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 Rutledge. “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. Crowell 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 classmate.
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.”