A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [28]
“What about his clothing?”
“Good quality. They’re in the box, there.”
That matched the condition of the man’s hands. “London labels?”
“See for yourself.”
Rutledge squatted to examine the contents of the box. Madsen was right, the clothes were of good quality but had seen a great deal of use. As if the dead man had fallen on hard times or lost interest in what he wore. Even the shoes had seen hard use.
“Anything in the pockets?”
“Nothing. Not so much as a handkerchief.”
Rutledge stood up. “I’d like to see the cloak and the respirator.”
The cloak was of fine wool, well made, with a hood. Rutledge fingered it, felt the weight of it, and the thickness. Unlike the clothes, it appeared to be almost new. Because it wasn’t something that might be worn every day?
Hamish said, “An actor, then?”
But no smudges of grease paint or powder marked the neckline or the edges of the hood.
The gas mask was a 1917 small box respirator, standard equipment during the war. No one had felt safe, once the Germans had used poison gas in the field.
But the tab underneath the chin was missing, leaving a small tear and making the mask useless. It wasn’t uncommon for the tab to come off, and there was no way to tell how long ago or how recently it had happened. The question was, why had anyone gone to the trouble of putting the respirator over the face? A mockery of the manner of death or to make the death seem more macabre?
“There were no scars, no indication of a surgery, no identifying marks on the body? No irregularities in the teeth?”
“The doctor says not.”
Once this man was buried, there would be nothing to show he had lived. Nothing to identify him in a report, nothing to hand in evidence to witnesses or suspects, nothing to set him apart, if someday someone came looking for him.
Anonymous…which explained why the man wasn’t known in this part of Yorkshire. He wasn’t meant to be identified. A mystery, an unclaimed body, a nine days’ wonder, buried and soon forgotten.
Rutledge said, “Is there someone here—in Elthorpe—who could make a drawing of his face?”
“A drawing?” Madsen was caught off guard, busy with his own thoughts as Rutledge went through the box.
“If we’re to locate someone who knows the victim, we need something to be going on with.”
“Why not a photograph?”
“Because it will show that he’s dead. People might be more willing to talk to us about a missing person.”
No one wanted to be drawn into a murder inquiry. It was a stigma, something that happened to other, less savory classes. And Rutledge had a feeling that this man had had secrets. Otherwise, why should he wind up dead, like a buffoon, wearing a respirator and a monk’s cloak, a long way from home? Why not simply leave the body in a ditch or throw it into a lake or shove it off a cliff?
Madsen was saying, “Benson. He’s one of the employees at The Castle Arms. He did a pen-and-ink sketch of my house for my wife’s birthday. Mrs. Madsen was quite taken with it.”
“That’s where I’m staying. We’ll speak to him now.”
Madsen went with Rutledge back to the hotel, where Miss Norton, at Reception, told them they would find Mr. Benson in the kitchen, discussing menus with the cook.
Rutledge waited in the small sitting room while Inspector Madsen went in search of the artist. He was a short, thin man with the carriage of a soldier.
“Sketch the face of a dead man?” He stared from one policeman to the other. “I’ve—I’m not really good with faces. Why not take a photograph?”
“Yes, I’d considered that,” Rutledge told him, “but I think a sketch might serve us better. It doesn’t make an issue of the fact that we’re trying to identify a corpse.”
Benson wiped a hand across his mouth. “I’m not sure I can do this. I’ve seen enough dead men to last a lifetime.”
“Yes, I can sympathize,” Rutledge responded. “All we ask is that you give it a try.”
Madsen added, “He’s not unpleasant to view. Dead, yes, but not—er—marked in any way.”
In the end, Benson collected a pad and his box of charcoal sticks and went with them across to the doctor’s surgery.