As Madsen followed him down the passage, he asked Crowell, “Interested in alchemy, are you, sir?”
“Not particularly. When I teach science, I often make more progress with something that’s exciting than I do with dull experiments. I say, how did you come by this? It’s an old book, I doubt it’s still in print.”
“We’ll attend to that in a moment, sir. This your office, is it?”
Crowell went in and crossed directly to the low bookshelf behind his desk. But when he put his finger out to tap his copy, the finger stopped in midair. “It isn’t here.” He turned back to Madsen, frowning. “I’m at a loss to explain how it got away, but I thank you for taking the trouble to return it, Inspector.” He slid it into its proper slot, then straightened and waited, as if expecting Madsen either to take his leave or explain why it was an inspector and a constable had come to deliver a lost book.
“The problem is,” Madsen began slowly, “that this book—your book—was discovered lying by the foot of a dead man.”
“Good God!” Crowell was speechless for a moment, then recovering, said, “I don’t understand, Inspector, but I expect we should discuss this. I’m available at three o’clock.”
“Indeed, sir. Is there anyone who can take over your class, sir? I’d like you to come with me.”
“What? Now? In heaven’s name, can’t it wait until the end of the school day? We’re in the middle of a very important lesson. I have no idea why this man or anyone else would be interested in my book on alchemy, but surely it isn’t a pressing matter? This is a harmless enough study, it can’t do anyone any harm.”
“I’m afraid not, sir. It could be a case of murder we’re looking at.”
Crowell stood there, uncertain quite what was expected of him. Then he said, “I shall have to ask my wife to step in. At this age, boys are inclined to rowdiness if left unsupervised.”
As he went to find his wife, accompanied by Constable Hood, Madsen walked back to the classroom.
There was a ripple of wariness as the students turned one by one to look at him. He saw boys at the edge of the group hang their heads as if wishing the floor would swallow them up, and he smiled to himself. He could remember when he was that age and small sins loomed large.
“I’m having to borrow Mr. Crowell for a bit. I don’t want to hear you’ve been rude or rowdy with his missus,” he said, his voice stern. “You’ll answer to me if there’s any complaint of your behavior. Is that clear?”
There was a chorus of Yes, sirs! that made the rafters echo.
He nodded to the class collectively as he heard footsteps approaching. A young woman with a scar across her face walked past him into the room, taking the chair at her husband’s table. She ignored Madsen, but he saw that her hands were trembling as she folded them together, and he shoved his own into his pockets as if to still them as well.
The students went quickly back to work, and Crowell smiled reassuringly at his wife before following Madsen out into the passage.
It was a long drive back to Elthorpe, not so much in miles but in the silence that neither Madsen nor Crowell felt free to break. But as they stopped in front of the police station, Crowell said, “All right, I’m here. As you asked. It’s time you told me what this is all about.”
“Where were you last evening, sir?” Madsen asked as he led the way into the station and back to the office where he kept his files and his pipe. “If you don’t mind telling us?”
“I was at the school. Reading. My wife can verify that, you needn’t have dragged me here. And what’s this about a dead man and possible murder?”
“I was just coming to that, sir.” Madsen sat down, leaving Crowell standing. “We found a body early this morning in the abbey ruins. A man none of us recognizes. But he’d spent some time there, from the looks of things, and it’s likely he wasn’t alone. My question is this. If he died of natural causes—and we’ll know the answer to that when the doctor has examined him—why didn’t the person or persons with him come for help?”
“As I wasn’t there, I can’t answer you.”
“But you were there, in a manner of speaking. There was candle wax on a stone in the center of the cloisters, a stub of candle nearby, and at the dead man’s foot, your book, with your name in it. A book you admit is kept in your private office.”
“And I’ve explained to you that I have no idea how it came to be there. I’d have sworn it was on my shelf along with the rest of my books. I can’t even tell you when it went missing, or how.”
“Indeed, sir. You’ve told me the book was old, out of print. There can’t be that many other copies floating about, and none of them, I expect, with your book plate inside. What we’re hoping is that you can put a name to our dead man. If he had your copy in his possession, he very likely knew you. If it wasn’t in his possession, why did you bring it to this meeting? No, don’t interrupt, let me finish. Did the shock of seeing him die put the book out of your mind? Was that how it got left behind? There has to be a simple explanation, sir, and we would be greatly obliged if you could tell us why he was hanging about in a medieval abbey ruin in the middle of the night. It must have been important, whatever it was you met to discuss, and a private matter at that.”
“Look, I’ve told you—I wasn’t in the abbey ruins last night or any night this past year. I don’t know who the dead man is or why my book should be there. I didn’t meet him, and when you find out who stole my book, you’ll have your other person.” Crowell was angry now, and feeling more than a little defensive as the evidence against him was being presented.
“Then you’ll have no objection to coming with us to look at the dead man.”
“I—don’t like the dead. That is, I’ve seen more than my share, and I’ll live very happily if I never see another one.”
“That’s as may be,” Madsen said. “All the same, I shall have to ask you to tell us if you can identify him.” He rose. “We can walk to the doctor’s surgery from here. I’m sure I can accept your word that you won’t make any trouble for us?”
“Make any—of course not, damn you.”
Madsen smiled as he led the way. He had his man now, he was sure of it.
But in the back room of the doctor’s surgery, where the body had been taken, Crowell stared down at the face on the bed and slowly shook his head. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
“Can you swear to that?”
“Of course I can. I have never laid eyes on him as far as I know.”
But there was a subtle shift in what he’d said before and what he was willing to swear to. Madsen made a note of it.
The doctor came in just then and nodded to Madsen. “As far as I can tell on first examination I’d say he was overcome by gas. Which means he couldn’t have been wearing that respirator when he died. Nor could he have died in the ruins.”
Madsen frowned. “Are you saying he died elsewhere, was brought to the abbey, and left where he was found?”
“I can tell you he didn’t walk there himself,” the doctor retorted dryly. “Someone else was involved. Make of it what you will.”
Crowell, standing there between the doctor and the inspector, flinched. “I don’t have gas lamps. Not where I live.” He’d blurted it out, nerves getting the better of him. His brother had died from chlorine gas at the second battle of Ypres. He had spent years trying to wipe that memory away. It had been a horrid death. He had carried the dying too many times not to know what his brother had suffered.
Madsen and the doctor turned to stare at him.
“I’ve never seen him before,” Crowell repeated. “Can we go now? I’ve no taste for this.”