed uncertain.

  Rutledge asked, "Was there anyone else in the ruins that night? Did you see anyone on the road? Or hear anything, men arguing, someone walking fast to make sure he wasn't seen?"

  "There was no one on the road or in the woods but us. And no one in the ruins. I'd swear to it."

  "If you remember anything, however small the detail might be, will you ask Mrs. Crowell to find me? This is true of your friends as well. Any small detail, Hugh."

  He said again, "No, there was no one. We'd have run for home if there'd been any such thing."

  Which Rutledge thought was more true than any spoken denials.

  He returned the boy to the school, spoke briefly to Mrs. Crowell, and then went looking for her husband.

  "You're in the clear, Crowell. As far as I can see. I'll tell Inspector Madsen that you weren't in the abbey ruins that night."

  "Why are you so certain? And why did you take Hugh Tredworth away from the school without my permission?"

  "He was out that night, and you'd best leave it at that."

  "What do you mean, out that night?"

  "It's police business, Crowell, and if I were you, I'd let sleeping dogs lie. It's in your best interest, after all."

  Crowell's face had taken on a stubborn tightness.

  "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 under- gardener 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.

  D

  uring 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?"