“You’re in the clear, Crowell. As far as I can see. I’ll tell Inspector Madsen that you weren’t in the abbey ruins that night.”
“Why are you so certain? And why did you take Hugh Tredworth away from the school without my permission?”
“He was out that night, and you’d best leave it at that.”
“What do you mean, out that night?”
“It’s police business, Crowell, and if I were you, I’d let sleeping dogs lie. It’s in your best interest, after all.”
Crowell’s face had taken on a stubborn tightness.
“He’s one of my pupils—”
“But not your son, is he? And he wasn’t in school at the time. If he requires discipline, leave it to his father.”
“I don’t understand how that boy could clear me of a charge of murder. My book was there, beside the dead man. How does a child explain that away?”
“If you wish, I’ll take you to speak to Mr. Madsen. He’d like very much to see you charged. We can try to persuade him otherwise, but I’m not sure you’ll be successful. He has a grudge against you, as far as I can tell, and if he pursues this matter, it’s very likely to cost you your position here at Dilby.”
Crowell considered that. “It’s true. He’s not counted amongst my friends.”
“Then leave me to deal with him. I haven’t much time. Make your decision.”
“Very well. But I can tell you, it’s against my better judgment.”
“And leave Hugh Tredworth alone. Don’t question him yourself. If you do, it’s likely that he won’t be able to testify on your behalf at any trial, should it come to that.”
“Did Hugh take my book without my knowledge? But he couldn’t have carried it to the abbey, not that far, in the middle of the night. Who did?”
Rutledge could follow his line of thought—that somehow the pointing finger of accusation was swinging toward his wife.
“It has nothing to do with Mrs. Crowell. Stop second-guessing me, you’ll do more harm than good.”
He could see that Crowell had a tenacious mind and it would worry at the problem until it came up with a satisfactory conclusion.
It was also the kind of mind that might harbor a wrong until it grew into a monstrous weight that had to be addressed. Or avenged…
Hugh Tredworth had explained away the alchemy book. Albert Crowell might still bring down on himself a charge of murder because he couldn’t let well enough alone.
Driving alone back to Elthorpe, Rutledge listened to Hamish in his mind.
“Ye’ve cleared the schoolmaster, aye, but there’s still a dead man with no name and no suspects to take the schoolmaster’s place.”
There was also one Henry Shoreham, who had to be found and discounted. For the record.
“Are you saying you don’t believe Hugh Tredworth?”
“He told the youngest lad his tongue would turn black and drop oot if he spoke.”
“He told all four of them that.”
“But it was the youngest lad who believed it.”
“I think because Robbie needed so badly to confide in someone.”
“Yon inspector willna’ be happy you’ve spoiled his chances.”
9
Inspector Madsen, in fact, was livid.
He paced the small office and asked Rutledge what he was about, to make an arbitrary decision about a case that was his only by courtesy.
Rutledge said, “You can’t hang a man for murder because you dislike him, Madsen. And there’s no other proof Crowell was involved in any fashion, now that the book is explained away.”
“Too conveniently explained away if you ask me. I should have been present when you interviewed Hugh Tredworth. Why wasn’t I sent for? You don’t know this part of the country the way I do. How can I be sure he was telling the truth? Damn it, you don’t know these people.”
Rutledge said only, “I know when I’m being lied to. Your case is wide open, man, it’s time to get on with it. If London can place the victim from the sketch, then you’ll be the first to know. Meanwhile, you’re letting what evidence there is grow cold. I’d speak to the undergardener on the estate, for one. And talk to the nearest stationmaster. He may remember a stranger arriving by train. Hold the inquest, and ask the coroner to bring in the verdict of murder by person or persons unknown, to give you more time.”
“Don’t teach me how to run an inquiry,” Madsen went on, fuming. “And why are you here in the first place? Because Alice Crowell’s father has friends in high places, looking after his daughter. I tell you, the schoolmaster thought he was killing the man who’d scarred his wife, and you’ll not convince me otherwise. Oh, yes, I got that story out of Mary Norton.”
“It’s a dead end, Madsen. I’ll have to return to London tomorrow. I need to look into several other possibilities.”
Or to put it another way, reporting to the Colonel, Madsen told himself in disgust. “Good luck to you then.”
It was bitter, far from wishing him well.
As Rutledge walked out of the station, Madsen watched him go. The man from London hadn’t come to discover who the dead man was, whatever he said, Madsen told himself. He’d been sent by Alice’s bloody family to keep her precious husband safe. Once that was done, it was good-bye to Yorkshire, leaving the local man with an unidentified corpse and no murder suspect.
He let the legs of his chair slam back to the floor, relishing the sound. He’d have liked to throw the chair after the departing Londoner, but that would be the end of his own career. And he was having none of that.
There was one thing to be done to spike the Londoner’s guns.
Find Henry Shoreham, or failing that, someone who knew him well enough to say if the dead man was Shoreham or not.
And if it was, then Crowell could damned well take his chances in a courtroom, Colonel Ingle be damned.
During the long drive back to London, Hamish was insistent, railing at Rutledge for his handling of Madsen and Crowell alike. “Ye didna’ gie yon inspector the whole truth.”
“It’s not mine to give, is it?”
“It would ha’ gone a long way toward placating him.”
“The War Office can look at this sketch and tell me if we’ve found our man. If we have, then I’ll be back in Yorkshire before the week is out, to discover what happened to him and why.”
“And if it isna’ Partridge?”
“Then very likely I’ll be sent back by the Yard. The Chief Constable will be involved by that time. Madsen will complain to him before we’ve reached Cambridge.”
“Ye should ha’ told him as much. That you’d be back.”
“I’m not at liberty to explain why I think there’s more to this case than he realizes. If those boys hadn’t confessed, Crowell could well be facing the hangman. And if the victim turns out to be Shoreham after all, he’s still the chief suspect.”
“Then why the robe, why the mask?”
“To throw us off. As it did. Although if it was Crowell, he should have been clever enough to rid himself of the body altogether.”
“He couldna’ leave his wife long enough to take the body verra’ far.”
“I’m still not convinced that dying so easily would provide a satisfying retribution. A shotgun in the face perhaps, or throttling with one’s bare hands would be a more convincing vengeance.”
“Aye, but there’s nae weapon, in a gassing.”
Which was an excellent point.
Rutledge arrived in London too late to return to the Yard, but the next morning, he was there before Chief Superintendent Bowles had arrived.
Sergeant Gibson, passing Rutledge in the corridor, said, “Walk softly.”
Which meant that the Chief Superintendent was not in a good humor.