A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [7]
“Look, I’ve told you—I wasn’t in the abbey ruins last night or any night this past year. I don’t know who the dead man is or why my book should be there. I didn’t meet him, and when you find out who stole my book, you’ll have your other person.” Crowell was angry now, and feeling more than a little defensive as the evidence against him was being presented.
“Then you’ll have no objection to coming with us to look at the dead man.”
“I—don’t like the dead. That is, I’ve seen more than my share, and I’ll live very happily if I never see another one.”
“That’s as may be,” Madsen said. “All the same, I shall have to ask you to tell us if you can identify him.” He rose. “We can walk to the doctor’s surgery from here. I’m sure I can accept your word that you won’t make any trouble for us?”
“Make any—of course not, damn you.”
Madsen smiled as he led the way. He had his man now, he was sure of it.
But in the back room of the doctor’s surgery, where the body had been taken, Crowell stared down at the face on the bed and slowly shook his head. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
“Can you swear to that?”
“Of course I can. I have never laid eyes on him as far as I know.”
But there was a subtle shift in what he’d said before and what he was willing to swear to. Madsen made a note of it.
The doctor came in just then and nodded to Madsen. “As far as I can tell on first examination I’d say he was overcome by gas. Which means he couldn’t have been wearing that respirator when he died. Nor could he have died in the ruins.”
Madsen frowned. “Are you saying he died elsewhere, was brought to the abbey, and left where he was found?”
“I can tell you he didn’t walk there himself,” the doctor retorted dryly. “Someone else was involved. Make of it what you will.”
Crowell, standing there between the doctor and the inspector, flinched. “I don’t have gas lamps. Not where I live.” He’d blurted it out, nerves getting the better of him. His brother had died from chlorine gas at the second battle of Ypres. He had spent years trying to wipe that memory away. It had been a horrid death. He had carried the dying too many times not to know what his brother had suffered.
Madsen and the doctor turned to stare at him.
“I’ve never seen him before,” Crowell repeated. “Can we go now? I’ve no taste for this.”
“Conscientious objector in the war, were you, sir?” Madsen asked, making no move to leave.
“How did you know—” But it was obvious that the police had already looked into his background. “If you’ve seen my record, you’ve also read that I served in France driving an ambulance. I didn’t want to kill, that’s all. But I could do something about the suffering.” He gestured toward the dead man. “And I’ve seen far worse than this poor devil, so making me stand here isn’t going to help you.” His voice had risen just a little, and he tried to get himself under control again. But it was hard. His temper these days was uncertain at best, and his wife had urged him to speak to someone about it. He wondered what Madsen would make of that if he’d learned of it.
But the inspector had already decided there was nothing to be gained here by trying to push the schoolmaster into betraying himself in the face of his victim. He nodded to the doctor and led the way out to the street.
Crowell felt himself sweating. A cold sweat that seemed to bathe him. “Am I free to return to my classroom, Inspector? I don’t care to leave my wife alone with the older boys any longer than need be. They tend to rowdiness after a while.”
“We shall have