And in truth, if he did change his mind, there was no legal way to stop him. The need to identify a stranger had brought him back to his own personal hell, and indeed, the closer they got to Elthorpe, the more noticeably anxious Shoreham got.
Still, he said nothing, and the silence was a strain on both men. Hamish filled it instead, his voice alternately hostile and questioning.
At one point Rutledge asked, just to silence it, “Shoreham. Do you know a Gerald Parkinson? Or Gaylord Partridge?”
“No. Should I? Is this another test?”
“Not at all.”
And the silence reigned once more.
When the motorcar pulled at last into Elthorpe in the late afternoon, a cold rain was falling and the streets were empty. In the teashop they passed, the tables were filled and steam clouded the windows. The pub was dark, but there was a motorcar in front of the hotel, two men descending and walking briskly through the door.
Shoreham said, “Peter Littleton lied as well. But for my sake. Don’t punish him for my sins.”
Rutledge didn’t answer.
Inspector Madsen had gone home for his tea. Elthorpe was tranquil once more and no murderers wandered in the ruins of an abbey, or anywhere else. He could afford to take his time.
Rutledge sent the constable on duty for the inspector, and it was with studied reluctance that the man did as he was asked.
In short order, Inspector Madsen came striding in, confident and in good spirits. His gaze swept over the stranger and moved on to Rutledge.
“Well, then, what brings you north again? Track down Littleton, did you? Fool’s errand, I could have told you as much, but there you are.”
“Not quite,” Rutledge replied. “Don’t you recognize this man?”
Madsen turned his attention to Shoreham’s face, and he frowned. “The Welshman, is it? What possessed you to bring him back with you?” Some of the confidence in his face faltered.
“His real name is Henry Shoreham, not Llewellyn Williams.”
Madsen laughed. “I daresay you could find a dozen Henry Shorehams across the breadth of England, if you set your mind to it.” But the laugh rang hollow.
“You found Littleton, I grant you, and Shoreham had stayed with him for some time. But it was two years ago, not two weeks, when Shoreham left to take up a cousin’s farm in Wales. Littleton was clever, he saw a chance to bury his cousin, and the two of them were convincing.”
“You’re mad!”
“Hardly that. Bring out Crowell, if you will, and see what he has to say.”
“Of course he’ll identify your man as Shoreham. He’s no fool.”
Shoreham said, his voice not quite steady, “They will know me in Whitby. You’ve only to take me there, to the police. I don’t want to see Crowell. Or his wife.”
Madsen was staring at him with a hard expression on his face now, convinced against his will, and yet unwilling to admit to it, he was wishing Shoreham at the very devil.
Rutledge said into the silence, “He’s right.”
“Then who is the dead man from the abbey? Answer me that, if you’re so damned clever.”
“It is my belief he’s one Gerald Parkinson, of Wiltshire.”
“Wiltshire, is it? And what was he doing in Yorkshire?”
“I’m not sure. But there was this business of Shoreham to settle once and for all. You’ll have to let Crowell go, you know.”
“Maybe he mistook this Parkinson for Shoreham,” Madsen snapped.
“Do they look that much alike to you?” Rutledge countered. “Generally, of course, in coloring and height. The same could be said of your constable, there by the door. But there’s no question about the features. They aren’t the same.”
Madsen said, “Bring me Parkinson’s murderer and I’ll let Crowell go. Not before.”
But it was bravado. They had only to look at Shoreham, standing there with his eyes downcast and his face pale, the strain evident, to know that Rutledge had found his man.
“All the same, I’ll take him to Whitby,” Madsen went on.
“At your expense. And after that, he’s free to return to Wales. Agreed? I’ll leave you the money to pay for his journey.”
“Agreed.” It was reluctantly promised, but Madsen knew he had lost his gambit. He’d been wrong about Crowell. If in fact he had ever truly believed that the schoolmaster was a killer. And now it was time to save face and back out with as much grace as he could muster.
Rutledge took Shoreham to the hotel across from the police station and found rooms for them. He said to Shoreham as they turned toward the stairs, “You couldn’t have hidden forever. You couldn’t have lived with the lie.”
Shoreham stared at him for a moment, then said, “Yes, I could have done that, if you hadn’t come to my door. I could have ignored the truth and told myself the man was dead, and there was no harm in giving him a name—my name. He didn’t have one of his own, did he? But when you stopped in my yard, it was different, somehow. I couldn’t pretend after that. I’d lost the chance.” He held out his hand for his key and added, “You told me you’d pay for my way back to Wales.”
“The money will be waiting at Inspector Madsen’s office, when he’s finished with you.”
Shoreham grimaced. “I wasn’t going to run.” And then he was gone, the door shut behind him.
After four hours’ sleep, Rutledge left Elthorpe and turned south. He took with him the words that Madsen had said to him when he brought the money for Shoreham’s journey home.
“It must be nice to sleep at night, knowing you’re always right.”
“I wasn’t blinded by wishful thinking, Madsen. There’s the difference.”
“Still and all,” the inspector told him bluntly, “I wish you’d never come here. We’d have managed very well without you.”
“Let go, man, before you destroy your career.”
“It’ud been worth it. I’ll say that to you and no one else. I don’t know which of them I wanted to hurt more. Him or her. It wouldn’t have changed anything, but it might have taken away a little of the pain on my side.”
It was something Rutledge was to remember in the days ahead.
14
Rutledge put in a call to Bowles when he stopped for the night in Lincoln.
Chief Superintendent Bowles wasn’t there, he was told. But Sergeant Gibson had a message for Inspector Rutledge.
There was a delay while the sergeant was located and brought to the telephone.
He was gruff. “You’re to come directly to London, sir.”
“What’s happened?”
“I’m not to say, sir. It’s a family matter. Your sister will be waiting for you at your flat.”
If she was waiting there, she must be all right. But she wouldn’t have had the Yard pass on a message if it were only another snag in her relationship with Simon Barrington. He could feel his mind searching for a solution, and finding none.
“Very well. Thank you, Gibson. I’ll be at the Yard in the afternoon.”
“Yes, sir.” He sounded doubtful, but then Gibson was not known for his cheerfulness.
Rutledge put up the receiver and turned around, on his way out of the small room where the hotel telephone had been installed. As he opened the door, he was surprised to see Simon Barrington walking into the hotel dining room, a woman on his arm. Rutledge could see only the back of her head, dark hair and a slim figure.
He decided on the spot to find somewhere else to dine. He had no wish to come face-to-face with the pair.
But what was Barrington doing here in Lincoln?
Hamish said, “Ye’re too weary to go on to London. It would be foolish.”
He had read Rutledge’s mind.