“How did Crowell find Shoreham, if it was impossible for the Yard to locate him?”
“It’s our view that Crowell ran into him quite by chance. Lucky for him, not so fortunate for Shoreham. The Crowells weren’t living in Dilby when the accident happened. Shoreham had no way of knowing his danger.”
“For the sake of argument, let’s say you’re right—”
Madsen smiled. “Very well.”
“Where did Shoreham die? And why did Crowell take the risk of leaving him in the abbey ruins? It was not the cleverest thing to do.”
The legs of Madsen’s chair smacked the floor with a sharp thump. “Early days yet, Rutledge, but we’ll have that soon enough.”
“I’d like the name of the cousin in Addleford. And the direction of the Welsh cousin as well.”
“Where’s the need? We’ve been over that ground already.”
“So you have,” Rutledge responded with more patience than he felt. “But the Yard will require assurances that all the evidence has been thoroughly examined. More to the point, we appear to have some confusion about identity. I’ll remind you that Mrs. Crowell didn’t recognize the drawing, and Crowell himself said he couldn’t identify the body, when he was taken to the doctor’s surgery.”
“Well, they would say as much, wouldn’t they? Crowell because he had no intention of drawing attention to himself, and Al—Mrs. Crowell, that is—because she’s not about to betray her husband.”
Rutledge saw something in Madsen’s face as he said the last few words that was very different from his manner to this point. “Nothing in my conversations with her made me feel she would lie for her husband’s sake. And what about Crowell’s feelings about killing? They’re on record.”
“This is the man who ruined his wife’s face, for God’s sake. It’s all very well to make a public display of forgiving the bastard, but deep down inside? Crowell was probably biding his time for a bit of quiet revenge.” Madsen shook his head. “I don’t hold with conscientious objectors. I never have. They were perfectly willing to let someone else die in their place, weren’t they? I’ll stay home, cozy by my hearth, thank you very much, and leave you to do the fighting!”
“I remind you he drove an ambulance.”
“Yes, that’s all very well. A bit of conscience overcoming him, for a guess.” It was a sneer. “And Alice thought him quite the hero, didn’t she, bringing back the wounded and saving lives. And those of us who had to carry on back in England, doing the job we were meant to do, were not good enough—”
Madsen stopped short, but not before Rutledge had seen more than he was meant to see.
Alice…
And those of us who had to carry on here in England were not good enough…
As Madsen struggled to rein in his temper, Hamish said, “Ye ken, he’s jealous, and he canna’ live with it.”
The inspector looked away from Rutledge, his gaze going to a half-dozen folders lying on top of the table at his elbow. “It could be she’s afraid to tell us what she really thinks. There’s no getting around the fact that every time she looks in her mirror, the scar is there, staring back at her.”
He picked up one of the folders and opened it. “Peter Littleton. That’s the cousin in Addleford. And this man Williams lives outside Aberystwyth in a place called Hill Farm.”
Rutledge took the sheet of paper that Madsen held out to him. “I’ll let you know what I discover.”
“Precious little, I’ll be bound,” Madsen said under his breath as Rutledge left.
Rutledge made a detour to Dilby, to find Alice Crowell. She was trying to keep the school open in her husband’s absence. There were shadows under her eyes and a tightness in her face that spoke of her distress. The white scar seemed to shine in the morning light as if newly burnished by the reminders of how it had begun.
There was a flare of hope in her face as she saw Rutledge in the passage outside the bookroom, and she glanced beyond him to see if her husband was following in his wake. And then it vanished as she realized he was alone.
“Have you seen Albert?” she asked anxiously. “They won’t allow me to speak to him.”
“I haven’t seen him. I’m sorry,” he told her gently. “But he’ll be safe enough where he is, until Inspector Madsen gets to the bottom of this business.”
She shook her head. “But he won’t do that, will he? Where’s the point?”
Mrs. Crowell opened the door behind her and ushered him into the empty room. She indicated a chair for him, but he stood, as she did. There wasn’t a great deal to be said by either of them.
“What’s behind Madsen’s dislike of your husband?” Rutledge asked, coming directly to the point.
“We were about to be engaged once. My parents didn’t care for my choice and I was young, I listened to them instead of my heart. I realized later, when I’d met Albert, that they’d been wiser than I. But at the time I was heartbroken.”
“I understand that Inspector Madsen has since married.”
“Yes, that’s true. But his pride was hurt when I had to tell him my father wasn’t happy with the match. Father promised he’d speak directly to Harry. But you see, my father was in the army, and there was no opportunity. Harry—Mr. Madsen—wrote to him finally, but there was no reply. My mother, who was alive at the time, always thought that the war had prevented Papa from answering. I knew that wasn’t true. He didn’t want to encourage either of us. He felt I was making a poor choice. A working-class man.”
“Is your father still living?”
“Yes. He’s offered to come and fetch me now, but I won’t leave Albert.” She sighed. “I thought, when you first came here, that my father had sent you. I wrote to him when I saw how Albert was being persecuted. I asked him to intervene.”
“And did he?”
“I don’t know,” she answered him frankly. “He’s the colonel of an East Anglian regiment. I thought he might know someone, bring a little pressure to bear in the right quarters. But look how it’s all turned out. I expect there was nothing he could do.”
Her voice trailed off forlornly, and she looked at the windows. There was a bright sunshine outside, but it failed to light the room, as if sensing the despair that filled it.
Rutledge was tempted to ask her outright if she knew one Martin Deloran but thought better of it. Instead he approached the subject indirectly. “Do you know a man called Gaylord Partridge?”
“What an odd name. I should remember that, if we’ve ever been introduced. Should I know him?” Hope seemed to spring awake again. “Is there any way he can help me?”
“Later perhaps. And Gerald Parkinson. Did you or your father know him?”
She frowned, digging for the memory. “I went to school with girls by the name of Parkinson. They were much younger; we didn’t have a lot in common. But they used to tell everyone the most absurd stories about their father. He was eccentric, if half of it was to be believed. Always tinkering with things. I can’t think that he’s the same person you’re asking me about.”
“I agree, it doesn’t sound like it. Martin Deloran. Do you know him?”
“Deloran? No, that’s not a name I recognize either.”
“I’ll do what I can for your husband, Mrs. Crowell, but don’t count on miracles.”
“But I told you—” she began indignantly.
“Yes, so you did. The fact is, you aren’t a reliable witness. If the victim of murder is Henry Shoreham, then you have a reason to conceal your knowledge of him. Or anyone associated with him.”
Her mouth was open to protest vehemently. He held up a hand to stop her.