A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [33]
Rutledge stepped in. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Crowell, but it’s essential to look at all the possibilities, even the far-fetched ones. Do you know, by chance, what this man Shoreham did for a living?”
“He was a clerk in a bank, as I remember. He’d been passed over for a promotion. He claimed.”
The door opened and a young man stepped in, his eyes going straight to his wife.
“Am I missing something?”
She quickly got herself in hand and said, “This is Mr. Rutledge—from Scotland Yard. He’s come to look into what happened in the abbey. He asked me to look at a sketch of the dead man that a Mr. Benson made for him. But I don’t know him—the victim.”
“That wasn’t very pleasant for you, my dear,” Crowell said, then turned to Rutledge, offering his hand. “You should have spoken to me first, before disturbing my wife.”
“Would you have preferred that I take her into Elthorpe to see this man for herself?”
“Doubting my word?” It was a challenge.
“No. Verifying it, so that the police can get on with this case. We’ve lost enough time, chasing wild geese in the wrong direction.”
“I see.” He moved around the desk to look at the sketch Mrs. Crowell was still holding. “This is well done, a good likeness. But no more familiar than the man himself was, when I first saw him.”
“Then I needn’t trouble you further,” Rutledge replied, taking the measure of Crowell. Irritated and sensitive from his previous encounters with Madsen, if he was any judge. And this wasn’t the time to press. “Thank you, Mrs. Crowell. I am grateful for your help.”
He turned to go. Mary looked at him, something in her expression that warned him what to do next.
“Miss Norton, I’ve kept you long enough. I’ll be happy to take you back to the hotel.”
She appeared reluctant, saying at first, “I really should stay—”
But Alice Crowell broke in. “Nonsense. Mr. Dunn won’t care to have you away too long. Go with Mr. Rutledge, Mary. I’ll see you at the weekend.”
Mary went to the door with Rutledge. “Albert—”
He said, “Don’t worry, I’ll sit with her for a bit.”
And then she was in the corridor with Rutledge, casting him a grateful glance.
Outside, Rutledge looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of Hugh and his classmate.
When they were back in the motorcar, Rutledge asked, “What were you afraid of? Does Crowell have a temper?”
“No. Not a temper. He—sometimes I just feel as if it would be better if he did explode into anger. He’s so—so controlled. I don’t know why Alice fell in love with him. And not Julian.”
“It’s not a matter for the head but for the heart,” he replied, turning the motorcar to go back the way he’d come.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw something among the trees in the churchyard. The boys who had asked permission to leave while he was interviewing Mrs. Crowell.
He pulled the motorcar to the verge and said to Miss Norton, “I’ll just be a moment.”
He walked briskly across the churchyard, and the two boys, who had ducked behind the apse of the chapel, turned wide-eyed as he came round the corner. There was no time to run. And nowhere to run to. They stood their ground of necessity.
The other boy, the one Hugh claimed was sick, looked it, his face pale and his eyes red. Even Hugh was drawn and wretched, his gaze dropping to his shoes after that one wild glance at Rutledge.
“We couldn’t make it home,” Hugh said finally. “You can see, he’s been sick all down his front.”
“I was worried,” Rutledge said. “Can I offer you a lift?”
“Oh, no,” the other boy—Johnnie, was it?—began.
Hugh said quickly, “If he’s quiet a bit, he’ll be all right.”
Rutledge considered them. “If you’re sure?”
“Yes, sir.” It was a fervent chorus.
He turned to leave, then stopped. “What do you know of this business the police have been speaking to your schoolmaster about?”
Children heard their elders talk and were sometimes better at putting two and two together than adults.