A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [44]
Find Henry Shoreham, or failing that, someone who knew him well enough to say if the dead man was Shoreham or not.
And if it was, then Crowell could damned well take his chances in a courtroom, Colonel Ingle be damned.
During the long drive back to London, Hamish was insistent, railing at Rutledge for his handling of Madsen and Crowell alike. “Ye didna’ gie yon inspector the whole truth.”
“It’s not mine to give, is it?”
“It would ha’ gone a long way toward placating him.”
“The War Office can look at this sketch and tell me if we’ve found our man. If we have, then I’ll be back in Yorkshire before the week is out, to discover what happened to him and why.”
“And if it isna’ Partridge?”
“Then very likely I’ll be sent back by the Yard. The Chief Constable will be involved by that time. Madsen will complain to him before we’ve reached Cambridge.”
“Ye should ha’ told him as much. That you’d be back.”
“I’m not at liberty to explain why I think there’s more to this case than he realizes. If those boys hadn’t confessed, Crowell could well be facing the hangman. And if the victim turns out to be Shoreham after all, he’s still the chief suspect.”
“Then why the robe, why the mask?”
“To throw us off. As it did. Although if it was Crowell, he should have been clever enough to rid himself of the body altogether.”
“He couldna’ leave his wife long enough to take the body verra’ far.”
“I’m still not convinced that dying so easily would provide a satisfying retribution. A shotgun in the face perhaps, or throttling with one’s bare hands would be a more convincing vengeance.”
“Aye, but there’s nae weapon, in a gassing.”
Which was an excellent point.
Rutledge arrived in London too late to return to the Yard, but the next morning, he was there before Chief Superintendent Bowles had arrived.
Sergeant Gibson, passing Rutledge in the corridor, said, “Walk softly.”
Which meant that the Chief Superintendent was not in a good humor.
Rutledge stopped him and said, “Can you find me information on one Henry Shoreham, of Whitby, Yorkshire? Taken up for public drunkenness after accidentally knocking a young woman into an iron fence and scarring her badly.”
“I’ll speak to a constable I know in Whitby police station, if you like. What’s he done?”
“Nothing that I’m aware of. But he could well be a murder victim. In Yorkshire. I’m particularly interested in his appearance—whether he has a cleft in his chin.”
Gibson nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
Gossip had it right. Superintendent Bowles had just had a dressing-down by his superiors, and he was nursing his wounds. No one was safe.
There had been a very careful watch set up for a killer cornered in the East End, and somehow the man had slipped quietly through the net and escaped. Bowles had borne the brunt of official displeasure.
As Rutledge came through the door, Bowles looked at him with narrowed eyes. “And what are you doing here? I thought I’d sent you north to Yorkshire.”
“You had. I brought back a sketch of the dead man. I think someone in the War Office ought to have a look at it.”
“Very clever of you,” Bowles declared in a growl. “What makes you think they want to meet with you, pray? Sketch or no sketch?”
“Because I don’t think they’re very keen on traveling to Yorkshire themselves to see the body. There are no distinguishing marks, and any description would fit half the men walking past our door. If they want Partridge badly enough, they’ll agree.”
Bowles grunted, but picked up the telephone and put in a call. It took nearly a quarter of an hour for someone to get back to him.
He sent for Rutledge and told him shortly, “Martin Deloran. Someone at the War Office will take you to meet him. They’re waiting. Bloody army.”
Rutledge retrieved the sketch from his office and left.
When he was finally admitted into Deloran’s presence, Rutledge had had enough of secrecy and chains of command. He sat down in the chair pointed out to him and said without preamble, “It’s possible I’ve found Partridge. It’s for you to decide.”
Deloran took the folder that Rutledge passed across