A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [45]
“The respirator was torn. The cloak I think is theatrical.”
He had a sudden image of his parents leaving for a party, his mother in an Elizabethan costume, the ruff around her face framing it becomingly, the scent of her perfume mixing with the heavier one of cedar shavings. And his father, looking like Charles II in a wig that reached below his shoulders.
Deloran said, “Well, that’s not Partridge, I can tell you. I doubt he ever went to the theatre in his life.”
“A masquerade,” Rutledge said. “Not theatrical.” It fit—the fineness of the weave and the quality of the robe…
Nothing changed in Deloran’s face. But the fingers holding a pen tightened. He said, “I doubt Partridge would have been caught dead in a masquerade.” Then he realized what he’d just said, and smiled. “Sorry. But you take the point, I’m sure.”
He picked up the folder, almost as if to satisfy Rutledge rather than from any curiosity on his part. Looking at the sketch, he said thoughtfully, “It’s hard to say, given the inferior quality of the drawing. But I can tell you that this looks nothing like our man.”
He closed the folder and passed it back to Rutledge. “It appears we were wrong about Yorkshire. I expect Partridge will show up in his own good time, whether we look for him or not.”
“This man was very likely murdered,” Rutledge told him bluntly. “He didn’t die there in the ruins. He was carried there, after he was dead.”
“Yes, very sad.” Deloran prepared to stand, ready to dismiss Rutledge. “Thank you so much for your help in this matter. We are more grateful than you know.”
He was standing now, and he gestured to the sketch. “I hope there’s a successful conclusion to this case. Are you returning to Yorkshire?”
“At the moment, no.” Rutledge stood also.
“Just as well. Let them sort out this inquiry. I’m sure they’ll manage very well. Local people know best, oftentimes, deep roots in their patch, and all that. Sorry to have muddied the waters.”
“Are you quite certain this couldn’t be your man Partridge?”
“Absolutely.” Deloran offered his hand, and Rutledge took it. “Innis will see you out.”
As they walked out of the room, Hamish said, referring to Deloran, “I wouldna’ care to play cards wi’ him.”
Innis was waiting to escort him out of the building. Rutledge, considering the gray-haired man, would have placed him as a retired sergeant-major, ramrod back, calm face, an air of unquestioned authority that had nothing to do with a uniform.
On the street once more, Rutledge answered Hamish. “I’ll give you any odds you like that our dead man is Partridge. The question is, why wouldn’t Deloran admit to it?”
“He’s deid,” Hamish said. “And that pleases someone.”
“Yes,” Rutledge answered slowly.
His dismissal rankled. The bland lies, the willingness to abandon a man who was inconvenient, even though someone had murdered him, the arrogance of the assumption that Rutledge would walk away as well, case closed, not even warning him off so much as believing that a policeman could be so easily gulled, left a bad taste.
And in the meantime, Inspector Madsen, with a corpse on his hands and his main suspect cleared, was to be left in the dark.
Back at the Yard, Gibson was waiting for him outside his office.
“I’ve been on the horn to Whitby. They remember your man Shoreham. He was never tried for the injury to Mrs. Crowell. The family refused to take the matter further. Shoreham left town shortly after that, and Whitby has quite lost track of him.”
“Shame, I should imagine.”
“Very likely,” Gibson responded. “After losing his position, he found there was no use staying on where he wasn’t wanted. Another town, another life.”
“Quite,” Rutledge answered.
“No one remembers his chin.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“And so far as Whitby knows, he never came to the attention of the police again. No inquiries in regard to a troubled past.