A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [75]
“But left to come and live with you.”
“You can look about if you like. He’s not here.”
“So I’m told. There’s a possibility that he was murdered.”
Williams’s eyebrows rose. “That other policeman simply told me he thought Henry was dead. He didn’t say anything about murder.”
“Yes, well, murder it was.” He pulled out the folder with the sketch, trying to shield it from the rain. “Here’s the dead man’s likeness. Inspector Madsen has arrested someone for his murder.”
Williams looked at the sketch for a long moment and then said with resignation, “You’d better come inside.”
The house was plainly furnished, many of the pieces early Victorian. But it appeared to be comfortable enough, weather tight and warm with the coal fire on the hearth.
“How long have you lived here?” Rutledge asked with interest as the dog slumped down on the hearthrug and sighed.
“I inherited the property from my father’s cousin. He had no children. Neither do I, but there it is, the house is mine. He ran sheep here, but I couldn’t manage it. A neighbor offered me a good price for them, and I’m living on what I was paid for them.”
“How well do you know your cousin Peter Littleton?”
“He’s on my mother’s side of the family. I haven’t seen him in many years.”
“And Henry, from Whitby? Did you see him often?”
Williams shook his head. “It’s a long way to travel. We were never close.”
“Yet you offered him houseroom here.”
“Which he never took me up on. Just as well, I don’t know how the two of us would manage. The house is large enough, but the money I have isn’t. I don’t know that I could afford to keep him.”
“He left Addleford, to come here to you.”
“And changed his mind, as far as I know. I expect he was walking or looking for a lift, and found another place he liked better. You drove here, you know how long a journey that would be. I’m not saying he’s dead, mind you. He just never came to this part of Wales.”
There was no anxiety over Shoreham’s fate, no concern about the long walk across Wales, no interest in what the man might have encountered, poor and alone and with no friend to turn to.
“You never made any attempt to learn what had become of him? If he were ill, dependent on the charity of strangers, dead and buried somewhere as a pauper?”
Williams had the decency to look ashamed. “It’s not that we don’t care,” he said hotly, “it’s that life is hard enough without taking on another man’s troubles. Henry isn’t here. You can search the house, if you like. You won’t find him. If I knew where he was, I’d want to help him, but I can’t go searching half of England in the hope of finding him. There’s not the money for it.”
“And what about the man dead in Elthorpe? I could make a case that you and Peter Littleton between you tired of your cousin and killed him, leaving him to be found by strangers.”
Williams’s face paled, his dark eyes wide and alarmed. “But you can’t do that. We’ve not touched Henry. We’ve not left him anywhere but where he wants to be—away from Yorkshire.”
“Inspector Madsen has one Albert Crowell in custody, to be charged for Henry Shoreham’s murder. There’s evidence enough to see him hanged.”
Williams sat down heavily. “You’re lying to me.”
“I’ll bring Inspector Madsen to you, to confirm what I’ve said.”
“But why would this—this Albert Crowell wish to harm my cousin?”
“Because Shoreham scarred his wife for life. You know this, it’s the reason Shoreham is unemployed and living on the charity of his family.”
Williams shook his head, shock still washing over him. “I know about the accident. That’s what it was, an accident. Henry swore it. What do you want me to do, help you prove that this is Henry? I haven’t seen him in years. Did you show this sketch to Peter? What did he say?”
“He avoided answering me. He cared as little for your cousin as you appear to do.”
“No, that’s not fair, it isn’t a matter of caring. God knows—” He broke off, swallowing hard.
“If you pass off a dead man as your cousin, and Albert Crowell is hanged for it, what