A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [25]
And so she began her letter with “Dearest Papa…”
She went on to tell him that her husband was being persecuted by the police inspector in Elthorpe, and unfairly so since he had had nothing to do with the dead man in the Fountains Abbey ruins.
But she wisely omitted any reference to the book found at the man’s feet.
Ending the letter with a plea for her father’s help, she added, “What disturbs me is that the intense scrutiny he’s given Albert may have its roots in Inspector Madsen’s previous relationship with me, and I daren’t remind him of that for fear it will only make matters worse.”
She sealed the letter, posted it, and told no one.
Her father, colonel of an East Anglian regiment, went directly to London and presented the letter to a friend at the War Office. He didn’t know the Chief Constable of Yorkshire well enough to approach him, but he rather thought that Martin Deloran might.
The matter might have languished in limbo but for the fact that Colonel Ingle and the man he met with had both been at Sandhurst. He had come prepared to argue. It wasn’t necessary.
For one sentence in the letter seemed to leap off the page, startling Deloran.
…the poor man was wearing a respirator, which causes the police to think his death might have something to do with the war, but if Albert couldn’t shoot the Hun, how could he kill a man he swears he has never seen before?
The man behind the desk fingered the sheet of paper for a moment, and then, choosing his words with care, said, “Interesting story. Yes, well. Consider it done. But I’d rather you didn’t tell your daughter that you’ve brought the letter to me. Better to let her believe help arrived before you could act in the matter. Sensibilities of the local police, and all that. This needs to be sorted quietly—if she’s to continue living in Yorkshire, that is. And I know just the man to look into matters.”
Colonel Ingle was no fool.
“Thanks very much, Martin.” He waited to see if more information might be forthcoming. “I’ll be on my way then.”
“Anything for an old friend,” Deloran assured him.
But Colonel Ingle knew that friendship had nothing to do with Martin Deloran taking on this matter with such speed. He was jumping in for reasons of his own.
Deloran got to his feet. “What do you say to a spot of lunch, while you’re in London?”
Sometime later, Rutledge was summoned to Bowles’s office, and he found his superintendent in a dark mood.
“Bloody army, they think we have nothing better to do than run their errands for them. You’re wanted in Yorkshire now. I asked if it was the same business, and they declined to tell me. Bloody Cook’s Tour, if you want my view of the matter. Give me what’s on your desk, and I’ll see that it’s dealt with.”
“What is it in Yorkshire that I’m supposed to be investigating?”
“There’s a dead man found in Fountains Abbey, of all places. The police are harassing a local schoolmaster over it. You’re to deal with it. The Chief Constable has requested you by name. But he let it be known the request came from higher-ups.”
“Little enough to go on—a dead man in an abbey.”
Bowles considered him. “Getting a reputation for yourself, are you?”
Rutledge laughed without humor. “My sergeant used to tell me that once the army gets you in its clutches, you’re never free again.”
“That’s as may be,” Bowles answered. “But see that you do better with this matter than you did in Berkshire. It was tricky, telling the War Office you’d failed to find their precious lost sheep.”
Walking out of the building, Rutledge found himself already tying the two cases together. He wasn’t sure why, except that each request had come from the army, and if Gaylord Partridge was still missing, someone was scouring the countryside for bodies.