Rutledge stopped him and said, “Can you find me information on one Henry Shoreham, of Whitby, Yorkshire? Taken up for public drunkenness after accidentally knocking a young woman into an iron fence and scarring her badly.”
“I’ll speak to a constable I know in Whitby police station, if you like. What’s he done?”
“Nothing that I’m aware of. But he could well be a murder victim. In Yorkshire. I’m particularly interested in his appearance—whether he has a cleft in his chin.”
Gibson nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
Gossip had it right. Superintendent Bowles had just had a dressing-down by his superiors, and he was nursing his wounds. No one was safe.
There had been a very careful watch set up for a killer cornered in the East End, and somehow the man had slipped quietly through the net and escaped. Bowles had borne the brunt of official displeasure.
As Rutledge came through the door, Bowles looked at him with narrowed eyes. “And what are you doing here? I thought I’d sent you north to Yorkshire.”
“You had. I brought back a sketch of the dead man. I think someone in the War Office ought to have a look at it.”
“Very clever of you,” Bowles declared in a growl. “What makes you think they want to meet with you, pray? Sketch or no sketch?”
“Because I don’t think they’re very keen on traveling to Yorkshire themselves to see the body. There are no distinguishing marks, and any description would fit half the men walking past our door. If they want Partridge badly enough, they’ll agree.”
Bowles grunted, but picked up the telephone and put in a call. It took nearly a quarter of an hour for someone to get back to him.
He sent for Rutledge and told him shortly, “Martin Deloran. Someone at the War Office will take you to meet him. They’re waiting. Bloody army.”
Rutledge retrieved the sketch from his office and left.
When he was finally admitted into Deloran’s presence, Rutledge had had enough of secrecy and chains of command. He sat down in the chair pointed out to him and said without preamble, “It’s possible I’ve found Partridge. It’s for you to decide.”
Deloran took the folder that Rutledge passed across the desk and said, “I’m told by Chief Superintendent Bowles that this body was found in the ruins of Fountains Abbey, wrapped in some sort of cloak, with a respirator on his face. Hardly sounds like the man we’ve somehow mislaid.”
“The respirator was torn. The cloak I think is theatrical.”
He had a sudden image of his parents leaving for a party, his mother in an Elizabethan costume, the ruff around her face framing it becomingly, the scent of her perfume mixing with the heavier one of cedar shavings. And his father, looking like Charles II in a wig that reached below his shoulders.
Deloran said, “Well, that’s not Partridge, I can tell you. I doubt he ever went to the theatre in his life.”
“A masquerade,” Rutledge said. “Not theatrical.” It fit—the fineness of the weave and the quality of the robe…
Nothing changed in Deloran’s face. But the fingers holding a pen tightened. He said, “I doubt Partridge would have been caught dead in a masquerade.” Then he realized what he’d just said, and smiled. “Sorry. But you take the point, I’m sure.”
He picked up the folder, almost as if to satisfy Rutledge rather than from any curiosity on his part. Looking at the sketch, he said thoughtfully, “It’s hard to say, given the inferior quality of the drawing. But I can tell you that this looks nothing like our man.”
He closed the folder and passed it back to Rutledge. “It appears we were wrong about Yorkshire. I expect Partridge will show up in his own good time, whether we look for him or not.”
“This man was very likely murdered,” Rutledge told him bluntly. “He didn’t die there in the ruins. He was carried there, after he was dead.”
“Yes, very sad.” Deloran prepared to stand, ready to dismiss Rutledge. “Thank you so much for your help in this matter. We are more grateful than you know.”
He was standing now, and he gestured to the sketch. “I hope there’s a successful conclusion to this case. Are you returning to Yorkshire?”
“At the moment, no.” Rutledge stood also.
“Just as well. Let them sort out this inquiry. I’m sure they’ll manage very well. Local people know best, oftentimes, deep roots in their patch, and all that. Sorry to have muddied the waters.”
“Are you quite certain this couldn’t be your man Partridge?”
“Absolutely.” Deloran offered his hand, and Rutledge took it. “Innis will see you out.”
As they walked out of the room, Hamish said, referring to Deloran, “I wouldna’ care to play cards wi’ him.”
Innis was waiting to escort him out of the building. Rutledge, considering the gray-haired man, would have placed him as a retired sergeant-major, ramrod back, calm face, an air of unquestioned authority that had nothing to do with a uniform.
On the street once more, Rutledge answered Hamish. “I’ll give you any odds you like that our dead man is Partridge. The question is, why wouldn’t Deloran admit to it?”
“He’s deid,” Hamish said. “And that pleases someone.”
“Yes,” Rutledge answered slowly.
His dismissal rankled. The bland lies, the willingness to abandon a man who was inconvenient, even though someone had murdered him, the arrogance of the assumption that Rutledge would walk away as well, case closed, not even warning him off so much as believing that a policeman could be so easily gulled, left a bad taste.
And in the meantime, Inspector Madsen, with a corpse on his hands and his main suspect cleared, was to be left in the dark.
Back at the Yard, Gibson was waiting for him outside his office.
“I’ve been on the horn to Whitby. They remember your man Shoreham. He was never tried for the injury to Mrs. Crowell. The family refused to take the matter further. Shoreham left town shortly after that, and Whitby has quite lost track of him.”
“Shame, I should imagine.”
“Very likely,” Gibson responded. “After losing his position, he found there was no use staying on where he wasn’t wanted. Another town, another life.”
“Quite,” Rutledge answered.
“No one remembers his chin.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“And so far as Whitby knows, he never came to the attention of the police again. No inquiries in regard to a troubled past.”
“A lesson learned. Yes. Thank you, Sergeant. Well done.”
He was about to walk on, when Gibson added, “No inquiries, that is, until this morning. From an inspector in Elthorpe, or so I was told.”
Rutledge stopped in his tracks. “Indeed.”
“Seems they have a dead man they can’t identify. And they’re coming round to thinking it could be Shoreham.”
Rutledge swore.
“Keep searching for Shoreham, then. I need to be sure he’s alive. More important, I need to know where he’s currently living.”
“That’s a tall order,” Gibson said doubtfully.
“Yes, well. If we don’t find him, someone is going to hang for his murder.”
Rutledge walked on down the passage to Chief Superintendent Bowles’s office. As he went, he made up his mind about what he was going to say.
Bowles looked up as he entered the cluttered room.
“Well?”
“The case is closed. At least as far as Mr. Deloran is concerned. I’m not so sure.”
“You don’t want to run afoul of that lot.”
“No. On the other hand, I have a feeling that they’d rather sweep a murder under their carpet than tell us the truth. There’s a man dead in Yorkshire, and they would just as soon ignore him. I’d like to clear up a few loose ends before I accept their verdict. Frankly, I wouldn’t put it past them to have got rid of this man Partridge themselves.”