A Pale Horse Part 19

"And it's still here."

"Aye, so it is. But that doesna' mean it never left."

Rutledge settled his account with Mrs. Smith and turned the bonnet of his motorcar toward London.

He hadn't been in his flat five minutes when he saw the note propped up on the small table by his bed.

It was in Frances's handwriting and said only, "If you are home to read this, call Gibson at the Yard."

She had been to his flat in his absence and found a messenger on his doorstep. What had brought her here? Simon Barrington? A need to talk to someone? Another invitation to a dinner she didn't want to attend alone?

Rutledge put the thought aside and looked at the time. He could just catch Sergeant Gibson, if he hurried.

Turning on his heel, he went back to his motorcar and drove to the Yard.

Gibson was just coming down the walk as Rutledge was looking for a s.p.a.ce in which to leave his vehicle.

The sergeant recognized him at once and came to the nearside of the car. He was a big man, and he bent down to see Rutledge's shadowed face.

"There's trouble," he said.

"Bowles?"

"Not this time. For one thing, I couldn't find Henry Sh.o.r.eham. No one has seen him since he left Whitby. Vanished from the face of the earth."

d.a.m.n.

"You're quite sure?"

Gibson drew back, offended. "I'm sure."

"Sorry. I meant to say, given the case in Yorkshire, that this is the worst possible news."

"That it is. For one thing, if he's nowhere to be found, he can't speak for himself. And Inspector Madsen has taken it in his head to send his men for the schoolmaster, to help in his inquiries."

Rutledge swore again. "I told Madsen the book on alchemy had nothing to do with the dead man."

"He said as much. But since no one can produce Mr. Sh.o.r.eham, Inspector Madsen is convinced he's the victim."

"And what does the Chief Constable say? Or Bowles, for that matter?"

"They're reserving judgment."

There was no point in going to Deloran. He'd washed his hands of this business. He would say now that since Partridge hadn't died in Yorkshire, there must be some truth to Madsen's suspicions. And leave Crowell to deal with the consequences.

But where was there any connection between a man named Parkinson, from Wiltshire, and Albert Crowell? Partridge-Parkinson-hadn't attacked Mrs. Crowell in Whitby. The man Sh.o.r.eham had been taken into custody; he was a clerk, known in his community. He'd admitted his responsibility.

But turn the coin the other way- Rutledge said, "Do we have a photograph of Sh.o.r.eham? Was there one taken when the newspapers carried the story about Mrs. Crowell's injuries?"

"I've not been told there were any."

All right then, look at it from a different perspective, Rutledge told himself.

In the dark, how much did Henry Sh.o.r.eham resemble g.a.y.l.o.r.d Partridge or rather Gerald Parkinson? Could a man with a grudge mistake one for the other?

But then where had he taken his victim to kill him? Not to the school. And Parkinson hadn't died along the road. Why, when the evidence might in the end point in his direction, had Crowell left the body in the ruins of a medieval abbey, where it was bound to be found, and only miles from where he lived?

Was he so arrogant that he didn't believe a connection would be made? Or when he realized he'd killed the wrong man, had he felt sure he was safe?

Hamish said, "There's Mrs. Crowell. He would ha' done his best to keep her out of it, even if she'd killed her tormenter."

Rutledge didn't relish the long drive back to Yorkshire. But there was no other choice now. d.a.m.n Deloran! d.a.m.n Deloran!

"Is Bowles sending anyone north?" he asked Gibson.

"He sent a constable to see if you'd returned home."

"Then I'll report to him first thing in the morning." He said good-bye to Gibson and went back to his flat.

There he found Frances sitting in his parlor drinking his whisky.

She lifted her gla.s.s to him. "I saw your valise by the door. So this time I stayed."

"I'm leaving tomorrow for Yorkshire."

She pretended to pout, pursing her lips and looking at him out of the corner of her eyes. "I might have known. Here my life is in total crisis, and you're nowhere to be found."

"How's Simon?"

The pretense vanished. "Would that I knew."

"Frances."

She put down the gla.s.s. "No, I didn't come for a lecture. I just needed to hear a friendly voice."

"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 Parkinson?"

"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."

Dinner was quiet, Frances in a mood of reminiscence and Rutledge 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 pa.s.sage 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 g.a.y.l.o.r.d 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 Sh.o.r.eham. He can't be both, d.a.m.n 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 Uffington, 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 h.e.l.l-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 Sh.o.r.eham'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 Sh.o.r.eham 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 Sh.o.r.eham to earth in the village of Addleford, living quietly with a cousin. Only, he went to stay with another cousin, and vanished. This 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." 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 Sh.o.r.eham failed to arrive in Wales? Surely they were concerned about him?"

"The one in Wales thought Sh.o.r.eham 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 Addleford hadn't been in any great hurry to contact Williams."

"How did Crowell find Sh.o.r.eham, 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 Sh.o.r.eham. The Crowells weren't living in Dilby when the accident happened. Sh.o.r.eham had no way of knowing his danger."

"For the sake of argument, let's say you're right-"

Madsen smiled. "Very well."

"Where did Sh.o.r.eham 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 a.s.surances that all the evidence has been thoroughly examined. More to the point, we appear to have some confusion about ident.i.ty. 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 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." 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 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." 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."