A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [6]
“The problem is,” Madsen began slowly, “that this book—your book—was discovered lying by the foot of a dead man.”
“Good God!” Crowell was speechless for a moment, then recovering, said, “I don’t understand, Inspector, but I expect we should discuss this. I’m available at three o’clock.”
“Indeed, sir. Is there anyone who can take over your class, sir? I’d like you to come with me.”
“What? Now? In heaven’s name, can’t it wait until the end of the school day? We’re in the middle of a very important lesson. I have no idea why this man or anyone else would be interested in my book on alchemy, but surely it isn’t a pressing matter? This is a harmless enough study, it can’t do anyone any harm.”
“I’m afraid not, sir. It could be a case of murder we’re looking at.”
Crowell stood there, uncertain quite what was expected of him. Then he said, “I shall have to ask my wife to step in. At this age, boys are inclined to rowdiness if left unsupervised.”
As he went to find his wife, accompanied by Constable Hood, Madsen walked back to the classroom.
There was a ripple of wariness as the students turned one by one to look at him. He saw boys at the edge of the group hang their heads as if wishing the floor would swallow them up, and he smiled to himself. He could remember when he was that age and small sins loomed large.
“I’m having to borrow Mr. Crowell for a bit. I don’t want to hear you’ve been rude or rowdy with his missus,” he said, his voice stern. “You’ll answer to me if there’s any complaint of your behavior. Is that clear?”
There was a chorus of Yes, sirs! that made the rafters echo.
He nodded to the class collectively as he heard footsteps approaching. A young woman with a scar across her face walked past him into the room, taking the chair at her husband’s table. She ignored Madsen, but he saw that her hands were trembling as she folded them together, and he shoved his own into his pockets as if to still them as well.
The students went quickly back to work, and Crowell smiled reassuringly at his wife before following Madsen out into the passage.
It was a long drive back to Elthorpe, not so much in miles but in the silence that neither Madsen nor Crowell felt free to break. But as they stopped in front of the police station, Crowell said, “All right, I’m here. As you asked. It’s time you told me what this is all about.”
“Where were you last evening, sir?” Madsen asked as he led the way into the station and back to the office where he kept his files and his pipe. “If you don’t mind telling us?”
“I was at the school. Reading. My wife can verify that, you needn’t have dragged me here. And what’s this about a dead man and possible murder?”
“I was just coming to that, sir.” Madsen sat down, leaving Crowell standing. “We found a body early this morning in the abbey ruins. A man none of us recognizes. But he’d spent some time there, from the looks of things, and it’s likely he wasn’t alone. My question is this. If he died of natural causes—and we’ll know the answer to that when the doctor has examined him—why didn’t the person or persons with him come for help?”
“As I wasn’t there, I can’t answer you.”
“But you were there, in a manner of speaking. There was candle wax on a stone in the center of the cloisters, a stub of candle nearby, and at the dead man’s foot, your book, with your name in it. A book you admit is kept in your private office.”
“And I’ve explained to you that I have no idea how it came to be there. I’d have sworn it was on my shelf along with the rest of my books. I can’t even tell you when it went missing, or how.”
“Indeed, sir. You’ve told me the book was old, out of print. There can’t be that many other copies floating about, and none of them, I expect, with your book plate inside. What we’re hoping is that you can put a name to our dead