In the dark, how much did Henry Shoreham resemble Gaylord Partridge or rather Gerald Parkinson? Could a man with a grudge mistake one for the other?
But then where had he taken his victim to kill him? Not to the school. And Parkinson hadn’t died along the road. Why, when the evidence might in the end point in his direction, had Crowell left the body in the ruins of a medieval abbey, where it was bound to be found, and only miles from where he lived?
Was he so arrogant that he didn’t believe a connection would be made? Or when he realized he’d killed the wrong man, had he felt sure he was safe?
Hamish said, “There’s Mrs. Crowell. He would ha’ done his best to keep her out of it, even if she’d killed her tormenter.”
Rutledge didn’t relish the long drive back to Yorkshire. But there was no other choice now. Damn Deloran!
“Is Bowles sending anyone north?” he asked Gibson.
“He sent a constable to see if you’d returned home.”
“Then I’ll report to him first thing in the morning.” He said good-bye to Gibson and went back to his flat.
There he found Frances sitting in his parlor drinking his whisky.
She lifted her glass to him. “I saw your valise by the door. So this time I stayed.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow for Yorkshire.”
She pretended to pout, pursing her lips and looking at him out of the corner of her eyes. “I might have known. Here my life is in total crisis, and you’re nowhere to be found.”
“How’s Simon?”
The pretense vanished. “Would that I knew.”
“Frances.”
She put down the glass. “No, I didn’t come for a lecture. I just needed to hear a friendly voice.”
“Frances,” he said again, but in an entirely different tone.
“I don’t want to talk about it. Take me to dinner and make me laugh.”
He rephrased her response. “Would that I could.”
“I sometimes do wish that Mother had had a large family.”
Rutledge laughed. “All right, dinner it is. Let me change.” But at the door to his bedroom, he stopped. “Do you know a Gerald Parkinson?”
“Parkinson? No, I don’t think I do.” Her interest sharpened. “Should I?”
“I doubt it. I ran across the name in Wiltshire, and I didn’t want to ask the Yard who he is. At least not yet.”
“Forget him for one night. I’m sure he’s not going anywhere at the moment.”
As he went through his door, he said to himself, “No, he’s not going anywhere. He’s dead. And I don’t know for certain what name will be on his stone.”
Dinner was quiet, Frances in a mood of reminiscence and Rutledge distracted by his thoughts and Hamish’s crushing presence. Hiding his demons from his sister proved to be trying.
But the next morning he presented himself at the Yard, found a glowering Bowles waiting for him as he walked down the passage toward the Chief Superintendent’s door, and with a sinking heart, followed him into his office.
“Well? I’ll not be made a fool of, Rutledge. Who’s this dead man stirring up trouble in Yorkshire?”
“I’ve reason to believe he’s one Gaylord Partridge, who also answers to the name of Gerald Parkinson. His neighbors and a postmaster confirm that.”
“And Inspector Madsen has reason to believe he’s one Henry Shoreham. He can’t be both, damn it!”
“I’ll go to Yorkshire and get to the bottom of it.”
“See that you do. Who’s Gerald Parkinson, when he’s at home? Never heard of him.”
“He’s from Wiltshire. He’s known there, he has an estate there. For some reason he left it and moved to Berkshire, not far from Uffington, content to live in a small cottage under a different name. His neighbors found him aloof, and none of them seems to know he had a past different from the one he’s given out to them. Which is precious little.”
“Are you certain this sketch of yours is a good likeness? You’ll look a fool and so would I if it’s off the mark.”
“No one in Yorkshire admitted to recognizing the body—or the sketch.”
“Humph.” Bowles rubbed his eyes. “Well, it’s time to get to the truth. Find out why Inspector Madsen is hell-bent on causing trouble. Or what he knows that we don’t. Either way, settle it. Don’t come back until you do.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“No, man, you’ll do more than your best. If we’re to have a hornet’s nest burst about our ears, we want to make certain we can survive it.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I have no more use for this Deloran than you do. I don’t like outsiders meddling in an inquiry, and above all I don’t relish being made to look a fool. Do you understand me?”
Bowles had been an unexpected and unwilling ally when they faced a common enemy in the War Office. Now he was back to his irascible self.
Rutledge took a deep breath. “I’m fairly certain Deloran is hiding information that might make our work easier. But I can’t find a way to get at it without bringing Partridge to his attention again.”
“If you’re asking me to beard the lion in his den, you’ve another think coming. You’re expendable, Rutledge. And don’t you forget it.”
During the long drive north, Rutledge had much on his mind, and there was only Hamish to break the silence that pursued him mile after mile. When, the next morning, he pulled into Elthorpe, he had the odd feeling that nothing had changed since his first arrival only days ago. As he switched off the motor, he could have sworn the same faces were on the street, the same wares displayed in the shop windows, and the same rain clouds hovered in the distance. He sat for a moment looking at nothing, considering how best to say what must be said to Inspector Madsen.
A cold wind blew across the dales and into the narrow streets, reminding him that here April had not brought the same spring softness that was awakening the south of England.
Finally he got out of the motorcar and crossed the road to the police station.
There was a distinct pause in conversation when he entered and asked for the inspector.
Madsen was not pleased to see him. He met Rutledge’s gaze with righteous hostility as he came through the door, waiting for him to speak first.
“I’ve been told that Albert Crowell has been taken into custody.”
“Oh, yes, you explained away that book on alchemy very well. It’s harder to explain away Henry Shoreham’s disappearance less than a week before we found our corpse in the abbey.”
Rutledge said, “I’ve had a positive identification of your victim. He lived in Berkshire, and as far as I know, never met Alice Crowell.”
“From a sketch.”
“You yourself saw both the sketch and the victim. Are you telling me that the sketch is faulty?”
“Then what was your Berkshire man doing, hanging about in Yorkshire?”
“I don’t have the answer to that. Yet. My sergeant told me,” Rutledge went on, “that Shoreham had left Whitby shortly after the Crowells refused to press charges against him, and no one has seen him since. Where has he been, these last few years?”
Madsen sat down in his chair and leaned back, suddenly smug. “London isn’t as thorough as a good Yorkshire man can be when he puts his mind to it. We ran Shoreham to earth in the village of Addleford, living quietly with a cousin. Only, he went to stay with another cousin, and vanished. This cousin, one Lewellyn Williams, swore he never arrived. And he left Addleford because a family from Whitby moved there and he feared he’d be recognized.”
“Why didn’t one or the other of these cousins raise the alarm when Shoreham failed to arrive in Wales? Surely they were concerned about him?”
“The one in Wales thought Shoreham had changed his mind about coming just then. The one in Addleford thought he was snug in Wales. Constable Pickerel got the distinct impression that the cousin in Addleford hadn’t been in any great hurry to contact Williams.”