A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [67]
As he went through his door, he said to himself, “No, he’s not going anywhere. He’s dead. And I don’t know for certain what name will be on his stone.”
Dinner was quiet, Frances in a mood of reminiscence and Rutledge distracted by his thoughts and Hamish’s crushing presence. Hiding his demons from his sister proved to be trying.
But the next morning he presented himself at the Yard, found a glowering Bowles waiting for him as he walked down the passage toward the Chief Superintendent’s door, and with a sinking heart, followed him into his office.
“Well? I’ll not be made a fool of, Rutledge. Who’s this dead man stirring up trouble in Yorkshire?”
“I’ve reason to believe he’s one Gaylord Partridge, who also answers to the name of Gerald Parkinson. His neighbors and a postmaster confirm that.”
“And Inspector Madsen has reason to believe he’s one Henry Shoreham. He can’t be both, damn it!”
“I’ll go to Yorkshire and get to the bottom of it.”
“See that you do. Who’s Gerald Parkinson, when he’s at home? Never heard of him.”
“He’s from Wiltshire. He’s known there, he has an estate there. For some reason he left it and moved to Berkshire, not far from Uffington, content to live in a small cottage under a different name. His neighbors found him aloof, and none of them seems to know he had a past different from the one he’s given out to them. Which is precious little.”
“Are you certain this sketch of yours is a good likeness? You’ll look a fool and so would I if it’s off the mark.”
“No one in Yorkshire admitted to recognizing the body—or the sketch.”
“Humph.” Bowles rubbed his eyes. “Well, it’s time to get to the truth. Find out why Inspector Madsen is hell-bent on causing trouble. Or what he knows that we don’t. Either way, settle it. Don’t come back until you do.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“No, man, you’ll do more than your best. If we’re to have a hornet’s nest burst about our ears, we want to make certain we can survive it.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I have no more use for this Deloran than you do. I don’t like outsiders meddling in an inquiry, and above all I don’t relish being made to look a fool. Do you understand me?”
Bowles had been an unexpected and unwilling ally when they faced a common enemy in the War Office. Now he was back to his irascible self.
Rutledge took a deep breath. “I’m fairly certain Deloran is hiding information that might make our work easier. But I can’t find a way to get at it without bringing Partridge to his attention again.”
“If you’re asking me to beard the lion in his den, you’ve another think coming. You’re expendable, Rutledge. And don’t you forget it.”
During the long drive north, Rutledge had much on his mind, and there was only Hamish to break the silence that pursued him mile after mile. When, the next morning, he pulled into Elthorpe, he had the odd feeling that nothing had changed since his first arrival only days ago. As he switched off the motor, he could have sworn the same faces were on the street, the same wares displayed in the shop windows, and the same rain clouds hovered in the distance. He sat for a moment looking at nothing, considering how best to say what must be said to Inspector Madsen.
A cold wind blew across the dales and into the narrow streets, reminding him that here April had not brought the same spring softness that was awakening the south of England.
Finally he got out of the motorcar and crossed the road to the police station.
There was a distinct pause in conversation when he entered and asked for the inspector.
Madsen was not pleased to see him. He met Rutledge’s gaze with righteous hostility as he came through the door, waiting for him to speak first.
“I’ve been told that Albert Crowell has been taken into custody.”
“Oh, yes, you explained away that book on alchemy very well. It’s harder to explain away Henry Shoreham’s disappearance less than a week before we found our corpse in the abbey.”
Rutledge said, “I’ve had a positive identification of your victim. He lived in Berkshire, and as far as I know, never met Alice Crowell.