A Pale Horse

9

Inspector Madsen, in fact, was livid.

He paced the small office and asked Rutledge what he was about, to make an arbitrary decision about a case that was his only by courtesy.

Rutledge said, “You can’t hang a man for murder because you dislike him, Madsen. And there’s no other proof Crowell was involved in any fashion, now that the book is explained away.”

“Too conveniently explained away if you ask me. I should have been present when you interviewed Hugh Tredworth. Why wasn’t I sent for? You don’t know this part of the country the way I do. How can I be sure he was telling the truth? Damn it, you don’t know these people.”

Rutledge said only, “I know when I’m being lied to. Your case is wide open, man, it’s time to get on with it. If London can place the victim from the sketch, then you’ll be the first to know. Meanwhile, you’re letting what evidence there is grow cold. I’d speak to the undergardener on the estate, for one. And talk to the nearest stationmaster. He may remember a stranger arriving by train. Hold the inquest, and ask the coroner to bring in the verdict of murder by person or persons unknown, to give you more time.”

“Don’t teach me how to run an inquiry,” Madsen went on, fuming. “And why are you here in the first place? Because Alice Crowell’s father has friends in high places, looking after his daughter. I tell you, the schoolmaster thought he was killing the man who’d scarred his wife, and you’ll not convince me otherwise. Oh, yes, I got that story out of Mary Norton.”

“It’s a dead end, Madsen. I’ll have to return to London tomorrow. I need to look into several other possibilities.”

Or to put it another way, reporting to the Colonel, Madsen told himself in disgust. “Good luck to you then.”

It was bitter, far from wishing him well.

As Rutledge walked out of the station, Madsen watched him go. The man from London hadn’t come to discover who the dead man was, whatever he said, Madsen told himself. He’d been sent by Alice’s bloody family to keep her precious husband safe. Once that was done, it was good-bye to Yorkshire, leaving the local man with an unidentified corpse and no murder suspect.

He let the legs of his chair slam back to the floor, relishing the sound. He’d have liked to throw the chair after the departing Londoner, but that would be the end of his own career. And he was having none of that.

There was one thing to be done to spike the Londoner’s guns.

Find Henry Shoreham, or failing that, someone who knew him well enough to say if the dead man was Shoreham or not.

And if it was, then Crowell could damned well take his chances in a courtroom, Colonel Ingle be damned.

During the long drive back to London, Hamish was insistent, railing at Rutledge for his handling of Madsen and Crowell alike. “Ye didna’ gie yon inspector the whole truth.”

“It’s not mine to give, is it?”

“It would ha’ gone a long way toward placating him.”

“The War Office can look at this sketch and tell me if we’ve found our man. If we have, then I’ll be back in Yorkshire before the week is out, to discover what happened to him and why.”

“And if it isna’ Partridge?”

“Then very likely I’ll be sent back by the Yard. The Chief Constable will be involved by that time. Madsen will complain to him before we’ve reached Cambridge.”

“Ye should ha’ told him as much. That you’d be back.”

“I’m not at liberty to explain why I think there’s more to this case than he realizes. If those boys hadn’t confessed, Crowell could well be facing the hangman. And if the victim turns out to be Shoreham after all, he’s still the chief suspect.”

“Then why the robe, why the mask?”

“To throw us off. As it did. Although if it was Crowell, he should have been clever enough to rid himself of the body altogether.”

“He couldna’ leave his wife long enough to take the body verra’ far.”

“I’m still not convinced that dying so easily would provide a satisfying retribution. A shotgun in the face perhaps, or throttling with one’s bare hands would be a more convincing vengeance.”

“Aye, but there’s nae weapon, in a gassing.”

Which was an excellent point.

Rutledge arrived in London too late to return to the Yard, but the next morning, he was there before Chief Superintendent Bowles had arrived.

Sergeant Gibson, passing Rutledge in the corridor, said, “Walk softly.”

Which meant that the Chief Superintendent was not in a good humor.

Rutledge stopped him and said, “Can you find me information on one Henry Shoreham, of Whitby, Yorkshire? Taken up for public drunkenness after accidentally knocking a young woman into an iron fence and scarring her badly.”

“I’ll speak to a constable I know in Whitby police station, if you like. What’s he done?”

“Nothing that I’m aware of. But he could well be a murder victim. In Yorkshire. I’m particularly interested in his appearance—whether he has a cleft in his chin.”

Gibson nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

Gossip had it right. Superintendent Bowles had just had a dressing-down by his superiors, and he was nursing his wounds. No one was safe.

There had been a very careful watch set up for a killer cornered in the East End, and somehow the man had slipped quietly through the net and escaped. Bowles had borne the brunt of official displeasure.

As Rutledge came through the door, Bowles looked at him with narrowed eyes. “And what are you doing here? I thought I’d sent you north to Yorkshire.”

“You had. I brought back a sketch of the dead man. I think someone in the War Office ought to have a look at it.”

“Very clever of you,” Bowles declared in a growl. “What makes you think they want to meet with you, pray? Sketch or no sketch?”

“Because I don’t think they’re very keen on traveling to Yorkshire themselves to see the body. There are no distinguishing marks, and any description would fit half the men walking past our door. If they want Partridge badly enough, they’ll agree.”

Bowles grunted, but picked up the telephone and put in a call. It took nearly a quarter of an hour for someone to get back to him.

He sent for Rutledge and told him shortly, “Martin Deloran. Someone at the War Office will take you to meet him. They’re waiting. Bloody army.”

Rutledge retrieved the sketch from his office and left.

When he was finally admitted into Deloran’s presence, Rutledge had had enough of secrecy and chains of command. He sat down in the chair pointed out to him and said without preamble, “It’s possible I’ve found Partridge. It’s for you to decide.”

Deloran took the folder that Rutledge passed across the desk and said, “I’m told by Chief Superintendent Bowles that this body was found in the ruins of Fountains Abbey, wrapped in some sort of cloak, with a respirator on his face. Hardly sounds like the man we’ve somehow mislaid.”

“The respirator was torn. The cloak I think is theatrical.”

He had a sudden image of his parents leaving for a party, his mother in an Elizabethan costume, the ruff around her face framing it becomingly, the scent of her perfume mixing with the heavier one of cedar shavings. And his father, looking like Charles II in a wig that reached below his shoulders.

Deloran said, “Well, that’s not Partridge, I can tell you. I doubt he ever went to the theatre in his life.”

“A masquerade,” Rutledge said. “Not theatrical.” It fit—the fineness of the weave and the quality of the robe…

Nothing changed in Deloran’s face. But the fingers holding a pen tightened. He said, “I doubt Partridge would have been caught dead in a masquerade.” Then he realized what he’d just said, and smiled. “Sorry. But you take the point, I’m sure.”

He picked up the folder, almost as if to satisfy Rutledge rather than from any curiosity on his part. Looking at the sketch, he said thoughtfully, “It’s hard to say, given the inferior quality of the drawing. But I can tell you that this looks nothing like our man.”

He closed the folder and passed it back to Rutledge. “It appears we were wrong about Yorkshire. I expect Partridge will show up in his own good time, whether we look for him or not.”

“This man was very likely murdered,” Rutledge told him bluntly. “He didn’t die there in the ruins. He was carried there, after he was dead.”

“Yes, very sad.” Deloran prepared to stand, ready to dismiss Rutledge. “Thank you so much for your help in this matter. We are more grateful than you know.”

He was standing now, and he gestured to the sketch. “I hope there’s a successful conclusion to this case. Are you returning to Yorkshire?”

“At the moment, no.” Rutledge stood also.

“Just as well. Let them sort out this inquiry. I’m sure they’ll manage very well. Local people know best, oftentimes, deep roots in their patch, and all that. Sorry to have muddied the waters.”

“Are you quite certain this couldn’t be your man Partridge?”

“Absolutely.” Deloran offered his hand, and Rutledge took it. “Innis will see you out.”

As they walked out of the room, Hamish said, referring to Deloran, “I wouldna’ care to play cards wi’ him.”

Innis was waiting to escort him out of the building. Rutledge, considering the gray-haired man, would have placed him as a retired sergeant-major, ramrod back, calm face, an air of unquestioned authority that had nothing to do with a uniform.

On the street once more, Rutledge answered Hamish. “I’ll give you any odds you like that our dead man is Partridge. The question is, why wouldn’t Deloran admit to it?”

“He’s deid,” Hamish said. “And that pleases someone.”

“Yes,” Rutledge answered slowly.

His dismissal rankled. The bland lies, the willingness to abandon a man who was inconvenient, even though someone had murdered him, the arrogance of the assumption that Rutledge would walk away as well, case closed, not even warning him off so much as believing that a policeman could be so easily gulled, left a bad taste.

And in the meantime, Inspector Madsen, with a corpse on his hands and his main suspect cleared, was to be left in the dark.

Back at the Yard, Gibson was waiting for him outside his office.

“I’ve been on the horn to Whitby. They remember your man Shoreham. He was never tried for the injury to Mrs. Crowell. The family refused to take the matter further. Shoreham left town shortly after that, and Whitby has quite lost track of him.”

“Shame, I should imagine.”

“Very likely,” Gibson responded. “After losing his position, he found there was no use staying on where he wasn’t wanted. Another town, another life.”

“Quite,” Rutledge answered.

“No one remembers his chin.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“And so far as Whitby knows, he never came to the attention of the police again. No inquiries in regard to a troubled past.”

“A lesson learned. Yes. Thank you, Sergeant. Well done.”

He was about to walk on, when Gibson added, “No inquiries, that is, until this morning. From an inspector in Elthorpe, or so I was told.”

Rutledge stopped in his tracks. “Indeed.”

“Seems they have a dead man they can’t identify. And they’re coming round to thinking it could be Shoreham.”

Rutledge swore.

“Keep searching for Shoreham, then. I need to be sure he’s alive. More important, I need to know where he’s currently living.”

“That’s a tall order,” Gibson said doubtfully.

“Yes, well. If we don’t find him, someone is going to hang for his murder.”

Rutledge walked on down the passage to Chief Superintendent Bowles’s office. As he went, he made up his mind about what he was going to say.

Bowles looked up as he entered the cluttered room.

“Well?”

“The case is closed. At least as far as Mr. Deloran is concerned. I’m not so sure.”

“You don’t want to run afoul of that lot.”

“No. On the other hand, I have a feeling that they’d rather sweep a murder under their carpet than tell us the truth. There’s a man dead in Yorkshire, and they would just as soon ignore him. I’d like to clear up a few loose ends before I accept their verdict. Frankly, I wouldn’t put it past them to have got rid of this man Partridge themselves.”

“We can’t go meddling into matters that are none of our business.” There was alarm on Bowles’s face now. He’d already run afoul of his superiors this week.

“The dead man could be anyone. From anywhere in England. But if Inspector Madsen has his way, he’ll call him Henry Shoreham and take one Albert Crowell, the schoolmaster, into custody on a charge of murder. We can’t seem to lay hands on Shoreham. Before we can say with any certainty that he’s the victim, we must make certain to eliminate the choice that sent me to Yorkshire in the first place. I’d like to ask someone who knows—knew—Partridge well to tell me the man in the sketch I had made is not Partridge. It will clear the field to pursue the issue of Shoreham’s whereabouts. If it is Partridge, we can save a good many man hours searching for Shoreham.”

Bowles considered his options. In the end, it would be his duty to report to his own superiors how and why Rutledge came to be meddling in affairs that were none of his business. On the other hand, the Chief Constable of Yorkshire was not to be trifled with. He was vocal and did not suffer fools lightly. If there was any chance that one of Bowles’s men was intent on pursuing a wrong course that could lead to a public embarrassment—

He wiped a hand across his face.

“Damned if we do, and equally damned if we don’t,” he said. “All right. Look into the business. But hear me, Rutledge! I won’t have toes stepped on for naught. You’ll go about this quietly, whatever you do. Tying up loose ends is all very well, but we needn’t bruit it about. Ask your question without prejudice and come back to London with your answer. Understood?”

“Understood, sir. I’ll leave in the morning.”

He went back to his flat that evening, packed his valise with fresh clothing, ready to set out for Berkshire.

He got a late start through no fault of his own.

His sister was at his door just after breakfast, and he could tell from her face that all was not well.

She toyed with a slice of toast in the rack, buttering it and then putting it down untouched.

The purpose of her visit was—ostensibly—to ask his opinion of a new hat she’d bought the day before.

It was quite fetching, as her hats generally were. On the other hand, Rutledge thought, on her, most anything would look fetching.

“You aren’t here at this ungodly hour because you have doubts about your milliner,” he said lightly. “What’s happened?”

“It’s Simon,” she said, keeping her voice steady with an effort. “He’s been avoiding me. I know that for a fact, I have it on good authority, so don’t tell me I’m imagining things. I don’t know why he’s doing this. I thought—well, I thought we were good friends.”

“Why should he avoid you?” He threw up a hand, adding, “No, I’m not saying you’re imagining anything. I want to know what reason you think he might have. Something you commented on, for instance, that you regretted as soon as it was out of your mouth. A remark you shouldn’t have made about one of his friends. Something you said that might have led him to believe your feelings for him were stronger than his for you.”

“Ian. I’m not likely to make stupid remarks, and I’m not likely to criticize him or wear my heart on my sleeve. You aren’t helping.”

He laughed. “I’m a policeman, not a seer.”

“And a very good policeman at that,” she retorted. “But you’ve given me an idea. I think I’ll invite Meredith Channing to have lunch with me.”

He was immediately on alert. “Frances. I think that’s a very poor idea. Mrs. Channing isn’t going to look into a crystal ball and tell you what’s in Simon’s mind. Or heart.”

“I don’t expect her to look into a crystal ball. She’s a very astute woman, Ian, she can give me her opinion. And it could be what I need, to understand how to go on. I mean, people are asking. We’ve been seen together more than a little these last two months. I don’t know how to answer them. ‘Where’s Simon, my dear? I saw him last night at the Collinses’ and you weren’t with him.’ Or, ‘What’s happening between you and Simon? Has there been a falling-out, a quarrel? Have you lost interest in him?’” Her eyes filled with tears but she refused to let them fall.

“And how do you answer these questions?”

“I say that I’ve been terribly busy and so has Simon. Or that I couldn’t make the Collinses’ party, I had other plans. But it’s growing old.”

She stood up. “You’ll be late, Bowles will be clamoring for you. I’ll go and speak to Meredith Channing. If nothing else, she’ll cheer me up. I’m in need of cheering right now.”

And she was gone, despite his protests, smiling at him over her shoulder as she went out his door.

He spent the better part of the morning scouring London for news of Simon Barrington. There was no one he could ask outright, and so he had to make time to listen to various friends they held in common.

Hamish was not pleased with his decision.

“It willna’ help, even if ye find him. Ye ken that as well as I do. Ye canna’ speak to him.”

“I don’t intend to speak to him. Or try to fix whatever happened between Barrington and my sister. But if there’s something wrong, something I ought to know, then the sooner the better.”

“Aye, but are ye the brother now? Or the policeman?”

He couldn’t answer that. And at the end of the day, there was still nothing he could point to as a reason why Barrington should avoid his sister without explanation. The closest he came to an answer was an offhand remark by Tommy Aspell. That Simon had something on his mind and had been damned poor company for a fortnight or more.

With that he had to be satisfied.

It was close to nine in the evening when he arrived in Berkshire. But The Smith’s Arms was well lit, the bar noisy with shouts of laughter and the stamping of feet. Not a drunken crowd, from the sound of it, but one where men were relaxed and enjoying themselves.

Rutledge went to the tiny desk in Reception and signed the register. Then he walked into the bar.

There was a sudden silence as patrons looked up at the newcomer and judged him from his clothes.

Half a dozen lorry drivers were busy with a game of darts. One man, in the process of taking his turn, scowled at the interruption. Two farmers were watching the proceedings from the bar, keeping to themselves.

Rutledge nodded to them as the game resumed and found himself a table in a corner by the front windows. He smiled as Mrs. Smith came over to him and asked what he’d have.

“A room, if you please. I’ve signed the register. And dinner, if there’s any left.”

“This lot isn’t staying over. There’s the room you had before, and a bit of roasted ham and some bread left. Mustard sauce as well.”

“That will do very well.” He’d missed his lunch, and could hear the growling of an empty stomach.

“What will you have to drink, luv?”

“A Guinness, if you please.”

“Smith u’ll bring it shortly.” She skirted the players and disappeared into the kitchen as another burst of laughter met a wild throw.

Rutledge watched this leg end in a victory for the bald man with a birthmark on his face. The man went to the bar to claim his wager, another glass of his choice. A shorter man, broad in the shoulders, called out to Rutledge, as he pulled the darts out of the board. “This is a worthless lot. Will you have a turn?”

It was a dare, not an invitation.

Rutledge got to his feet, shrugging off the long drive, and answered, “I’ll give it a try.”

They eyed him with interest as he took the three darts and lightly hefted them in his hand. Judging his skill. Or lack thereof.

Hamish was saying, “I won best of three in the canteen.”

Suddenly, without warning, Rutledge could feel himself slipping back, reliving a night in France.

He had been invited to the canteen by his men. It had been his birthday, and he never knew how they’d found that out. Darts was a working-class pastime, but he’d held his own with a good elbow and a better eye. He’d been grateful not to disgrace his men in front of the other onlookers.

Hamish had stood them all down, the quiet young Scot already respected by his men, his corporal’s stripes still new on his uniform.

It had been a brief respite from the Front, tired men pulled back for a few days of rest after a hard week of fighting, and nowhere to go in the rain and the mud and the dark save the popular canteen set up in a small stone barn—all that was left of a French farmhouse—that had been too rat infested to serve as a field hospital. Rumor was, officers turned a blind eye to the use it was put to by a trio of enterprising Welshmen, miners at home outside Cardiff but sappers now.

Someone had found a great gray and black tomcat, and it soon made short work of the earlier residents. A broom and some odds and ends of scavenged paint, and a rough bar built from whatever wood could be found or stolen, and the canteen was in business. A large oil painting of a French officer of the Napoleonic wars had materialized from somewhere, hung at one end of the barn by a length of scorched rope. It had become a habit to salute the officer on entering.

Evenings were usually rowdy, some of the strain and fatigue draining away as young soldiers old before their time had tried to forget the war.

He and his men had walked through the door and lifted the blanket behind it. Lamps had been hung from the rafters, the room was smoky from cigarettes, and the scent of moldy hay still lingered. Rusted kettles were whistling on a wood stove that gave off sufficient heat to keep the building just barely comfortable.

When Rutledge took the mug of steaming tea handed to him by one of his men, he nearly choked on the first swallow. In lieu of sugar, someone had added a liberal spoonful of brandy to it. But he said nothing, aware of anxious eyes on his face.

They had played darts after that, though the numbers on the board were badly worn and the colors had faded to a uniform brown. But the sisal still held each throw firmly where it landed.

At the end of the evening, Rutledge had returned to his quarters feeling not relaxed but burdened by guilt. How many of the men who had shared this wartime birthday tonight would be alive by month’s end?

Ten had died the first day back in the line. And he’d heard a year later that the Welshmen had died outside Ypres when a tunnel they’d been digging had collapsed prematurely, burying them alive. By the time help reached them, it was too late.

Rutledge brought himself back to the present as a lorry driver, a man his mates called Jimmy, said, “Loser buys drinks all round.”

There was general agreement to the terms, since the general opinion was that the man from London would pay the accounting.

Rutledge found the rough line drawn on the floor, put the outside of his right foot against it and considered the target. This one was worn too, but from long use, not from rain and mud and countless journeys across northern France in haversacks.

He forced his mind to concentrate on what he must do.

Hamish warned, “They’ll want to see your mettle.”

His fingers closed around the first dart. Worn, like the board, and comfortable in his grip. He pumped his hand twice, gauging his shot, then threw firmly toward the board.

It landed precisely where he’d intended—in the wood above the board. From the bar, Smith called, “Here! That’s my wall.”

“Sorry,” Rutledge apologized as the lorry drivers and even the farmers slapped their knees and bent over laughing at his expense.

He waited for the racket to die down and took his second throw. This time the dart landed in the number ring, between eleven and fourteen.

There was more laughter, and the bald-headed man said to Smith, “Set them up, man, this ’ull be a short leg.”

“Nay, he hit the board, didn’t he?” another driver answered. “We could go on all night.”

The point of the game was to put his dart somewhere in the pie-wedge-shaped section numbered 20.

Rutledge took aim for his third and final throw—and this time his dart landed perfectly in the triple in section 20.

There was an intake of breath, and someone said, “You’re a damned lucky man.”

He’d made his three. He walked to the board, pulled out his darts, and scored his throw, amid much joshing.

It was still his turn.

This time the section was 19, to the bottom and left.

His first dart hit the black.

One man said, “Not bad, for a toff.”

He missed his other two throws, and went to retrieve his darts.

His opponent, a slim, dark man called Will, came forward to take them from him, and showed off his own skill, earning a second turn and then a third. But he was off on his next throw and that jarred him just enough to make him miss again. He wound up losing his turn, and went to fetch the darts for Rutledge.

Rutledge threw well this time, keeping pace with his opponent. There was partisanship among the observers now, the farmers taking his part and the drivers banding together behind their man.

Rutledge could have hit the outer bull with ease, but he chose to put two throws into the inner bull, the third one missing its mark.

Still, he had finished the leg just behind his opponent. There was general celebration and someone slapped him on the back as Smith handed him his glass before setting up for the rest of the men.

They stopped after splitting two more legs, sitting down at the bar or the nearest tables instead to talk to Rutledge about London and eventually the war. Four of them had served in France, while the other two had been in the navy.

Rutledge let them talk and then led them into stories about their experiences on the road.

“Ever give a lift to someone who wanted to go to, say, Liverpool or York?”

They shook their heads.

“I’d be sacked,” one of them said, “if it got out.”

“Not for any amount of money,” the bald man added. “Can’t say I like company on the road.”

“Why, do you want to go to Manchester tonight?” Will, the thin man asked, finishing his beer. “I’ll give you a lift.”

“I’ve been to Manchester,” Rutledge answered him. “Once is enough.”

They laughed, and someone said, “Nay, Manchester’s not all that bad.”

Soon talk shifted to the struggles these men faced making a living wage, the hardships of being away more often than they were at home, coping with the growing tangles of traffic and the winter’s toll on the roads.

“Although it’s a damned sight better than being shot at by the Hun’s aircraft, I swear,” one of the men said. “My mate was blown up by the Red Baron. I saw that Albatross coming in and blew the horn but there was no time. Never is. He was carrying shells, and my windscreen blew out with the force of the blast. They never did find anything of my mate to bury. I took his wife a bit of the lorry, that’s all I could do. If anyone had been sitting beside me, he’d have had his head took off when something slammed into the seat and carried it through into the bed. I don’t miss France, I don’t.”

Hamish said, “They’ll no’ tell you, if they had taken up yon dead man.”

But Rutledge had been watching faces as he’d asked his questions. And if Partridge had got himself out of Berkshire with a lorry driver, he’d have wagered it wasn’t one of these men.

Smith was calling time, and Mrs. Smith said to Rutledge as he looked around for it, “I’ll bring up your dinner, if you like.”

He hadn’t touched it, hadn’t had the time, hungry or not.

He bought a final round, then said good night, leaving the drivers to drink in peace. The farmers had already left half an hour before.

Mrs. Smith met him at the stairs as he came out of the bar, his plate on a tray.

“Were you thinking about Mr. Partridge?” she asked him. “When you wanted to know if someone might find a ride with a driver?”

He was caught off guard.

“Yes, I was, as a matter of fact,” he answered, lowering his voice.

“He was here, once. Playing darts and later asking about traveling to Liverpool. But it was the roads he wanted to hear about. What sort of time he could count on making.”

“When was this?”

“Six months ago, at a guess. Longer, for all I can remember.”

The state of the roads.

“You’re certain it wasn’t the prelude for asking for a lift?”

“No, sir, he has his own motorcar, I can’t think why he would need a lift with the likes of them.”

“How well do you know Mr. Partridge?”

“He wasn’t one to come around in the evening, as a rule.” She smiled ruefully. “I think it’s when he can’t stand his own company any longer.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, he’s a widower, isn’t he?” There was pity in her voice.

“Did he tell you he was?”

“Lord, no, sir, we never spoke about his private life. No, it was young Slater who said he’d lost his wife and hadn’t much use for company. Mr. Partridge kept to himself at his cottage, and seldom went out. We were that glad to see him, when he did come.”

And yet this wasn’t the sort of pub a man like Partridge would frequent. Granted it was the nearest one to the cottages, but he wasn’t working class, if the army was keeping an eye on him.

That reminded him of the dead man in Yorkshire, whose hands were soft and uncallused.

Hamish said, “Why did ye no’ show her the drawing?”

Rutledge wasn’t sure himself why he hadn’t. But he wanted no rumors reaching the Tomlin Cottages before he himself could go there in the morning.

He slept poorly that night. As if the memory of the dart game on his birthday had stirred up the past too deeply, he could hear the guns in France, and men calling and screaming and swearing, bringing himself up out of the depths to lie awake until the sounds receded. And then he would drift into sleep again for another quarter of an hour, sometimes longer, before the guns started shelling his position. Muzzle flashes in the distance seemed to light up the sky, and the flares were sharp, brilliant, nearly burning his eyes.

Once when he awoke, he could hear Hamish talking to someone, and then he realized that the someone was himself, answering the familiar voice of a dead man, even in his sleep.

“I’m trained to it,” he said aloud, and then lay still listening. But from the other rooms came the regular snores of occupants luckier than he was, comfortable in their beds. “Like a dog who knows his master’s voice.”

Hamish’s laugh was harsh. “Oh, aye? More like a man wi’ blood on his conscience, who canna’ find peace.”

“You left me no choice but to execute you. You wouldn’t heed me when I warned you what would follow, if you didn’t relent and obey the orders given you. I warned you, and you didn’t listen.”

“I couldna’ watch more of my men die while the colonel who gave the orders sat safe and ignorant miles behind the lines. You knew, you knew as well as any of us that it was hopeless.”

“No more so than the whole bloody campaign. We did what we were told, because there was no other choice left to us but to obey. One man, two men, a dozen, couldn’t have stopped the madness. We had to carry on to the end, and die if we had to.”

“I wasna’ afraid of dying. Ye ken that well. I couldna’ bear to watch the ithers die. There had been too many, for too long.”

“You refused an order under fire. You left me no choice, damn you!”

“Aye. And afterward, ye couldna’ let me go.”

“You didn’t want to go. Then or now.”

Hamish said, something in his voice now that was unbearable, “I didna’ want to die. But I couldna’ live, no’ even for Fiona. I couldna’ stand before my men and break as we went o’wer the top. It was a question of pride. I’d have shot mysel’, else.”

“But you let me do it instead. You let me call up the men and order them to shoot you. My men, your men. You put that on their souls and mine. If I could ever understand why, I’d find some peace. Why not let the Germans do it for you. You wouldn’t have been the first. Nor the last.”

“Aye, it’s what ye did, but no’ even the Hun could touch you. You were left wi’ your shame. Ye ken, it’s why I willna’ go. No’ now, no’ yet.”

“For God’s sake, tell me why!”

There was a knock at his door, cutting through the darkness in his mind. Smith called out, “Mr. Rutledge? Are you all right?”

He realized that the snoring had stopped—had been stopped for some time, for all he knew. And his shouting could be heard all over the inn.

Rutledge cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry, Smith. It was a bad dream. I didn’t mean to disturb the house.”

There was a moment of silence on the other side of the door. “If you’re sure then?”

“I’m sure.”

He listened to the man’s footsteps receding across the passage, and a door shutting.

Rutledge lay back against his pillows, his body still tense, his fists clenched, not certain when he’d sat up in bed or for how long the exchange with Hamish had been loud enough to be heard.

Hamish said, in the darkness, “But they canna’ hear me. Only you can.”