A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [72]
“Who told you it might have been suicide?” Rutledge asked sharply.
“What else could it be? I know, the inspector was hinting that it was murder. As I explained to the constable, Henry was persecuted. It might have ended differently if he’d gone to prison instead, but the woman and her husband forgave him. That turned everyone in Whitby against Henry. When the law wouldn’t punish him, everyone else did. There was a great outcry.”
“You never considered the fact that Albert Crowell might have killed your cousin, that they ran into each other by accident, and Crowell took the chance offered to avenge his wife?”
“Then why did this man Crowell forgive him in the first place, if that’s what he wanted to do?”
“To keep Henry Shoreham out of prison? To make sure he could be found and killed? Only he came here to Addleford and Crowell couldn’t find him.”
In spite of himself, Rutledge found that it made a certain sense—perhaps explained why Crowell had chosen to teach at Dilby. Looking for Shoreham. Madsen could easily make that case.
“That was before the war—a long time to wait to get even.”
“Then you’ll leave your cousin to a pauper’s grave, and let the police sort out how he died?”
“I’ll pay what I can for a decent burial. Inspector Madsen knows that. But I won’t do more. Truth is, the scandal affected all our lives. Harboring Henry was what I had to do, because he was my blood. I’ll not bring him back here and put him in the churchyard for everyone to stare at and remember.”
Rutledge could hear Martin Deloran’s callous dismissal of the dead man. Did no one care what became of him?
“An interesting point of view, Mr. Littleton. Still, I’ll have to speak to your wife and your neighbors. I need to know precisely when Henry Shoreham left Addleford. How he was traveling, and in what direction.”
“You’re not understanding me. Henry kept to himself. Most particularly after the Jordan family moved to Addleford. I doubt my neighbors have clapped eyes on him since. He never came to town, went to church services, called in at the pub. He just sat in his room and stared out the window.”
There was evasion here, almost a washing of the hands. Why?
Rutledge had brought the folder in with him and opened it now to pull out the sketch. “Perhaps you know this man?” he asked.
Littleton looked intently at the face. “He’s the dead man?”
“Yes.”
Littleton shook his head, then glanced up at Rutledge. “The description Inspector Madsen gave of the body was too close for comfort. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. But this is like seeing Henry younger and happier.”
“There’s no cleft in this man’s chin.”
Littleton was rattled. “Should there be? I don’t see it here, and Inspector Madsen never said anything about one.”
“Shoreham didn’t have one?”
“No.”
Then either Mrs. Crowell had been mistaken, or she’d lied. It had been six years. And she had been in shock and pain at the time.
“Who else besides Crowell might have wished your cousin ill?”
“If you found Henry, he’s dead by his own hand,” Littleton answered stubbornly.
Rutledge considered the possibility that Littleton himself had killed his cousin. But judging the character of the shoemaker, he thought not. If the man went to prison or was hanged, who would support his family?
“Did Inspector Madsen tell you that this man, the one you see in this drawing, died somewhere else, not in the place where he was found?”
It was clear that Littleton didn’t know what to make of this information. Inspector Madsen, for reasons of his own, had kept some facts of the case to himself.
“Here! I can’t tell you what happened to him. He left my house, he told me he was going to Cousin