“He hasn’t come to call on someone in Dilby? Perhaps met him by the church or at the edge of the village? On the road, or even out in a field?”
Hugh shook his head vigorously.
“Perhaps you didn’t see his face, only his back or a silhouette. The problem is, who did he come here to see?”
“He never came to Dilby that I know of. It’s God’s truth.”
“And so we’re back to the book of alchemy. And why it was left at this man’s feet. In an ancient abbey cloister, of all places.”
Another thought had struck Hugh. He frowned fiercely, as if concentrating on something. What was running through his head was the fear that the Devil they’d raised had found another victim after they had fled the ruins. If this were true, he was as good as a murderer. He felt sick again, his stomach clenching and twisting.
Rutledge was saying, “He was lying on his back, this man. He wore a respirator on his face and was wrapped in a dark cloak.”
Drawn out of himself, Hugh was staring, his face so pale Rutledge realized he’d touched on something that was shocking to the boy.
“Say again?” It was a croak, coming out of a tight, dry throat.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you, Hugh.”
“No, sir, tell me that bit again.” There was urgency in the boy’s posture and his voice.
“The dead man was wearing a respirator. You’ve seen them, during the war. We don’t know why this was on his face, and it was broken, but there you are. And the cloak was heavy, black. What is it, Hugh, what’s wrong?”
Rutledge was on his feet as the boy slumped in his chair, starting to shake as if he were running a fever.
His eyes stared at Rutledge accusingly, begging.
“For God’s sake, young man, what’s wrong?”
“You’re lying to me.” It was a whisper.
“I don’t lie, Hugh. I can take you to Elthorpe and show you these things.”
Hugh nodded. “I want to see them.”
But he sat there, as if he couldn’t manage to stand on his own two feet.
Rutledge was watching him. “What is it, Hugh? Tell me what you’re afraid of.”
Hugh struggled with himself, then got up and said, “Can I go now?”
Rutledge thought he meant, was he free to leave. Then realized he was actually asking to be taken to Elthorpe.
“Yes, now.”
Hugh nodded, followed Rutledge from the room, and in the passage outside he ran into another boy Rutledge hadn’t seen before. The boy was staring at Hugh, and he said shortly, “There’s nothing wrong, Tad. There’s nothing wrong!”
Rutledge said, “Do you want Tad to come with you?”
Hugh shook his head forcefully, and Tad seemed to melt back into the wall, making room for the policeman and Hugh to pass.
It was a silent ride to Elthorpe, though Hamish was still vocal just behind Rutledge’s right ear. At one point, Rutledge retorted sharply, “It was the right thing to do.”
Hugh looked across at him, startled. Rutledge tempered his voice and repeated, “It was the right thing to do, Hugh. You’re a brave lad.”
When they reached the doctor’s surgery, Rutledge explained that he’d come to show Hugh Tredworth the clothing that the dead man had been wearing. The doctor’s nurse took them back to a door at the end of the passage, and Hugh began to drag his heels.
“I don’t have to see him, do I? You didn’t say I had to see him. Just his things.”
“That’s right. I’ll bring them out to you.”
The nurse opened the door into a room lined with shelving, storage for blankets, medical instruments, an array of bottles, and other paraphernalia. On a lower one, tidily boxed, was the folded cloak and on top of it was the respirator.
On a bench outside the closet, Rutledge spread the cloak out for Hugh to see, and set the mask in at the head, the way it had covered the dead man’s face.
Hugh stood there, absorbing the image Rutledge had created. His eyes squinted, as if he were comparing a memory with what lay before him. Then he looked up at the man from London. There was a mixture of emotions in his expression. Understanding, alarm, confusion, distress. Rutledge could have sworn that among them was disappointment.
“It wasn’t the Devil, then.” The boy’s voice was flat, without feeling.
“The Devil?”
Hugh turned and marched out of the surgery, Rutledge hastily thanking the nurse and following him out to the motorcar.
Hugh was leaning against the wing, his face hidden.
Rutledge gave him time to recover and then said quietly, so that passersby couldn’t hear, “Will you tell me what you know, Hugh?”
“I want to go home now.” Hugh turned and scrambled into the passenger’s side, waited for Rutledge to crank the motorcar, then join him.
They were nearly out of Elthorpe before Hugh spoke.
“We thought it was the Devil lying there,” he said, beginning at the end of the tale, tears suddenly welling in his eyes. He looked away. “That’s when I dropped the book, we were all so afraid.”
“You were there?” Rutledge tried to absorb that. “What took you there, Hugh? Why should you think it was the Devil?”
“Because we’d been trying to raise him, weren’t we? With that book of Mr. Crowell’s.”
“That’s a book of alchemy.”
“There’s spells in it. That’s why I took—borrowed—it.”
The story came tumbling out, relief so great that there was no stopping the pent-up words. Backward, leaping ahead, sometimes garbled, but clear enough. The boy ended, “It wasn’t Mr. Crowell who carried the book there. It was me. I went to his office when I was running an errand for Mrs. Crowell, and I took it. Must you tell him? Must you tell my father? There’ll be the strap for the lot of us—even Robbie.”
Rutledge said, “Have you told the whole truth, Hugh? Nothing left out, nothing made up?” But he was sure nothing had been held back. The boy had needed the release of telling the whole story to someone. Even a policeman.
“It’s the truth,” Hugh said fervently, “I swear it!”
“Is this why you and your friends were so afraid? Because you believed you’d raised the Devil?”
“We swore an oath not to tell. But Robbie wanted to tell, he was so afraid. I warned him his tongue would turn black.” He brushed his lips with his own tongue. “And look who it was broke first.” There was disgust in his voice.
“You swore not to tell about raising the Devil. But you didn’t raise him. What you saw was a human being, lying there in the shadows.”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? An oath is an oath.”
“It matters a great deal. What you’ve done today is help with a police inquiry. You can rightly be proud of that. Should I speak to your friends, tell them you’ve done your proper duty? They may remember details that you haven’t.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. I’ve told you the lot. What about Mr. Crowell, then?”
“Leave this to me. Once the book has been explained away, there’s nothing to link him to this other man, is there?”
Hugh still seemed uncertain.
Rutledge asked, “Was there anyone else in the ruins that night? Did you see anyone on the road? Or hear anything, men arguing, someone walking fast to make sure he wasn’t seen?”
“There was no one on the road or in the woods but us. And no one in the ruins. I’d swear to it.”
“If you remember anything, however small the detail might be, will you ask Mrs. Crowell to find me? This is true of your friends as well. Any small detail, Hugh.”
He said again, “No, there was no one. We’d have run for home if there’d been any such thing.”
Which Rutledge thought was more true than any spoken denials.
He returned the boy to the school, spoke briefly to Mrs. Crowell, and then went looking for her husband.