A pale horse ir-10

by Charles Todd

  "The dead man?" Alice Crowell paused as she was about to take her chair behind the desk. "But-" she faltered. "Why-I mean why should I wish to see it?"

  "Because-well, to assure the police that Albert is telling the truth when he says he never saw this person before." Mary's words were hurried, as if to break the worst news quickly and avoid any mention of the man who had scarred Mrs. Crowell's face.

  "Oh. Very well." Alice reluctantly held out her hand for the folder that Rutledge was carrying. "He isn't-I shan't have nightmares, shall I?" she asked as he passed the folder to her.

  "It's merely a man's face. Nothing more frightening than that."

  As the two bent over the sketch he'd brought, Mary's dark head close to Alice's fair one, Rutledge wondered how he would have felt about someone who did such injury to Jean. Or to Frances, for that matter. If he could have forgiven the drunken man with such apparent grace. Or perhaps Crowell had seen the change in his wife's appearance as a way of keeping her here in this small, dingy school when it was clear that she wasn't from this part of the country. Her accent, like Rutledge's own, spoke of good schooling and a wider circle. Righteous men, he thought, often feel the need to serve in the most forbidding places.

  He watched Mrs. Crowell's expression as she examined the sketch, but all he could read there was puzzlement.

  "I don't think he's anyone I know," she said doubtfully, still bending over the drawing. "Should I recognize him?"

  "It was important to ask, on the off chance you did," Rutledge told her.

  Mary Norton bit her lip. He could almost read the thought in her eyes. Better with you here than with Inspector Madsen… finish it now.

  Before he could stop her, she said, "Think back, Alice. To Whitby. Could this be the man who knocked you down and hurt you? You told me once you'd never forget his face." Mary spoke urgently, trying to protect and going the wrong way about it. "Could it be he?"

  "Oh, my God," Alice Crowell said softly, her shock apparent even to Rutledge. "Do you think-? But no, it couldn't have been this man. I know his name. Henry Shoreham, that was the man's name."

  Mary Norton said triumphantly to Rutledge, "It's not the man." And then to Alice she went on. "Be quite sure! And we needn't speak of it again. To Inspector Madsen or Albert or anyone else. Ever."

  It was almost as if Mary Norton's anxiety sent the wrong message to Mrs. Crowell, twisting her promise into a warning.

  Rutledge leaned forward and took Miss Norton by the arm. "Let Mrs. Crowell take her time and look at the drawing in her own fashion," he said gently, drawing her out from behind the desk to one of the chairs in front of it. "Don't put words into her mouth."

  "But I'm not-" Mary Norton protested.

  He cut off her indignation. "Please. Give her time to think."

  Mary Norton sat down, body stiff and still resisting.

  Alice Crowell looked from one of them to the other. "Are you saying you believe this was Henry Shoreham? I can't believe it is. It just doesn't look-"

  There was a tap at the door, and one of the schoolboys stuck his head in.

  "Mrs. Crowell?"

  She straightened up. "Yes, Hugh, what do you want? I have visitors."

  "Oh, sorry, Mrs. Crowell. It's Johnnie, he's been sick, Mrs. Crowell. All over the floor." His face was tight with worry. "Can I take him home, then? We've almost finished cleaning the desks-please can I go?"

  "I'll be there shortly, Hugh-"

  "He'll not make it, it's all I could do to keep him from being sick in the passage. He's at the door now, waiting for me."

  "Yes, very well," Alice Crowell said impatiently. "But I'll speak with you both tomorrow. Is that understood?"

  "Yes, Mrs. Crowell, thank you, Mrs. Crowell." And he was gone, shutting the door quickly behind him.

  Mary Norton had risen again to look out the window. "Should you see to them, Alice? There's a boy out there, doubled up. He doesn't look as if he'll make it home."

  But Alice Crowell was saying, "There's been a rash of suspicious sickness among that lot. One of the younger boys is at home and hasn't come to school this week. His mother thinks he's malingering, but he's in bed crying and begging her to look at his tongue. His brother was sick two days ago, and now Johnnie." She turned back to the sketch but the uncertainty of a moment ago was gone. "This isn't the man. He was larger, for one thing, and I remember his chin, it had a cleft in it. I remember that very well." She shivered, and turned away from the desk. "He bent over me, and that was all I could see, and his breath-"

  "There's no cleft here," Mary Norton began, looking across at Rut- ledge. "Are you satisfied now?"

  Rutledge ignored her. "Please take your time, Mrs. Crowell. We need to be certain."

  She shook her head. "No. I will swear to it."

  "Thank God," Mary Norton said, her breath catching. "You don't know how worried-"

  Mrs. Crowell was considering Rutledge. "You've only come because of the sketch? To see if I'd remember the face, because of Henry Shoreham? But I thought-I thought Mary said you'd come from London?"

  She seemed to be waiting for him to say something, to confirm that something else had brought him here.

  "I was sent from London to look into the matter here," Rutledge replied, choosing his words. "It was only after I'd spoken to Miss Norton that I felt it was important to ask you if you knew this man."

  "I see." Her gaze went back to Mary Norton. "Why on earth were you telling him about that, Mary? How could it have come up?"

  "I don't remember," she said, her face flushing. "Mr. Rutledge spoke to me after Mark Benson sketched the man, and I was saying something about the war, somehow, and then Julian, and somehow the conversation came round to you."

  Rutledge stepped in. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Crowell, but it's essential to look at all the possibilities, even the far-fetched ones. Do you know, by chance, what this man Shoreham did for a living?"

  "He was a clerk in a bank, as I remember. He'd been passed over for a promotion. He claimed."

  The door opened and a young man stepped in, his eyes going straight to his wife.

  "Am I missing something?"

  She quickly got herself in hand and said, "This is Mr. Rutledge- from Scotland Yard. He's come to look into what happened in the abbey. He asked me to look at a sketch of the dead man that a Mr. Benson made for him. But I don't know him-the victim."

  "That wasn't very pleasant for you, my dear," Crowell said, then turned to Rutledge, offering his hand. "You should have spoken to me first, before disturbing my wife."

  "Would you have preferred that I take her into Elthorpe to see this man for herself?"

  "Doubting my word?" It was a challenge.

  "No. Verifying it, so that the police can get on with this case. We've lost enough time, chasing wild geese in the wrong direction."

  "I see." He moved around the desk to look at the sketch Mrs. Crow- ell was still holding. "This is well done, a good likeness. But no more familiar than the man himself was, when I first saw him."

  "Then I needn't trouble you further," Rutledge replied, taking the measure of Crowell. Irritated and sensitive from his previous encounters with Madsen, if he was any judge. And this wasn't the time to press. "Thank you, Mrs. Crowell. I am grateful for your help."

  He turned to go. Mary looked at him, something in her expression that warned him what to do next.

  "Miss Norton, I've kept you long enough. I'll be happy to take you back to the hotel."

  She appeared reluctant, saying at first, "I really should stay-"

  But Alice Crowell broke in. "Nonsense. Mr. Dunn won't care to have you away too long. Go with Mr. Rutledge, Mary. I'll see you at the weekend."

  Mary went to the door with Rutledge. "Albert-"

  He said, "Don't worry, I'll sit with her for a bit."

  And then she was in the corridor with Rutledge, casting him a grateful glance.

  Outside, Rutledge looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of Hugh and his classma
te.

  When they were back in the motorcar, Rutledge asked, "What were you afraid of? Does Crowell have a temper?"

  "No. Not a temper. He-sometimes I just feel as if it would be better if he did explode into anger. He's so-so controlled. I don't know why Alice fell in love with him. And not Julian."

  "It's not a matter for the head but for the heart," he replied, turning the motorcar to go back the way he'd come.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw something among the trees in the churchyard. The boys who had asked permission to leave while he was interviewing Mrs. Crowell.

  He pulled the motorcar to the verge and said to Miss Norton, "I'll just be a moment."

  He walked briskly across the churchyard, and the two boys, who had ducked behind the apse of the chapel, turned wide-eyed as he came round the corner. There was no time to run. And nowhere to run to. They stood their ground of necessity.

  The other boy, the one Hugh claimed was sick, looked it, his face pale and his eyes red. Even Hugh was drawn and wretched, his gaze dropping to his shoes after that one wild glance at Rutledge.

  "We couldn't make it home," Hugh said finally. "You can see, he's been sick all down his front."

  "I was worried," Rutledge said. "Can I offer you a lift?"

  "Oh, no," the other boy-Johnnie, was it?-began.

  Hugh said quickly, "If he's quiet a bit, he'll be all right."

  Rutledge considered them. "If you're sure?"

  "Yes, sir." It was a fervent chorus.

  He turned to leave, then stopped. "What do you know of this business the police have been speaking to your schoolmaster about?"

  Children heard their elders talk and were sometimes better at putting two and two together than adults.

  But Hugh's reaction was unexpected. Like a cornered animal, he backed against the stone wall of the chapel and seemed to have lost his tongue.

  Johnnie was sick again, dry heaves jerking his body.

  Rutledge waited until the worst had passed, then handed him a handkerchief.

  Hamish said, "Ye can see he's in no case to answer ye."

  Johnnie, looking as if he wanted nothing more than his bed at home, leaned against the nearest tombstone.

  Rutledge persisted, speaking mainly to Hugh but keeping his eye on Johnnie. "Did you see something the night when someone was killed near Elthorpe? Did you see Mr. Crowell leave the school where he was working that evening, and go to meet someone?"

  Hugh took a deep breath. "We were home in bed, weren't we, Johnnie? There was nothing for us to see."

  It was the truth. Even Hamish could read that in the boy's fervent manner.

  And yet it wasn't the whole truth.

  "Who did you see leave the village?" Rutledge persisted.

  "Nobody!" they exclaimed loudly, in unison.

  "You needn't be afraid. If there's something you want to tell me, I'll see that no harm comes to you."

  The boys stood there, hangdog but refusing to budge.

  Hamish said, "Ye havena' found the key."

  Rutledge changed direction. "Do you like Mr. Crowell? Is he a good master?"

  They nodded vigorously. Reassuring him, proving that they had no reason to step forward, no reason to be afraid.

  "Is there anyone else at the school, other than the Crowells?" He'd seen no one, but that might be the rub. If not Mr. Crowell…

  "There's Old Fred. He cleans," Hugh said, as if offering up a sacrifice to hungry gods. "We had two other masters, but they were killed in the war. Mr. Crowell has had to manage on his own since he came back."

  "And Mrs. Crowell. Does she walk at night? Without her husband?"

  "I never saw her," Hugh maintained. And the ring of truth this time was clear, unequivocal. "What would she be going about at night, alone, for?"

  "Johnnie? "

  "No, sir. Never. You can ask anybody."

  Rutledge gave it up. "You're sure I can't see you home? Johnnie? Do you have far to walk?"

  "Not far." He gripped his stomach with both arms wrapped around his body. "Please, can we go now?"

  "Yes, be on your way."

  Rutledge watched them scurry away, like mice frantic to escape the claws of a cat.

  Mary Norton was looking after them also as he reached the motorcar and stopped to turn the crank.

  "I think you've put the fear of God into those two. Was it really necessary? "

  "I think they've put the fear of God into themselves, and I'd like to know why."

  "Then you're still harassing Albert Crowell," she said, making it a statement and not a question.

  "I'm trying to get at the truth," he answered her as he closed the door on his side of the motorcar and let in the gear. "I'm not here to badger anyone."

  "That's what people always say, but the police have made a good job of upsetting Albert and his wife."

  He wanted to tell her that she herself had caused Alice Crowell anxiety in her earnest and misguided effort to prove that the dead man wasn't Shoreham. "The problem is that the only piece of evidence we have points to Crowell. And once I find out why it does, it may serve instead to clear his name."

  "The sooner the better, then, before he's lost his job and his reputation. Have you policemen thought of that? No, I expect not. He's the fox and you're the hounds, and there won't be any peace for him until you lot have caught him."

  She sighed, and said nothing more for the rest of the journey.

  After dropping Mary Norton at the hotel, Rutledge went back to the police station, intending to report to Madsen.

  But the inspector had left, he was told by an elderly constable. "He'd missed his luncheon. Not knowing when you'd return."

  Rutledge thanked the constable and walked back to the hotel.

  Hamish said as Rutledge closed the door to his room, "Was it a lie, that the man in the sketch wasna' the one who scarred the schoolmaster's wife?"

  "I don't think she lied. But I think she's tried to forget his face and has partly succeeded. I'll ask Gibson at the Yard to track down Shore- ham. But if that's who the dead man is, why meet him at the ruins, take him away and kill him, then bring him back? And what does a book of alchemy have to do with revenge?"

  "A lure?"

  Rutledge put the sketch in his valise and then, on second thought, pulled it out again to keep with him. After a brief half hour given over to his lunch, he left almost at once, intending to visit the abbey.

  He approached the abbey through a quiet parkland that led him to a stream crossed by stepping stones. And soon he was there, in front of the great arched ruin soaring into the gray sky.

  Hamish said, "There are abbey ruins in Scotland. Burned by the Borderers who came for revenge."

  "I'm not sure these weren't destroyed for revenge," Rutledge said, looking up at the elegance of simplicity in design. The abbeys were wealthy, and wealth Henry VIII envied.

  The monks had built well here. Something of what they'd done had survived Henry VIII by three centuries and more. The King had destroyed the abbey and what it stood for, but not the memory of its beauty. Or its greatness.

  A strange place, Rutledge thought, to leave a dead man. Why here?

  He went through into the nave, his footsteps alternately echoing on stone and whispering on the grass. The cloister was open to the sky, constructed for contemplation and peace, where monks could walk or sit in the noonday sun or pray in private.

  He found the wax drippings from a candle, then the crushed grass where the victim had lain, but too many other feet had come and gone here, there was nothing to tell him about the dead man or who had been here with him.

  He turned to look at the stone surrounding him, at the curve of an arch and the delicacy of a wall. Why here? Why meet here?

  This was private property, the chance of being discovered at any moment was a risk that had had to be considered. Or did it appear safe, because it was private and therefore there was nothing to fear?

  He heard a dog bark outside the church, and a
voice call, "Is anyone there?"

  Rutledge turned to walk back the way he'd come, stepping out of the nave to be greeted by a sleek Irish setter sniffing suspiciously at his heels.

  The man standing some fifty feet away stared at him.

  "Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard," he said easily, ignoring the dog. "Were you the man who found the body?"

  "I was."

  "And you are?"

  "The undergardener. Hadley."

  "Did you notice anything the police might have missed, Mr. Hadley?"

  "No."

  "Did you look at the man's face, under the respirator?"

  "I could see he was dead. There were flies about. I went directly for the police."

  "You didn't look at the book lying beside the body?"

  "It wasn't beside it. It lay at his feet."

  "Open or closed?"

  "Open, like a tent."

  "Not where the man might have been holding it?"

  "No."

  "Could you or your dog tell how the man had come this far? Or how the killer might have left?"

  "By the time I'd thought of that, the police had come and gone. There was a muddle of scents."

  "If you think of anything that might be useful, however insignificant it might seem to you, will you contact Inspector Madsen at once?"

  "I'm not likely to remember anything more. The dog stood here barking, as he did at you, and when no one came out of the ruin, I went to see what he was on about. I wondered, just now, if there might be another dead man in there."

  It was a grudging admission.

  "There's a sketch of the dead man in my motorcar. Will you come and look at it?"

  "I needn't see it. I was here when they first took off the mask."

  "Did you recognize him? Or had you seen him before?"

  "He was a stranger."

  "But the family might have known him."

  "It's not likely they'd know a murdered man."

  Murder didn't happen in nice circles…

  Hamish said, "He's no' concerned with the dead, now. It's no' a part of his duties."

  It was true.

  Rutledge thanked the man, waited until he'd called off the still sniffing dog, and then walked back the way he'd come.

  Rutledge realized, driving back to Elthorpe, that what he'd been sent north to do was to put a name to the victim.