A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [37]
No birds sing in the ruined trees,
No fowl scratch in unweeded kitchen gardens,
No child’s laughter answers a mother’s voice.
There’s only the wind searching for something to touch
And passing through unhindered.
A fleeting memory came to him—Alice Crowell’s welcome, as if she had been expecting him. And yet as far as he knew there was no reason why she should.
8
The next morning found Rutledge back at the Dilby school, encountering a surprised Albert Crowell in the passage just as he came out of a classroom. Rutledge had brought the sketch of the dead man back with him.
“Inspector. What can I do for you?” Crowell asked.
“I’d like a word with your wife, if she’s here.”
There was a wary expression in his eyes now.
“In regard to what?” Crowell asked bluntly.
“I’m afraid that’s police business at the moment.”
Crowell gave some thought to the request and then said, “She’s in the small room we call the library. Four doors down and to your left.”
“Thanks.” Rutledge walked on, feeling the man’s gaze following him as he counted doors and stopped to knock lightly on the fourth.
A woman’s voice called, “Come in.”
But whoever it was Alice Crowell was expecting, it wasn’t Rutledge this time. Surprise crossed her face, and she bit her lip before saying, “You haven’t come to arrest my husband, have you? Please tell me you haven’t.”
“Not at all. I didn’t intend to alarm you,” he said easily, coming into the room and shutting the door.
As if Hamish knew now what he was about to do, the voice in his head seemed to swell into angry remonstrance.
“No’ here, it isna’ wise, what if yon schoolmaster is guilty?”
He ignored it as best he could.
There were handmade bookshelves around the walls, most of them half full. The titles ranged from simple children’s works to more serious books on history and geography and biography. He recognized a tattered copy of Wordsworth, and another of Browning, among the poetry selections. A meager library, but for this small place, it must seem handsome.
Mrs. Crowell gestured to a chair across from the one where she was sitting. It was an intimate arrangement in the center of the room, two chairs and a scattering of benches for the children. A woven carpet covered the floor, and there was a fireplace in one wall.
“It’s here we read to the children at the end of the day,” she said. “They may never have access to such books after they’ve left us. Sadly, most of them are destined to work on the farms for their fathers or their uncles. But on the other hand they’ve known that since they were old enough to understand anything, and they take it as a natural course of events.”
“It must seem to you a waste, at times. With a particularly bright student.”
“Education is never wasted. But yes, we’ve taught a few who might have gone on to university. We encourage them, of course we do. But who will work the farm while they’re away? And what will happen to that farm if the son of the house comes to prefer London or Ipswich or Canterbury to Dilby? Do you have children, Inspector? Do you expect them to be policemen?”
He could see that she was avoiding asking him what had brought him to her.
“Sadly, I’m not married,” he told her, “but if I had a son, I’d hope he chose the career most suited to him.” He found himself remembering a small boy in Scotland, named for him but not his son. “Did the war reach as far as Dilby?” he went on quickly, before the memory took hold.
“Oh, yes,” she replied with sadness in her voice. “We paid a high price here, considering our numbers. Most of our men wanted to serve together, and so they were killed together as well. A good many of our children were orphaned. It’s been very hard for them. And Albert lost his brother, Julian. But Mary has told you about him, hasn’t she? I’m sure she has.”
“Your husband was in the war, I understand.”
The wariness crept back into her eyes. “Yes.”
“We didn’t disparage the men who drove ambulances,” he said. “They were very brave to go where they were needed most. And they were caring. In the worst of the fighting, they were often