A Pale Horse

13

Addleford was a small dale village that had begun to shrink in the nineteenth century as men found work in the mills or mines. It had continued to shrink into the twentieth. On the outskirts of town were barns without roofs and houses with boarded-up windows. But the heart of the town, with its plain church and churchyard, its one pub and its tiny shops, seemed to be hanging on for dear life.

The houses on either side of the winding street were well kept and the white lace curtains in their windows were cheerful against the gray stone of the walls.

There was no police station here, but Rutledge went to that other source of gossip and information, the local pub. He ate tough beef with a mustard sauce and fresh baked bread, enjoying the peace and quiet of the small dining area next to the bar. The man who served him limped, one leg shorter than the other, giving him a swaying walk that spoke of years of pain. He set down the charger with Rutledge’s food and went about his business, taciturn and without curiosity about the stranger who had walked in and asked if luncheon was still being served.

Hamish was telling him that this was a wild-goose chase. Better to leave the troublesome Henry Shoreham to Inspector Madsen.

But Rutledge wanted every loose end tied up before he went south again. And so as he finished his flan, he asked the man who brought it where he might find one Peter Littleton.

“He’s the shoemaker, two doors down from the greengrocer. You have business with him then?”

“Indeed.”

The barkeep looked at him. “He’ll be finished his dinner in a quarter of an hour. He always goes home for it.”

“Then I’ll walk in the churchyard while I’m waiting.” He paid his reckoning and went out in the chilly air. The churchyard’s wall cupped a small purple flower growing in a crevice, and when he stopped to look at it, he recognized heartsease. It seemed forlorn there, as if it had lost its way from someone’s garden.

Hamish said, “It’s Fiona’s favorite among the flowers.”

Rutledge went through the gate and walked among the stones until he saw the shoemaker striding back to his shop.

Crossing the road after him, Rutledge waited until he’d opened the shop before going inside. The musical ring of a small bell above the door announced his presence, and the shoemaker raised his head from the leather he was trimming. He bore a faint resemblance to the dead man—around the same height, the same unremarkable shape of face, brown hair, and blue eyes. Nothing to set him apart from hundreds of other Englishmen.

I’m looking for Henry Shoreham,” Rutledge said. “I’m told you can help me find him.”

Littleton’s face changed from the smile he used to welcome custom to a wariness that went deep.

“Who’s asking?” He smoothed the leather with his fingertips, as if judging its quality without looking at it.

“Rutledge, Inspector, Scotland Yard.”

The shop was redolent with the scents of leather, wood, and polish. A cobbler’s bench sat by the window and there were lasts on the shelves against the back wall. Patterns lay on a table below. And two chairs, high enough to allow the shoemaker to work on the footwear of a client without squatting, were set into the near wall, facing the counter.

“He never went to trial for what he did.” It was defensive, as if Rutledge had come to take Shoreham back to Whitby. “So it never ended, you might say. No one let him forget what had happened. There was the young woman of course, she suffered and was scarred, mind you, but Henry also paid dearly for his drunkenness. And he never set out to hurt anybody. He wasn’t that sort.”

“I’m not here to charge him. The problem is we can’t seem to locate him at present. Is he still living with you?”

“If you’ve come this far, you know he’s not here. Inspector Madsen will have told you.”

“Quite. Why did Shoreham choose to come to Addleford? Because you were here?”

“Because he didn’t have two pennies to rub together. They didn’t want him back at the bank. Bad for business, they said. Everyone recognized him. There was nothing else he knew how to do but clerking. When no one would take him on and his savings ran out, he left Whitby and came to me to get back on his feet. But he couldn’t get the hang of shoemaking, and then a neighbor of his from Whitby moved here as well, and the story was spread about again. He decided to go to another cousin in Wales. Sheep aren’t easy to manage, but they don’t have to fit someone’s foot just right.”

Hamish said, “Ye canna’ judge how he felt about his cousin.”

It was true, there was a distance in what Littleton was saying, as if he were discussing a stranger.

Rutledge asked, “When did he leave?”

“I could tell he’d made up his mind, and I let him go. And the house was crowded with seven people under our roof, I’ll admit it. My wife was just as glad to see him move on. But then he’s not her kin, he’s mine.”

“When did he leave?” Rutledge repeated his question.

“It must be getting on to a week, now.” Littleton shrugged. “A fortnight even. One of the little ones has been ill. I’ve had more to worry about than keeping in mind when Henry set out. I had no way of knowing, see, that it would matter to have the exact day.”

“Did Constable Pickerel or Inspector Madsen tell you there was a dead man at Elthorpe who might be your cousin? Surely that should have worried you.”

“Constable Pickerel said nothing of that when he first came here. He was all for leaving for Wales straightaway. My cousin Llewellyn knew Henry was coming, but there wasn’t a fixed date. You could have blown me over with a feather when the constable reported Henry never got there. Then Inspector Madsen came, going on about a dead man. I was afraid that it might be Henry. That he’d finally done himself some harm, out of remorse. That he never intended going to Wales.”

“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.”

A woman pushing a baby in a pram told Rutledge, “He was in the shop once when I stepped in to see about the heel on my best pair of shoes. But he didn’t know what he was about, and so I told Peter. After that, he never came to work at Littleton’s.”

And a man sweeping the doorstep of the ironmonger’s said, “I didn’t know him well. He used to walk about at night, to stretch his legs. We talked once or twice, as I was taking Harriet out—she’s my dog—and she would sniff at his shoes and growl, as if she didn’t much care for him. Strange man. My wife was glad when he went away.”

“When was that? Do you know?”

“I didn’t even know he’d left until I’d asked Peter how he was getting on. And Peter said he’d decided to live with a cousin in Wales. Made sense. I doubt they had room in the house, and it was one more mouth to feed. Peter did his best, mind you. But it was a strain on the family.”

“Were you ever told why he’d come here to live?”

“Fell on hard times, Peter said. I didn’t press for more. It wasn’t my business, or anyone else’s. But my wife always thought he must have been in gaol somewhere, and afterward had nowhere to go. She said Peter was a good man to take on responsibility like that. She said that if Henry had nothing to hide, he’d be helping more in the shop or walking the children to school or coming to services of a Sunday. The Jordans said he’d been in trouble in Whitby. Attacked a woman.”

He shook his broom against the wall of the shop to clean it, and went back inside. “Gossip, for all I know,” he ended as he prepared to shut the door in Rutledge’s face. “He mayn’t have had anything to hide. But he’d have fared better, wouldn’t he, if he’d been open about it.”

Hamish said as Rutledge turned toward the motorcar, “He willna’ be missed. Even by his cousin.”

Which would go far to explaining Littleton’s assumption of suicide, the decision to move to Wales notwithstanding. Good riddance, a body to bury, a family skeleton disposed of, and on Christmas or Easter, a prayer to be said in passing for Shoreham’s soul….

Reaching the motorcar, Rutledge decided to drive on to Wales without going back to Elthorpe today.

He spent the night in Shrewsbury, then crossed the border in a fine rain that seemed to wrap the river valleys in playful mist, rising now, then thinning, the great sweep of hillsides and heavy clouds barely visible before they were veiled again. He saw sheep sometimes, not yet shorn of their winter coat, huddling in the lee of whatever shelter they could find, but the land was empty save for the few towns he had to pass through. There were scattered farms at the end of long and winding lanes, and even they appeared to be deserted, as if all the people of Wales had gone away somewhere else. And yet it was a beautiful drive.

Aberystwyth sat on Cardigan Bay, the water curving into the town and a ruin of a castle standing out on the headland to the right. Rutledge stopped in the town only long enough for a meal in a small, dimly lit café where he was regarded with interest. Asking at shops that catered to farmers, he finally discovered where Llewellyn Williams lived. There were seven men of that name within a twenty-mile radius. He backtracked along the way he’d come until he found the lane leading into a village with an unpronounceable name. Beyond it he soon spotted the track that continued into the Williams farm.

It was a small house with a sagging slate roof, surrounded by outbuildings. As he stopped, a dog came out to sniff at his motorcar before baying toward the house. As a welcome it lacked a great deal, and although Rutledge, good with animals as a rule, did his best to befriend the dog, he thought it best to leave well enough alone after a tentative move to leave the motorcar won him a low growl.

After some minutes, a man came to the door. He was of medium height, thin, dark, nondescript. But he didn’t resemble the sketch at all.

“Llewellyn Williams?” Rutledge called.

“What do you want with him?” It was wary, as if strangers weren’t welcomed here.

“Call off your dog. I need to speak to you, and it’s too wet to stand here shouting at each other.”

The man hesitated. After a moment, he whistled to the dog and it came to sit grinning up at him. His hand went to its massive head, a gentle touch.

Rutledge walked across to him. “I’m Inspector Ian Rutledge, Scotland Yard. I’ve come in search of Henry Shoreham.”

“What’s he wanted for?” the man asked.

“He’s done nothing more than disappear. His family is worried for him.”

“I doubt it. He has no family to speak of. But I haven’t seen him. I told another English policeman as much. If you’d spoken to him, it would have saved you a journey.”

“You aren’t Welsh.” It was a statement.

Williams shrugged. “My family is—was. I moved to England when I was a child. My mother’s cousin lives in Yorkshire. Littleton is his name. Henry was staying with him.”

“But left to come and live with you.”

“You can look about if you like. He’s not here.”

“So I’m told. There’s a possibility that he was murdered.”

Williams’s eyebrows rose. “That other policeman simply told me he thought Henry was dead. He didn’t say anything about murder.”

“Yes, well, murder it was.” He pulled out the folder with the sketch, trying to shield it from the rain. “Here’s the dead man’s likeness. Inspector Madsen has arrested someone for his murder.”

Williams looked at the sketch for a long moment and then said with resignation, “You’d better come inside.”

The house was plainly furnished, many of the pieces early Victorian. But it appeared to be comfortable enough, weather tight and warm with the coal fire on the hearth.

“How long have you lived here?” Rutledge asked with interest as the dog slumped down on the hearthrug and sighed.

“I inherited the property from my father’s cousin. He had no children. Neither do I, but there it is, the house is mine. He ran sheep here, but I couldn’t manage it. A neighbor offered me a good price for them, and I’m living on what I was paid for them.”

“How well do you know your cousin Peter Littleton?”

“He’s on my mother’s side of the family. I haven’t seen him in many years.”

“And Henry, from Whitby? Did you see him often?”

Williams shook his head. “It’s a long way to travel. We were never close.”

“Yet you offered him houseroom here.”

“Which he never took me up on. Just as well, I don’t know how the two of us would manage. The house is large enough, but the money I have isn’t. I don’t know that I could afford to keep him.”

“He left Addleford, to come here to you.”

“And changed his mind, as far as I know. I expect he was walking or looking for a lift, and found another place he liked better. You drove here, you know how long a journey that would be. I’m not saying he’s dead, mind you. He just never came to this part of Wales.”

There was no anxiety over Shoreham’s fate, no concern about the long walk across Wales, no interest in what the man might have encountered, poor and alone and with no friend to turn to.

“You never made any attempt to learn what had become of him? If he were ill, dependent on the charity of strangers, dead and buried somewhere as a pauper?”

Williams had the decency to look ashamed. “It’s not that we don’t care,” he said hotly, “it’s that life is hard enough without taking on another man’s troubles. Henry isn’t here. You can search the house, if you like. You won’t find him. If I knew where he was, I’d want to help him, but I can’t go searching half of England in the hope of finding him. There’s not the money for it.”

“And what about the man dead in Elthorpe? I could make a case that you and Peter Littleton between you tired of your cousin and killed him, leaving him to be found by strangers.”

Williams’s face paled, his dark eyes wide and alarmed. “But you can’t do that. We’ve not touched Henry. We’ve not left him anywhere but where he wants to be—away from Yorkshire.”

“Inspector Madsen has one Albert Crowell in custody, to be charged for Henry Shoreham’s murder. There’s evidence enough to see him hanged.”

Williams sat down heavily. “You’re lying to me.”

“I’ll bring Inspector Madsen to you, to confirm what I’ve said.”

“But why would this—this Albert Crowell wish to harm my cousin?”

“Because Shoreham scarred his wife for life. You know this, it’s the reason Shoreham is unemployed and living on the charity of his family.”

Williams shook his head, shock still washing over him. “I know about the accident. That’s what it was, an accident. Henry swore it. What do you want me to do, help you prove that this is Henry? I haven’t seen him in years. Did you show this sketch to Peter? What did he say?”

“He avoided answering me. He cared as little for your cousin as you appear to do.”

“No, that’s not fair, it isn’t a matter of caring. God knows—” He broke off, swallowing hard.

“If you pass off a dead man as your cousin, and Albert Crowell is hanged for it, what then? Henry Shoreham has done enough harm to the man and his wife, and this will compound it.”

Williams began to cry, his face worn with grief. “Go away and leave me alone. I won’t hear any more of this. It’s all a trick, and I won’t be taken in by it.”

“Then I shall have you summoned for the trial. You can sit there and watch what happens, and then if your conscience pricks you, you can tell the court what became of your cousin.” It was harshly said, and intended to be.

“I can’t afford to come to Yorkshire. I have no money, it will break me.”

“Better to break you than to hang an innocent man.”

Rutledge had drawn his conclusions by this time. He knew what was coming and he braced for it.

“You can’t do this to me, I’ve been punished enough. Leave me alone.”

“Then you’re a coward, Shoreham, and I’ll have you in that courtroom if it’s the last thing I do.”

He turned and walked through the door, the dog, hackles rising, coming to nip at his heels. The man did nothing to call him off. But Rutledge had just turned the motorcar to go back the way he’d come when Shoreham was in the doorway, calling to him.

“Stop—”

Rutledge paid no heed.

“For the love of God, wait!”

Rutledge braked but didn’t turn. He could hear Williams splashing through the puddles to the side of the motorcar, his face ravaged.

“All right. I’m Henry Shoreham. Peter wrote me about the dead man, nobody knew who he was, even Inspector Madsen didn’t. We thought—we thought if he was nameless, it wouldn’t matter to anyone if we let the police think it was Henry. Me.”

“How long have you lived here?” Rutledge asked again.

“For two years. Since my cousin Llewellyn died and left the house to me. I thought—I thought I could take his place, use his name, find work again, and live like a man and not someone else’s dependent. Peter had done his best, but they couldn’t keep me.” He wiped the rain from his face. “Then two years ago a man from Whitby and his wife came to live in Addleford with her mother. They’d done their banking where I worked. They knew me. I couldn’t stay on. I came here and looked after Llewellyn until he died, and I took his place. Peter pretended I was still there, in Yorkshire, and everyone believed him. They never saw me, I was known to be a recluse. How would they know if I’d gone away or not?”

“Your cousin couldn’t go on lying forever. You hadn’t expected him to do that.”

“We played a little game. He’d tell the rector I’d seen him pass by the house. Or the butcher that I’d appreciated the bit of beef for Sunday dinner. But Peter’s children were getting to an age where someone might ask them how I fared. We were casting about for a way to explain I’d gone to London to search for work when the constable came looking for Henry Shoreham. They told Peter no one knew the dead man, and he was quick to see how it might help me to be dead and buried. We didn’t know the Crowells were back in Yorkshire.”

“You were interfering with a murder inquiry. It was a stupid thing to do.”

“I never meant harm to anyone, I swear it. You don’t know what it has been like. The Crowells are everywhere I turn, and I can’t escape them. He forgave me, did you know that? In public. I fell on my knees and cried afterward, but he never knew that. Others blamed me, though, and word that I wasn’t to be tried ran round like wildfire. I couldn’t go on. If Peter hadn’t asked me to come and stay, I’d have killed myself somehow. I didn’t mean to harm Alice Crowell, but she’s repaid me in kind. I’ve suffered as much for my sins as she has for my carelessness. What am I to do to find any peace?”

“Come to Yorkshire with me. The case will be closed and you can come back here and get on with your life. I don’t think Inspector Madsen is going to make a great noise about any of this. It can be done quietly.”

Shoreham looked up at him. “I have no money. If I go to Yorkshire, I’ll have no way to get back to Wales. I can’t ask Peter, he’s strapped as well.”

“I’ll see you safely back,” Rutledge said.

“Inspector Madsen will be furious. He’ll know we lied to him.”

“It might do him some good,” Rutledge said. “He needs a lesson as much as you do.”

“I’ll pack my things and find someone to see to the dog. If you’ll come back later, I’ll be ready.”

“And find a dead man here in your place?”

“I won’t end it, I swear it.”

“The temptation may be stronger than you think.” He began to turn the motorcar again, and Shoreham walked beside it to the house.

Rutledge waited until the battered valise was closed, then took up the dog in the motorcar with them, to leave with a neighbor while Shoreham was away.

Then they turned toward England.

It was a silent drive. Only once did Shoreham break the silence. And that was to say, “Who’s the dead man, then?”

Rutledge answered, “A man who also lost his way, I expect.”

Rutledge drove straight through to Elthorpe, fighting drowsiness and an ache across his shoulders as he took the most direct route back—Shrewsbury to Manchester, Leeds, and then Harrogate. Rutted roads, slow-moving drays, overladen lorries, and the occasional wandering livestock made the journey feel longer than it was. Outside Shrewsbury he waited impatiently for cows to make their way along the road for morning milking, and in Cheshire, the Royal Mail had come to grief in a ditch, where heavy rains had made a bend tricky. A farm cart and a half-dozen burly men were doing their best to pull it out again.

Hamish said, “They willna’ manage without help.”

Rutledge caught himself just before he answered aloud, then called to the driver to offer his services. He gratefully accepted, and in short order the Royal Mail was on the road again.

They stopped for food and petrol and sometimes to stretch their legs.

Shoreham was quiet, resigned now, though Rutledge kept an eye on him throughout to gauge his mood.

One act of drunken unruliness, unintended yet preventable, had altered the direction of Henry Shoreham’s life. And Crowell’s forgiveness, well meant, had only driven the guilt deeper, without hope of expiation. It had become, in a way, retribution.

It was possible he’d change his mind at some stage of the journey to Yorkshire, preferring to take his chances alone and nearly penniless rather than revisit his nightmare.

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.