by Charles Todd
"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 Parkin- son?"
"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." inner was quiet, Frances in a mood of reminiscence and Rut- ledge 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 Uff- ington, 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 through 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 Addl- eford, 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 Ad- dleford 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."
The legs of Madsen's chair smacked the floor with a sharp thump. "Early days yet, Rutledge, but we'll have that soon enough."
"I'd like the name of the cousin in Addleford. And the direction of the Welsh cousin as well."
"Where's the need? We've been over that ground already."
"So you have," Rutledge responded with more patience than he felt. "But the Yard will require assurances that all the evidence has been thoroughly examined. More to the point, we appear to have some confusion about identity. I'll remind you that Mrs. Crowell didn't recognize the drawing, and Crowell himself said he couldn't identify the body, when he was taken to the doctor's surgery."
"Well, they would say as much, wouldn't they? Crowell because he had no intention of drawing attention to himself, and Al-Mrs. Crowell, that is-because she's not about to betray her husband."
Rutledge saw something in Madsen's face as he said the last few words that was very different from his manner to this point. "Nothing in my conversations with her made me feel she would lie for her husband's sake. And what about Crowell's feelings about killing? They're on record."
"This is the man who ruined his wife's face, for God's sake. It's all very well to make a public display of forgiving the bastard, but deep down inside? Crowell was probably biding his time for a bit of quiet revenge." Madsen shook his head. "I don't hold with conscientious objectors. I never have. They were perfectly willing to let someone else die in their place, weren't they? I'll stay home, cozy by my hear
th, thank you very much, and leave you to do the fighting!"
"I remind you he drove an ambulance."
"Yes, that's all very well. A bit of conscience overcoming him, for a guess." It was a sneer. "And Alice thought him quite the hero, didn't she, bringing back the wounded and saving lives. And those of us who had to carry on back in England, doing the job we were meant to do, were not good enough-"
Madsen stopped short, but not before Rutledge had seen more than he was meant to see.
Alice…
And those of us who had to carry on here in England were not good enough…
As Madsen struggled to rein in his temper, Hamish said, "Ye ken, he's jealous, and he canna' live with it."
The inspector looked away from Rutledge, his gaze going to a half- dozen folders lying on top of the table at his elbow. "It could be she's afraid to tell us what she really thinks. There's no getting around the fact that every time she looks in her mirror, the scar is there, staring back at her."
He picked up one of the folders and opened it. "Peter Littleton. That's the cousin in Addleford. And this man Williams lives outside Aberystwyth in a place called Hill Farm."
Rutledge took the sheet of paper that Madsen held out to him. "I'll let you know what I discover."
"Precious little, I'll be bound," Madsen said under his breath as Rutledge left.
Rutledge made a detour to Dilby, to find Alice Crowell. She was trying to keep the school open in her husband's absence. There were shadows under her eyes and a tightness in her face that spoke of her distress. The white scar seemed to shine in the morning light as if newly burnished by the reminders of how it had begun.
There was a flare of hope in her face as she saw Rutledge in the passage outside the bookroom, and she glanced beyond him to see if her husband was following in his wake. And then it vanished as she realized he was alone.
"Have you seen Albert?" she asked anxiously. "They won't allow me to speak to him."
"I haven't seen him. I'm sorry," he told her gently. "But he'll be safe enough where he is, until Inspector Madsen gets to the bottom of this business."
She shook her head. "But he won't do that, will he? Where's the point?"
Mrs. Crowell opened the door behind her and ushered him into the empty room. She indicated a chair for him, but he stood, as she did. There wasn't a great deal to be said by either of them.
"What's behind Madsen's dislike of your husband?" Rutledge asked, coming directly to the point.
"We were about to be engaged once. My parents didn't care for my choice and I was young, I listened to them instead of my heart. I realized later, when I'd met Albert, that they'd been wiser than I. But at the time I was heartbroken."
"I understand that Inspector Madsen has since married."
"Yes, that's true. But his pride was hurt when I had to tell him my father wasn't happy with the match. Father promised he'd speak directly to Harry. But you see, my father was in the army, and there was no opportunity. Harry-Mr. Madsen-wrote to him finally, but there was no reply. My mother, who was alive at the time, always thought that the war had prevented Papa from answering. I knew that wasn't true. He didn't want to encourage either of us. He felt I was making a poor choice. A working-class man."
"Is your father still living?"
"Yes. He's offered to come and fetch me now, but I won't leave Albert." She sighed. "I thought, when you first came here, that my father had sent you. I wrote to him when I saw how Albert was being persecuted. I asked him to intervene."
"And did he?"
"I don't know," she answered him frankly. "He's the colonel of an East Anglian regiment. I thought he might know someone, bring a little pressure to bear in the right quarters. But look how it's all turned out. I expect there was nothing he could do."
Her voice trailed off forlornly, and she looked at the windows. There was a bright sunshine outside, but it failed to light the room, as if sensing the despair that filled it.
Rutledge was tempted to ask her outright if she knew one Martin Deloran but thought better of it. Instead he approached the subject indirectly. "Do you know a man called Gaylord Partridge?"
"What an odd name. I should remember that, if we've ever been introduced. Should I know him?" Hope seemed to spring awake again. "Is there any way he can help me?"
"Later perhaps. And Gerald Parkinson. Did you or your father know him?"
She frowned, digging for the memory. "I went to school with girls by the name of Parkinson. They were much younger; we didn't have a lot in common. But they used to tell everyone the most absurd stories about their father. He was eccentric, if half of it was to be believed. Always tinkering with things. I can't think that he's the same person you're asking me about."
"I agree, it doesn't sound like it. Martin Deloran. Do you know him?"
"Deloran? No, that's not a name I recognize either."
"I'll do what I can for your husband, Mrs. Crowell, but don't count on miracles."
"But I told you-" she began indignantly.
"Yes, so you did. The fact is, you aren't a reliable witness. If the victim of murder is Henry Shoreham, then you have a reason to conceal your knowledge of him. Or anyone associated with him."
Her mouth was open to protest vehemently. He held up a hand to stop her.
"I understand. But you must examine this matter in the same way that the police must do. First a book is found by a dead man's feet, one that has your husband's name in it. That can be explained away very well. Then there's some reason to believe that Henry Shoreham disappeared shortly before the corpse was discovered. If the man in the sketch is Henry Shoreham, then you lied to me and to Madsen. If it isn't, then where is Shoreham? Let's look at it another way. Until we can identify the victim with absolute certainty, we must investigate all the possibilities. Someone is dead, and he deserves to have justice. The police are bound to see to it that he will."
Alice Crowell, no fool, looked at Rutledge with weary resignation.
"I don't know that this poor man will receive justice of any kind. He's too convenient a whipping boy, to make my husband suffer."
"Could Albert Crowell have killed him? Either because he was certain he was Shoreham or thought he looked like the man?"
Her gaze moved toward the books on the shelves. "He believes in forgiveness. He forgave Henry Shoreham, and when he has done that, he wouldn't take it back and kill the man." Her mouth took on a grim expression. "For some time after this happened," she touched her face, "I could have killed Henry Shoreham myself. I was asked to forgive him, and I said the words. But in the depths of my soul, I knew it to be a lie. And I hid it from everyone."
Her eyes came back to his face, as she added, "I wouldn't ask my husband to do murder for my sake. If Inspector Madsen wasn't so blinded by his own anger over my turning down his proposal of marriage, he'd realize that he has the wrong Crowell in custody. I'm the one who had the best reason to kill Henry Shoreham."
13
Addleford was a small dale village that had begun to shrink in the nineteenth century as men found work in the mills or mines. It had continued to shrink into the twentieth. On the outskirts of town were barns without roofs and houses with boarded-up windows. But the heart of the town, with its plain church and churchyard, its one pub and its tiny shops, seemed to be hanging on for dear life.
The houses on either side of the winding street were well kept and the white lace curtains in their windows were cheerful against the gray stone of the walls.
There was no police station here, but Rutledge went to that other source of gossip and information, the local pub. He ate tough beef with a mustard sauce and fresh baked bread, enjoying the peace and quiet of the small dining area next to the bar. The man who served him limped, one leg shorter than the other, giving him a swaying walk that spoke of years of pain. He set down the charger with Rutledge's food and went about his business, taciturn and without curiosity about the stranger who had walked in and asked if luncheon was still being s
erved.
Hamish was telling him that this was a wild-goose chase. Better to leave the troublesome Henry Shoreham to Inspector Madsen.
But Rutledge wanted every loose end tied up before he went south again. And so as he finished his flan, he asked the man who brought it where he might find one Peter Littleton.
"He's the shoemaker, two doors down from the greengrocer. You have business with him then?"
"Indeed."
The barkeep looked at him. "He'll be finished his dinner in a quarter of an hour. He always goes home for it."
"Then I'll walk in the churchyard while I'm waiting." He paid his reckoning and went out in the chilly air. The churchyard's wall cupped a small purple flower growing in a crevice, and when he stopped to look at it, he recognized heartsease. It seemed forlorn there, as if it had lost its way from someone's garden.
Hamish said, "It's Fiona's favorite among the flowers."
Rutledge went through the gate and walked among the stones until he saw the shoemaker striding back to his shop.
Crossing the road after him, Rutledge waited until he'd opened the shop before going inside. The musical ring of a small bell above the door announced his presence, and the shoemaker raised his head from the leather he was trimming. He bore a faint resemblance to the dead man-around the same height, the same unremarkable shape of face, brown hair, and blue eyes. Nothing to set him apart from hundreds of other Englishmen. 'm looking for Henry Shoreham," Rutledge said. "I'm told you can help me find him."
Littleton's face changed from the smile he used to welcome custom to a wariness that went deep.
"Who's asking?" He smoothed the leather with his fingertips, as if judging its quality without looking at it.
"Rutledge, Inspector, Scotland Yard."
The shop was redolent with the scents of leather, wood, and polish. A cobbler's bench sat by the window and there were lasts on the shelves against the back wall. Patterns lay on a table below. And two chairs, high enough to allow the shoemaker to work on the footwear of a client without squatting, were set into the near wall, facing the counter.
