A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [34]
But Hugh’s reaction was unexpected. Like a cornered animal, he backed against the stone wall of the chapel and seemed to have lost his tongue.
Johnnie was sick again, dry heaves jerking his body.
Rutledge waited until the worst had passed, then handed him a handkerchief.
Hamish said, “Ye can see he’s in no case to answer ye.”
Johnnie, looking as if he wanted nothing more than his bed at home, leaned against the nearest tombstone.
Rutledge persisted, speaking mainly to Hugh but keeping his eye on Johnnie. “Did you see something the night when someone was killed near Elthorpe? Did you see Mr. Crowell leave the school where he was working that evening, and go to meet someone?”
Hugh took a deep breath. “We were home in bed, weren’t we, Johnnie? There was nothing for us to see.”
It was the truth. Even Hamish could read that in the boy’s fervent manner.
And yet it wasn’t the whole truth.
“Who did you see leave the village?” Rutledge persisted.
“Nobody!” they exclaimed loudly, in unison.
“You needn’t be afraid. If there’s something you want to tell me, I’ll see that no harm comes to you.”
The boys stood there, hangdog but refusing to budge.
Hamish said, “Ye havena’ found the key.”
Rutledge changed direction. “Do you like Mr. Crowell? Is he a good master?”
They nodded vigorously. Reassuring him, proving that they had no reason to step forward, no reason to be afraid.
“Is there anyone else at the school, other than the Crowells?” He’d seen no one, but that might be the rub. If not Mr. Crowell…
“There’s Old Fred. He cleans,” Hugh said, as if offering up a sacrifice to hungry gods. “We had two other masters, but they were killed in the war. Mr. Crowell has had to manage on his own since he came back.”
“And Mrs. Crowell. Does she walk at night? Without her husband?”
“I never saw her,” Hugh maintained. And the ring of truth this time was clear, unequivocal. “What would she be going about at night, alone, for?”
“Johnnie?”
“No, sir. Never. You can ask anybody.”
Rutledge gave it up. “You’re sure I can’t see you home? Johnnie? Do you have far to walk?”
“Not far.” He gripped his stomach with both arms wrapped around his body. “Please, can we go now?”
“Yes, be on your way.”
Rutledge watched them scurry away, like mice frantic to escape the claws of a cat.
Mary Norton was looking after them also as he reached the motorcar and stopped to turn the crank.
“I think you’ve put the fear of God into those two. Was it really necessary?”
“I think they’ve put the fear of God into themselves, and I’d like to know why.”
“Then you’re still harassing Albert Crowell,” she said, making it a statement and not a question.
“I’m trying to get at the truth,” he answered her as he closed the door on his side of the motorcar and let in the gear. “I’m not here to badger anyone.”
“That’s what people always say, but the police have made a good job of upsetting Albert and his wife.”
He wanted to tell her that she herself had caused Alice Crowell anxiety in her earnest and misguided effort to prove that the dead man wasn’t Shoreham. “The problem is that the only piece of evidence we have points to Crowell. And once I find out why it does, it may serve instead to clear his name.”
“The sooner the better, then, before he’s lost his job and his reputation. Have you policemen thought of that? No, I expect not. He’s the fox and you’re the hounds, and there won’t be any peace for him until you lot have caught him.”
She sighed, and said nothing more for the rest of the journey.
After dropping Mary Norton at the hotel, Rutledge went back to the police station, intending to report to Madsen.
But the inspector had left, he was told by an elderly constable. “He’d missed his luncheon. Not knowing when you’d return.”
Rutledge thanked the constable and walked back to the hotel.
Hamish said as Rutledge closed the door to his room, “Was it a lie, that the man in the sketch wasna’ the one who scarred the schoolmaster’s wife?”
“I don’t think she lied. But I think she’s tried to forget his face and has partly succeeded. I’ll ask Gibson at the Yard