A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [73]
Rutledge was again reminded of Martin Deloran, willing to give any name to a dead man for his own ends. But what end could Peter Littleton have, unless he’d killed Shoreham long ago and hidden the body?
Hamish said, “Ask yon cousin in Wales.”
Blood was thicker than water…How far would Henry Shoreham’s relatives go to protect him? Or be rid of him?
Rutledge said, “If this man in Elthorpe isn’t your cousin—if you’re obstructing the police in the course of their duties, it will go hard for you.”
The threat registered in Littleton’s eyes. But he answered only, “I haven’t gone to Elthorpe asking about this dead man. It was Inspector Madsen who came to me.”
The door opened and a woman walked in, her eyes red with crying. She stopped short as she saw Rutledge. “Peter. If you could hurry—?”
But before Peter Littleton could answer, Rutledge said, “Mrs. Littleton, is it? We’ve nearly finished our business, your husband and I. I was just asking him about his cousin.”
Her gaze sharpened, whatever had brought her here quickly set aside. “Peter?” She didn’t glance at her husband. She stood there trying to collect her wits.
“It’s all right, love. This is Inspector Rutledge. He’s come about Henry.”
“But I thought they’d found a body and were satisfied.” Her voice was accusing.
“So we were told. Here, see for yourself. This is a drawing of the dead man. Does it look like Henry to you?”
She took it and stared at it. “They’re the same age,” she replied after a moment, looking not at Rutledge but at her husband. “And the same coloring. I don’t understand. I thought it had been settled?”
“He’s come to tell me this man was murdered.”
Mrs. Littleton gasped. “But—there must be some mistake. You didn’t tell me—what did Henry have worth stealing? And he hadn’t touched a drop of gin since that day in Whitby. How do they know he was murdered? You told me it was suicide. I don’t understand.”
She was begging for help, for reassurance. Her husband said, warningly, “We’re trying to sort it out, Beth.”
“Let it wait. I’m sick of Henry Shoreham. I’ve come to fetch you. The baby’s worse, we must find the doctor.”
Peter Littleton’s face lost its color. He said, “Oh, God,” and pushed past Rutledge to his wife. “Go home, love, I’ll bring the doctor to you.” And over his shoulder to Rutledge he said, “She’s had whooping cough—”
And he was gone, leaving Rutledge to close the shop door behind them.
Rutledge spent half an hour asking round the village for Henry Shoreham, and met with a shake of the head. Most people had no idea that he’d gone.
“One to stay close to home,” the greengrocer said. “Early on, I saw him a time or two in the evening, but not to speak to. You’d never guess he was in the house. When I went to make a delivery, he never came out to say good morning.”
“He never came to services. Not even to his niece’s christening,” the rector told Rutledge. “Not a religious man, Peter Littleton said. But he ought to have been. If ever there was a man in need of prayer, it was that one. Looked like a ghost of himself, the way I remember him when Peter and Elizabeth were married.”
A woman pushing a baby in a pram told Rutledge, “He was in the shop once when I stepped in to see about the heel on my best pair of shoes. But he didn’t know what he was about, and so I told Peter. After that, he never came to work at Littleton’s.”
And a man sweeping the doorstep of the ironmonger’s said, “I didn’t know him well. He used to walk about at night, to stretch his legs. We talked once or twice, as I was taking Harriet out—she’s my dog—and she would sniff at his shoes and growl, as if she didn’t much care for him. Strange man. My wife was glad when he went away.”
“When was that? Do you know?”
“I didn’t even know he’d left until I’d asked Peter how he was getting on. And Peter said he’d decided to live with