people out of their money. He'd heard a professor say that it was merely a forerunner, early attempts to explain chemistry. But there had been an overtone of other interests in the study of this quasi-science-a search for the elixir of life and for spells that forced the spirits of evil to obey commands and serve the alchemist. It had sometimes been called heresy and commerce with the Devil, and even witchcraft.
He scanned several of the purported incantations that had come down through the years, and they were laughable. The garish illustrations next to several of them showed someone very like Roger Bacon standing in a cavelike room, smoke circling his head, the fire at his back roaring up the chimney, and an array of vessels spread out on the table before him.
Hamish, who had been silent for some time, startled him by speaking so normally that he was sure the man across the desk heard the words.
'Yon man in the drawing is wearing a robe.'
Roger Bacon had been a monk. And his robe was very much like the description Madsen had just given Rutledge of the cloak the dead man had been wrapped in.
So perhaps there was a connection, though not the most obvious one. Not meddling with spirits but with something else.
'And still no word on the identity of the dead man?'
'None. If he'd dropped out of the sky, we'd have been no wiser.'
Rutledge said, 'I'd like to see the victim for myself.'
Madsen considered him for a moment and then said, 'He's at the doctor's surgery.'
'And the cloak, the respirator?'
'There as well.'
They walked down the street to the doctor's surgery, and were admitted by a nurse who looked to be close to forty, trim and dark haired. Madsen asked to see the murder victim and was shown into the room where the body was being kept until the police were finished with it. Madsen nodded to the woman, and she left them.
Rutledge raised the sheet over the body. The man looked to be of good height, his shoulders broad and well muscled. Rutledge took a moment to look at his hands. Not those of a laborer-no calluses in the palms, the nails clean and well shaped. The face was not one that would stand out. The man could walk down any London street or one in Manchester and never attract attention. His hair was a light brown, showing gray strands throughout. Forty- five? Fifty? It was hard to tell. There were lines in his face that death hadn't smoothed away, as if he had been ill or aged before his time.
'What about his clothing?'
'Good quality. They're in the box, there.'
That matched the condition of the man's hands. 'London labels?'
'See for yourself.'
Rutledge squatted to examine the contents of the box. Madsen was right, the clothes were of good quality but had seen a great deal of use. As if the dead man had fallen on hard times or lost interest in what he wore. Even the shoes had seen hard use.
'Anything in the pockets?'
'Nothing. Not so much as a handkerchief.'
Rutledge stood up. 'I'd like to see the cloak and the respirator.'
The cloak was of fine wool, well made, with a hood. Rutledge fingered it, felt the weight of it, and the thickness. Unlike the clothes, it appeared to be almost new. Because it wasn't something that might be worn every day?
Hamish said, 'An actor, then?'
But no smudges of grease paint or powder marked the neckline or the edges of the hood.
The gas mask was a 1917 small box respirator, standard equipment during the war. No one had felt safe, once the Germans had used poison gas in the field.
But the tab underneath the chin was missing, leaving a small tear and making the mask useless. It wasn't uncommon for the tab to come off, and there was no way to tell how long ago or how recently it had happened. The question was, why had anyone gone to the trouble of putting the respirator over the face? A mockery of the manner of death or to make the death seem more macabre?
'There were no scars, no indication of a surgery, no identifying marks on the body? No irregularities in the teeth?'
'The doctor says not.'
Once this man was buried, there would be nothing to show he had lived. Nothing to identify him in a report, nothing to hand in evidence to witnesses or suspects, nothing to set him apart, if someday someone came looking for him.
Anonymous… which explained why the man wasn't known in this part of Yorkshire. He wasn't meant to be identified. A mystery, an unclaimed body, a nine days' wonder, buried and soon forgotten.
Rutledge said, 'Is there someone here-in Elthorpe-who could make a drawing of his face?'
'A drawing?' Madsen was caught off guard, busy with his own thoughts as Rutledge went through the box.
'If we're to locate someone who knows the victim, we need something to be going on with.'
'Why not a photograph?'
'Because it will show that he's dead. People might be more willing to talk to us about a missing person.'
No one wanted to be drawn into a murder inquiry. It was a stigma, something that happened to other, less savory classes. And Rutledge had a feeling that this man had had secrets. Otherwise, why should he wind up dead, like a buffoon, wearing a respirator and a monk's cloak, a long way from home? Why not simply leave the body in a ditch or throw it into a lake or shove it off a cliff?
Madsen was saying, 'Benson. He's one of the employees at The Castle Arms. He did a pen-and-ink sketch of my house for my wife's birthday. Mrs. Madsen was quite taken with it.'
'That's where I'm staying. We'll speak to him now.'
Madsen went with Rutledge back to the hotel, where Miss Norton, at Reception, told them they would find Mr. Benson in the kitchen, discussing menus with the cook.
Rutledge waited in the small sitting room while Inspector Madsen went in search of the artist. He was a short, thin man with the carriage of a soldier.
'Sketch the face of a dead man?' He stared from one policeman to the other. 'I've-I'm not really good with faces. Why not take a photograph?'
'Yes, I'd considered that,' Rutledge told him, 'but I think a sketch might serve us better. It doesn't make an issue of the fact that we're trying to identify a corpse.'
Benson wiped a hand across his mouth. 'I'm not sure I can do this. I've seen enough dead men to last a lifetime.'
'Yes, I can sympathize,' Rutledge responded. 'All we ask is that you give it a try.'
Madsen added, 'He's not unpleasant to view. Dead, yes, but not- er-marked in any way.'
In the end, Benson collected a pad and his box of charcoal sticks and went with them across to the doctor's surgery.
Rutledge was already regretting his request. Benson's face was pale and strained as they waited for the doctor. He said, 'I'm sorry-'
But the doctor was coming out of his consultation room, nodding to Madsen and shaking hands with Rutledge.
Five minutes later, Benson was sitting on a high stool looking down at the body of the man no one knew.
He sketched quickly, using the charcoal with deft strokes, creating the shape of the head, the placement of the ears, the dark hair springing from a high forehead. And then he began to put in the features, the eyes first, getting them right before tackling the straight nose and a surprisingly mobile mouth.
At one point he looked up at Rutledge, his face set as if his mind had withdrawn to somewhere safe. 'I-I can't see the color of his eyes…?'
'Blue,' the doctor told him from where he stood by the wall, watching. 'They're a pale blue.'
Benson nodded and kept working.
