Hamish said, “An actor, then?”
But no smudges of grease paint or powder marked the neckline or the edges of the hood.
The gas mask was a 1917 small box respirator, standard equipment during the war. No one had felt safe, once the Germans had used poison gas in the field.
But the tab underneath the chin was missing, leaving a small tear and making the mask useless. It wasn’t uncommon for the tab to come off, and there was no way to tell how long ago or how recently it had happened. The question was, why had anyone gone to the trouble of putting the respirator over the face? A mockery of the manner of death or to make the death seem more macabre?
“There were no scars, no indication of a surgery, no identifying marks on the body? No irregularities in the teeth?”
“The doctor says not.”
Once this man was buried, there would be nothing to show he had lived. Nothing to identify him in a report, nothing to hand in evidence to witnesses or suspects, nothing to set him apart, if someday someone came looking for him.
Anonymous…which explained why the man wasn’t known in this part of Yorkshire. He wasn’t meant to be identified. A mystery, an unclaimed body, a nine days’ wonder, buried and soon forgotten.
Rutledge said, “Is there someone here—in Elthorpe—who could make a drawing of his face?”
“A drawing?” Madsen was caught off guard, busy with his own thoughts as Rutledge went through the box.
“If we’re to locate someone who knows the victim, we need something to be going on with.”
“Why not a photograph?”
“Because it will show that he’s dead. People might be more willing to talk to us about a missing person.”
No one wanted to be drawn into a murder inquiry. It was a stigma, something that happened to other, less savory classes. And Rutledge had a feeling that this man had had secrets. Otherwise, why should he wind up dead, like a buffoon, wearing a respirator and a monk’s cloak, a long way from home? Why not simply leave the body in a ditch or throw it into a lake or shove it off a cliff?
Madsen was saying, “Benson. He’s one of the employees at The Castle Arms. He did a pen-and-ink sketch of my house for my wife’s birthday. Mrs. Madsen was quite taken with it.”
“That’s where I’m staying. We’ll speak to him now.”
Madsen went with Rutledge back to the hotel, where Miss Norton, at Reception, told them they would find Mr. Benson in the kitchen, discussing menus with the cook.
Rutledge waited in the small sitting room while Inspector Madsen went in search of the artist. He was a short, thin man with the carriage of a soldier.
“Sketch the face of a dead man?” He stared from one policeman to the other. “I’ve—I’m not really good with faces. Why not take a photograph?”
“Yes, I’d considered that,” Rutledge told him, “but I think a sketch might serve us better. It doesn’t make an issue of the fact that we’re trying to identify a corpse.”
Benson wiped a hand across his mouth. “I’m not sure I can do this. I’ve seen enough dead men to last a lifetime.”
“Yes, I can sympathize,” Rutledge responded. “All we ask is that you give it a try.”
Madsen added, “He’s not unpleasant to view. Dead, yes, but not—er—marked in any way.”
In the end, Benson collected a pad and his box of charcoal sticks and went with them across to the doctor’s surgery.
Rutledge was already regretting his request. Benson’s face was pale and strained as they waited for the doctor. He said, “I’m sorry—”
But the doctor was coming out of his consultation room, nodding to Madsen and shaking hands with Rutledge.
Five minutes later, Benson was sitting on a high stool looking down at the body of the man no one knew.
He sketched quickly, using the charcoal with deft strokes, creating the shape of the head, the placement of the ears, the dark hair springing from a high forehead. And then he began to put in the features, the eyes first, getting them right before tackling the straight nose and a surprisingly mobile mouth.
At one point he looked up at Rutledge, his face set as if his mind had withdrawn to somewhere safe. “I—I can’t see the color of his eyes…?”
“Blue,” the doctor told him from where he stood by the wall, watching. “They’re a pale blue.”
Benson nodded and kept working.
He took his time, and when he’d finished, the likeness was so fine that he forgot where he was for a moment and studied the dead face on the pillow.
“It’s first-rate, isn’t it?” he asked. “I’ve got it right.” There was surprise and satisfaction in the words.
Rutledge thought, He’s captured something I hadn’t seen—a subtle sense of the person whose face it was. A man with such talent oughtn’t be running a hotel dining room.
And an instant later Benson came back to the present, where he was and what he’d been doing. He looked as if he might be sick on the spot. He hastily passed the sheet of drawing paper to Rutledge before hurrying out of the room, his footsteps beating a rapid tattoo as he ran down the passage.
Rutledge caught up with Benson just outside the surgery door, where he was standing in the cool air, his face lifted to the watery sun.
Rutledge said briskly, “Thanks sounds insufficient. I’ll make your excuses to Miss Norton while you take your time getting back to work.”
Madsen was behind him, holding out the pencil box and pad of artist’s paper.
But Benson said, his voice rough, “I’m all right. Don’t fuss.” He took his things and walked away, toward the hotel.
Halfway there, he turned to ask, “He’s the man from the abbey?”
“Yes.”
“Pity.”
And he walked on.
Madsen said quietly, “He went through a rough patch on the Somme.”
Hamish said, “He wasna’ one of your men.”
And Rutledge answered silently, “He could have been.”
He nodded to Madsen and followed Benson back to the hotel. He was nowhere in sight when Rutledge stepped through the door.
Miss Norton stopped him. “Would you care for some tea, Mr. Rutledge? You look tired—I don’t know, worried, perhaps.”
He said, not knowing how to answer, “It was a long drive from London.”
“That’s not the kind of tired I meant. Were you in the war?”
“Yes.”
“Yes,” she repeated. “I thought perhaps that was it. If Julian had come home, I think he would have looked the same. Haunted by what he’d done and seen. He sometimes wrote about his life in the trenches. Not the whole truth, I’m certain of that. But enough, I think, to warn me not to expect him to be quite the same. When I look at Mark Benson, I wonder.”
“Your brother?” he hazarded, in an effort to redirect the conversation.
“My fiancé. He died at Ypres. Lingered in hospital for a week, and died. Gassed. He was Albert Crowell’s brother. They were so close.”
“The schoolmaster?”
“Yes. Poor man. Inspector Madsen is certain he’s done murder. That’s what Alice wrote to me yesterday. The gossips haven’t picked up the news yet, but they will.”
“And you? What do you think?”
She sighed. “I don’t think he could. Kill, I mean. Julian once said that Albert is not made up like most men. He should be a Quaker. They’re an odd lot, Quakers. There’s an iron strength to them. A coldness. I think sometimes they must be hard people, to stand aside and watch.”
“Is that how you see Albert Crowell?” Rutledge asked with interest.
She shook her head, confused. “I don’t know. He forgave the man who scarred his wife’s face. It was a terrible ordeal for her. I don’t think I could have done that. My own suffering, yes, but not someone else’s.”
“I hadn’t heard the story. How did it happen?”