by Charles Todd
"Because I don't think they're very keen on traveling to Yorkshire themselves to see the body. There are no distinguishing marks, and any description would fit half the men walking past our door. If they want Partridge badly enough, they'll agree."
Bowles grunted, but picked up the telephone and put in a call. It took nearly a quarter of an hour for someone to get back to him.
He sent for Rutledge and told him shortly, "Martin Deloran. Someone at the War Office will take you to meet him. They're waiting. Bloody army."
Rutledge retrieved the sketch from his office and left.
When he was finally admitted into Deloran's presence, Rutledge had had enough of secrecy and chains of command. He sat down in the chair pointed out to him and said without preamble, "It's possible I've found Partridge. It's for you to decide."
Deloran took the folder that Rutledge passed across the desk and said, "I'm told by Chief Superintendent Bowles that this body was found in the ruins of Fountains Abbey, wrapped in some sort of cloak, with a respirator on his face. Hardly sounds like the man we've somehow mislaid."
"The respirator was torn. The cloak I think is theatrical."
He had a sudden image of his parents leaving for a party, his mother in an Elizabethan costume, the ruff around her face framing it becomingly, the scent of her perfume mixing with the heavier one of cedar shavings. And his father, looking like Charles II in a wig that reached below his shoulders.
Deloran said, "Well, that's not Partridge, I can tell you. I doubt he ever went to the theatre in his life."
"A masquerade," Rutledge said. "Not theatrical." It fit-the fineness of the weave and the quality of the robe…
Nothing changed in Deloran's face. But the fingers holding a pen tightened. He said, "I doubt Partridge would have been caught dead in a masquerade." Then he realized what he'd just said, and smiled. "Sorry. But you take the point, I'm sure."
He picked up the folder, almost as if to satisfy Rutledge rather than from any curiosity on his part. Looking at the sketch, he said thoughtfully, "It's hard to say, given the inferior quality of the drawing. But I can tell you that this looks nothing like our man."
He closed the folder and passed it back to Rutledge. "It appears we were wrong about Yorkshire. I expect Partridge will show up in his own good time, whether we look for him or not."
"This man was very likely murdered," Rutledge told him bluntly. "He didn't die there in the ruins. He was carried there, after he was dead."
"Yes, very sad." Deloran prepared to stand, ready to dismiss Rut- ledge. "Thank you so much for your help in this matter. We are more grateful than you know."
He was standing now, and he gestured to the sketch. "I hope there's a successful conclusion to this case. Are you returning to Yorkshire?"
"At the moment, no." Rutledge stood also.
"Just as well. Let them sort out this inquiry. I'm sure they'll manage very well. Local people know best, oftentimes, deep roots in their patch, and all that. Sorry to have muddied the waters."
"Are you quite certain this couldn't be your man Partridge?"
"Absolutely." Deloran offered his hand, and Rutledge took it. "Innis will see you out."
As they walked out of the room, Hamish said, referring to Deloran, "I wouldna' care to play cards wi' him."
Innis was waiting to escort him out of the building. Rutledge, considering the gray-haired man, would have placed him as a retired sergeant-major, ramrod back, calm face, an air of unquestioned authority that had nothing to do with a uniform.
On the street once more, Rutledge answered Hamish. "I'll give you any odds you like that our dead man is Partridge. The question is, why wouldn't Deloran admit to it?"
"He's deid," Hamish said. "And that pleases someone."
"Yes," Rutledge answered slowly.
His dismissal rankled. The bland lies, the willingness to abandon a man who was inconvenient, even though someone had murdered him, the arrogance of the assumption that Rutledge would walk away as well, case closed, not even warning him off so much as believing that a policeman could be so easily gulled, left a bad taste.
And in the meantime, Inspector Madsen, with a corpse on his hands and his main suspect cleared, was to be left in the dark.
Back at the Yard, Gibson was waiting for him outside his office.
"I've been on the horn to Whitby. They remember your man Shoreham. He was never tried for the injury to Mrs. Crowell. The family refused to take the matter further. Shoreham left town shortly after that, and Whitby has quite lost track of him."
"Shame, I should imagine."
"Very likely," Gibson responded. "After losing his position, he found there was no use staying on where he wasn't wanted. Another town, another life."
"Quite," Rutledge answered.
"No one remembers his chin."
"I'm not surprised."
"And so far as Whitby knows, he never came to the attention of the police again. No inquiries in regard to a troubled past."
"A lesson learned. Yes. Thank you, Sergeant. Well done."
He was about to walk on, when Gibson added, "No inquiries, that is, until this morning. From an inspector in Elthorpe, or so I was told."
Rutledge stopped in his tracks. "Indeed."
"Seems they have a dead man they can't identify. And they're coming round to thinking it could be Shoreham."
Rutledge swore.
"Keep searching for Shoreham, then. I need to be sure he's alive. More important, I need to know where he's currently living."
"That's a tall order," Gibson said doubtfully.
"Yes, well. If we don't find him, someone is going to hang for his murder."
Rutledge walked on down the passage to Chief Superintendent Bowles's office. As he went, he made up his mind about what he was going to say.
Bowles looked up as he entered the cluttered room.
"Well?"
"The case is closed. At least as far as Mr. Deloran is concerned. I'm not so sure."
"You don't want to run afoul of that lot."
"No. On the other hand, I have a feeling that they'd rather sweep a murder under their carpet than tell us the truth. There's a man dead in Yorkshire, and they would just as soon ignore him. I'd like to clear up a few loose ends before I accept their verdict. Frankly, I wouldn't put it past them to have got rid of this man Partridge themselves."
"We can't go meddling into matters that are none of our business." There was alarm on Bowles's face now. He'd already run afoul of his superiors this week.
"The dead man could be anyone. From anywhere in England. But if Inspector Madsen has his way, he'll call him Henry Shoreham and take one Albert Crowell, the schoolmaster, into custody on a charge of murder. We can't seem to lay hands on Shoreham. Before we can say with any certainty that he's the victim, we must make certain to eliminate the choice that sent me to Yorkshire in the first place. I'd like to ask someone who knows-knew-Partridge well to tell me the man in the sketch I had made is not Partridge. It will clear the field to pursue the issue of Shoreham's whereabouts. If it is Partridge, we can save a good many man hours searching for Shoreham."
Bowles considered his options. In the end, it would be his duty to report to his own superiors how and why Rutledge came to be meddling in affairs that were none of his business. On the other hand, the Chief Constable of Yorkshire was not to be trifled with. He was vocal and did not suffer fools lightly. If there was any chance that one of Bowles's men was intent on pursuing a wrong course that could lead to a public embarrassment-
He wiped a hand across his face.
"Damned if we do, and equally damned if we don't," he said. "All right. Look into the business. But hear me, Rutledge! I won't have toes stepped on for naught. You'll go about this quietly, whatever you do. Tying up loose ends is all very well, but we needn't bruit it about. Ask your question without prejudice and come back to London with your answer. Understood?"
"Understood, sir. I'll leave in the morning."
&nb
sp; He went back to his flat that evening, packed his valise with fresh clothing, ready to set out for Berkshire.
He got a late start through no fault of his own.
His sister was at his door just after breakfast, and he could tell from her face that all was not well.
She toyed with a slice of toast in the rack, buttering it and then putting it down untouched.
The purpose of her visit was-ostensibly-to ask his opinion of a new hat she'd bought the day before.
It was quite fetching, as her hats generally were. On the other hand, Rutledge thought, on her, most anything would look fetching.
"You aren't here at this ungodly hour because you have doubts about your milliner," he said lightly. "What's happened?"
"It's Simon," she said, keeping her voice steady with an effort. "He's been avoiding me. I know that for a fact, I have it on good authority, so don't tell me I'm imagining things. I don't know why he's doing this. I thought-well, I thought we were good friends."
"Why should he avoid you?" He threw up a hand, adding, "No, I'm not saying you're imagining anything. I want to know what reason you think he might have. Something you commented on, for instance, that you regretted as soon as it was out of your mouth. A remark you shouldn't have made about one of his friends. Something you said that might have led him to believe your feelings for him were stronger than his for you."
"Ian. I'm not likely to make stupid remarks, and I'm not likely to criticize him or wear my heart on my sleeve. You aren't helping."
He laughed. "I'm a policeman, not a seer."
"And a very good policeman at that," she retorted. "But you've given me an idea. I think I'll invite Meredith Channing to have lunch with me."
He was immediately on alert. "Frances. I think that's a very poor idea. Mrs. Channing isn't going to look into a crystal ball and tell you what's in Simon's mind. Or heart."
"I don't expect her to look into a crystal ball. She's a very astute woman, Ian, she can give me her opinion. And it could be what I need, to understand how to go on. I mean, people are asking. We've been seen together more than a little these last two months. I don't know how to answer them. 'Where's Simon, my dear? I saw him last night at the Collinses' and you weren't with him.' Or, 'What's happening between you and Simon? Has there been a falling-out, a quarrel? Have you lost interest in him?' " Her eyes filled with tears but she refused to let them fall.
"And how do you answer these questions?"
"I say that I've been terribly busy and so has Simon. Or that I couldn't make the Collinses' party, I had other plans. But it's growing old."
She stood up. "You'll be late, Bowles will be clamoring for you. I'll go and speak to Meredith Channing. If nothing else, she'll cheer me up. I'm in need of cheering right now."
And she was gone, despite his protests, smiling at him over her shoulder as she went out his door.
He spent the better part of the morning scouring London for news of Simon Barrington. There was no one he could ask outright, and so he had to make time to listen to various friends they held in common.
Hamish was not pleased with his decision.
"It willna' help, even if ye find him. Ye ken that as well as I do. Ye canna' speak to him."
"I don't intend to speak to him. Or try to fix whatever happened between Barrington and my sister. But if there's something wrong, something I ought to know, then the sooner the better."
"Aye, but are ye the brother now? Or the policeman?"
He couldn't answer that. And at the end of the day, there was still nothing he could point to as a reason why Barrington should avoid his sister without explanation. The closest he came to an answer was an offhand remark by Tommy Aspell. That Simon had something on his mind and had been damned poor company for a fortnight or more.
With that he had to be satisfied.
It was close to nine in the evening when he arrived in Berkshire. But The Smith's Arms was well lit, the bar noisy with shouts of laughter and the stamping of feet. Not a drunken crowd, from the sound of it, but one where men were relaxed and enjoying themselves.
Rutledge went to the tiny desk in Reception and signed the register. Then he walked into the bar.
There was a sudden silence as patrons looked up at the newcomer and judged him from his clothes.
Half a dozen lorry drivers were busy with a game of darts. One man, in the process of taking his turn, scowled at the interruption. Two farmers were watching the proceedings from the bar, keeping to themselves.
Rutledge nodded to them as the game resumed and found himself a table in a corner by the front windows. He smiled as Mrs. Smith came over to him and asked what he'd have.
"A room, if you please. I've signed the register. And dinner, if there's any left."
"This lot isn't staying over. There's the room you had before, and a bit of roasted ham and some bread left. Mustard sauce as well."
"That will do very well." He'd missed his lunch, and could hear the growling of an empty stomach.
"What will you have to drink, luv?"
"A Guinness, if you please."
"Smith u'll bring it shortly." She skirted the players and disappeared into the kitchen as another burst of laughter met a wild throw.
Rutledge watched this leg end in a victory for the bald man with a birthmark on his face. The man went to the bar to claim his wager, another glass of his choice. A shorter man, broad in the shoulders, called out to Rutledge, as he pulled the darts out of the board. "This is a worthless lot. Will you have a turn?"
It was a dare, not an invitation.
Rutledge got to his feet, shrugging off the long drive, and answered, "I'll give it a try."
They eyed him with interest as he took the three darts and lightly hefted them in his hand. Judging his skill. Or lack thereof.
Hamish was saying, "I won best of three in the canteen."
Suddenly, without warning, Rutledge could feel himself slipping back, reliving a night in France.
He had been invited to the canteen by his men. It had been his birthday, and he never knew how they'd found that out. Darts was a working-class pastime, but he'd held his own with a good elbow and a better eye. He'd been grateful not to disgrace his men in front of the other onlookers.
Hamish had stood them all down, the quiet young Scot already respected by his men, his corporal's stripes still new on his uniform.
It had been a brief respite from the Front, tired men pulled back for a few days of rest after a hard week of fighting, and nowhere to go in the rain and the mud and the dark save the popular canteen set up in a small stone barn-all that was left of a French farmhouse-that had been too rat infested to serve as a field hospital. Rumor was, officers turned a blind eye to the use it was put to by a trio of enterprising Welshmen, miners at home outside Cardiff but sappers now.
Someone had found a great gray and black tomcat, and it soon made short work of the earlier residents. A broom and some odds and ends of scavenged paint, and a rough bar built from whatever wood could be found or stolen, and the canteen was in business. A large oil painting of a French officer of the Napoleonic wars had materialized from somewhere, hung at one end of the barn by a length of scorched rope. It had become a habit to salute the officer on entering.
Evenings were usually rowdy, some of the strain and fatigue draining away as young soldiers old before their time had tried to forget the war.
He and his men had walked through the door and lifted the blanket behind it. Lamps had been hung from the rafters, the room was smoky from cigarettes, and the scent of moldy hay still lingered. Rusted kettles were whistling on a wood stove that gave off sufficient heat to keep the building just barely comfortable.
When Rutledge took the mug of steaming tea handed to him by one of his men, he nearly choked on the first swallow. In lieu of sugar, someone had added a liberal spoonful of brandy to it. But he said nothing, aware of anxious eyes on his face.
They had played darts after that, though the numbers on the bo
ard were badly worn and the colors had faded to a uniform brown. But the sisal still held each throw firmly where it landed.
At the end of the evening, Rutledge had returned to his quarters feeling not relaxed but burdened by guilt. How many of the men who had shared this wartime birthday tonight would be alive by month's end?
Ten had died the first day back in the line. And he'd heard a year later that the Welshmen had died outside Ypres when a tunnel they'd been digging had collapsed prematurely, burying them alive. By the time help reached them, it was too late.
Rutledge brought himself back to the present as a lorry driver, a man his mates called Jimmy, said, "Loser buys drinks all round."
There was general agreement to the terms, since the general opinion was that the man from London would pay the accounting.
Rutledge found the rough line drawn on the floor, put the outside of his right foot against it and considered the target. This one was worn too, but from long use, not from rain and mud and countless journeys across northern France in haversacks.
He forced his mind to concentrate on what he must do.
Hamish warned, "They'll want to see your mettle."
His fingers closed around the first dart. Worn, like the board, and comfortable in his grip. He pumped his hand twice, gauging his shot, then threw firmly toward the board.
It landed precisely where he'd intended-in the wood above the board. From the bar, Smith called, "Here! That's my wall."
"Sorry," Rutledge apologized as the lorry drivers and even the farmers slapped their knees and bent over laughing at his expense.
He waited for the racket to die down and took his second throw. This time the dart landed in the number ring, between eleven and fourteen.
There was more laughter, and the bald-headed man said to Smith, "Set them up, man, this 'ull be a short leg."
"Nay, he hit the board, didn't he?" another driver answered. "We could go on all night."
The point of the game was to put his dart somewhere in the pie- wedge-shaped section numbered 20.
Rutledge took aim for his third and final throw-and this time his dart landed perfectly in the triple in section 20.
There was an intake of breath, and someone said, "You're a damned lucky man."