“Yet you felt no need to travel to Elthorpe, to be sure?”
Littleton looked him in the eye. “It was the inspector telling me Henry was dead. Add to that, he’d never arrived in Wales, had he? So I believed what I was told. My going to Elthorpe wouldn’t bring Henry back, would it? I have a wife and family to feed. A child that’s ill, and the doctor is costing us more than we can pay. I have a shop that brings no money in when I’m not here to open it. Besides, we never had a suicide in our family. I’d not want that getting about.”
“Who told you it might have been suicide?” Rutledge asked sharply.
“What else could it be? I know, the inspector was hinting that it was murder. As I explained to the constable, Henry was persecuted. It might have ended differently if he’d gone to prison instead, but the woman and her husband forgave him. That turned everyone in Whitby against Henry. When the law wouldn’t punish him, everyone else did. There was a great outcry.”
“You never considered the fact that Albert Crowell might have killed your cousin, that they ran into each other by accident, and Crowell took the chance offered to avenge his wife?”
“Then why did this man Crowell forgive him in the first place, if that’s what he wanted to do?”
“To keep Henry Shoreham out of prison? To make sure he could be found and killed? Only he came here to Addleford and Crowell couldn’t find him.”
In spite of himself, Rutledge found that it made a certain sense—perhaps explained why Crowell had chosen to teach at Dilby. Looking for Shoreham. Madsen could easily make that case.
“That was before the war—a long time to wait to get even.”
“Then you’ll leave your cousin to a pauper’s grave, and let the police sort out how he died?”
“I’ll pay what I can for a decent burial. Inspector Madsen knows that. But I won’t do more. Truth is, the scandal affected all our lives. Harboring Henry was what I had to do, because he was my blood. I’ll not bring him back here and put him in the churchyard for everyone to stare at and remember.”
Rutledge could hear Martin Deloran’s callous dismissal of the dead man. Did no one care what became of him?
“An interesting point of view, Mr. Littleton. Still, I’ll have to speak to your wife and your neighbors. I need to know precisely when Henry Shoreham left Addleford. How he was traveling, and in what direction.”
“You’re not understanding me. Henry kept to himself. Most particularly after the Jordan family moved to Addleford. I doubt my neighbors have clapped eyes on him since. He never came to town, went to church services, called in at the pub. He just sat in his room and stared out the window.”
There was evasion here, almost a washing of the hands. Why?
Rutledge had brought the folder in with him and opened it now to pull out the sketch. “Perhaps you know this man?” he asked.
Littleton looked intently at the face. “He’s the dead man?”
“Yes.”
Littleton shook his head, then glanced up at Rutledge. “The description Inspector Madsen gave of the body was too close for comfort. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. But this is like seeing Henry younger and happier.”
“There’s no cleft in this man’s chin.”
Littleton was rattled. “Should there be? I don’t see it here, and Inspector Madsen never said anything about one.”
“Shoreham didn’t have one?”
“No.”
Then either Mrs. Crowell had been mistaken, or she’d lied. It had been six years. And she had been in shock and pain at the time.
“Who else besides Crowell might have wished your cousin ill?”
“If you found Henry, he’s dead by his own hand,” Littleton answered stubbornly.
Rutledge considered the possibility that Littleton himself had killed his cousin. But judging the character of the shoemaker, he thought not. If the man went to prison or was hanged, who would support his family?
“Did Inspector Madsen tell you that this man, the one you see in this drawing, died somewhere else, not in the place where he was found?”
It was clear that Littleton didn’t know what to make of this information. Inspector Madsen, for reasons of his own, had kept some facts of the case to himself.
“Here! I can’t tell you what happened to him. He left my house, he told me he was going to Cousin Llewellyn in Aberysthwyth. Then along comes Inspector Madsen, saying he never got to Wales, that he was dead and lying in a doctor’s surgery in Elthorpe. I’ve told the police all I can. You must ask him—Inspector Madsen—what this is all about.”
Rutledge was again reminded of Martin Deloran, willing to give any name to a dead man for his own ends. But what end could Peter Littleton have, unless he’d killed Shoreham long ago and hidden the body?
Hamish said, “Ask yon cousin in Wales.”
Blood was thicker than water…How far would Henry Shoreham’s relatives go to protect him? Or be rid of him?
Rutledge said, “If this man in Elthorpe isn’t your cousin—if you’re obstructing the police in the course of their duties, it will go hard for you.”
The threat registered in Littleton’s eyes. But he answered only, “I haven’t gone to Elthorpe asking about this dead man. It was Inspector Madsen who came to me.”
The door opened and a woman walked in, her eyes red with crying. She stopped short as she saw Rutledge. “Peter. If you could hurry—?”
But before Peter Littleton could answer, Rutledge said, “Mrs. Littleton, is it? We’ve nearly finished our business, your husband and I. I was just asking him about his cousin.”
Her gaze sharpened, whatever had brought her here quickly set aside. “Peter?” She didn’t glance at her husband. She stood there trying to collect her wits.
“It’s all right, love. This is Inspector Rutledge. He’s come about Henry.”
“But I thought they’d found a body and were satisfied.” Her voice was accusing.
“So we were told. Here, see for yourself. This is a drawing of the dead man. Does it look like Henry to you?”
She took it and stared at it. “They’re the same age,” she replied after a moment, looking not at Rutledge but at her husband. “And the same coloring. I don’t understand. I thought it had been settled?”
“He’s come to tell me this man was murdered.”
Mrs. Littleton gasped. “But—there must be some mistake. You didn’t tell me—what did Henry have worth stealing? And he hadn’t touched a drop of gin since that day in Whitby. How do they know he was murdered? You told me it was suicide. I don’t understand.”
She was begging for help, for reassurance. Her husband said, warningly, “We’re trying to sort it out, Beth.”
“Let it wait. I’m sick of Henry Shoreham. I’ve come to fetch you. The baby’s worse, we must find the doctor.”
Peter Littleton’s face lost its color. He said, “Oh, God,” and pushed past Rutledge to his wife. “Go home, love, I’ll bring the doctor to you.” And over his shoulder to Rutledge he said, “She’s had whooping cough—”
And he was gone, leaving Rutledge to close the shop door behind them.
Rutledge spent half an hour asking round the village for Henry Shoreham, and met with a shake of the head. Most people had no idea that he’d gone.
“One to stay close to home,” the greengrocer said. “Early on, I saw him a time or two in the evening, but not to speak to. You’d never guess he was in the house. When I went to make a delivery, he never came out to say good morning.”
“He never came to services. Not even to his niece’s christening,” the rector told Rutledge. “Not a religious man, Peter Littleton said. But he ought to have been. If ever there was a man in need of prayer, it was that one. Looked like a ghost of himself, the way I remember him when Peter and Elizabeth were married.”