'I was sent from London to look into the matter here,' Rutledge replied, choosing his words. 'It was only after I'd spoken to Miss Norton that I felt it was important to ask you if you knew this man.'
'I see.' Her gaze went back to Mary Norton. 'Why on earth were you telling him about that, Mary? How could it have come up?'
'I don't remember,' she said, her face flushing. 'Mr. Rutledge spoke to me after Mark Benson sketched the man, and I was saying something about the war, somehow, and then Julian, and somehow the conversation came round to you.'
Rutledge stepped in. 'I'm sorry, Mrs. Crowell, but it's essential to look at all the possibilities, even the far- fetched ones. Do you know, by chance, what this man Shoreham did for a living?'
'He was a clerk in a bank, as I remember. He'd been passed over for a promotion. He claimed.'
The door opened and a young man stepped in, his eyes going straight to his wife.
'Am I missing something?'
She quickly got herself in hand and said, 'This is Mr. Rutledge- from Scotland Yard. He's come to look into what happened in the abbey. He asked me to look at a sketch of the dead man that a Mr. Benson made for him. But I don't know him-the victim.'
'That wasn't very pleasant for you, my dear,' Crowell said, then turned to Rutledge, offering his hand. 'You should have spoken to me first, before disturbing my wife.'
'Would you have preferred that I take her into Elthorpe to see this man for herself?'
'Doubting my word?' It was a challenge.
'No. Verifying it, so that the police can get on with this case. We've lost enough time, chasing wild geese in the wrong direction.'
'I see.' He moved around the desk to look at the sketch Mrs. Crow- ell was still holding. 'This is well done, a good likeness. But no more familiar than the man himself was, when I first saw him.'
'Then I needn't trouble you further,' Rutledge replied, taking the measure of Crowell. Irritated and sensitive from his previous encounters with Madsen, if he was any judge. And this wasn't the time to press. 'Thank you, Mrs. Crowell. I am grateful for your help.'
He turned to go. Mary looked at him, something in her expression that warned him what to do next.
'Miss Norton, I've kept you long enough. I'll be happy to take you back to the hotel.'
She appeared reluctant, saying at first, 'I really should stay-'
But Alice Crowell broke in. 'Nonsense. Mr. Dunn won't care to have you away too long. Go with Mr. Rutledge, Mary. I'll see you at the weekend.'
Mary went to the door with Rutledge. 'Albert-'
He said, 'Don't worry, I'll sit with her for a bit.'
And then she was in the corridor with Rutledge, casting him a grateful glance.
Outside, Rutledge looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of Hugh and his classmate.
When they were back in the motorcar, Rutledge asked, 'What were you afraid of? Does Crowell have a temper?'
'No. Not a temper. He-sometimes I just feel as if it would be better if he did explode into anger. He's so-so controlled. I don't know why Alice fell in love with him. And not Julian.'
'It's not a matter for the head but for the heart,' he replied, turning the motorcar to go back the way he'd come.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw something among the trees in the churchyard. The boys who had asked permission to leave while he was interviewing Mrs. Crowell.
He pulled the motorcar to the verge and said to Miss Norton, 'I'll just be a moment.'
He walked briskly across the churchyard, and the two boys, who had ducked behind the apse of the chapel, turned wide-eyed as he came round the corner. There was no time to run. And nowhere to run to. They stood their ground of necessity.
The other boy, the one Hugh claimed was sick, looked it, his face pale and his eyes red. Even Hugh was drawn and wretched, his gaze dropping to his shoes after that one wild glance at Rutledge.
'We couldn't make it home,' Hugh said finally. 'You can see, he's been sick all down his front.'
'I was worried,' Rutledge said. 'Can I offer you a lift?'
'Oh, no,' the other boy-Johnnie, was it?-began.
Hugh said quickly, 'If he's quiet a bit, he'll be all right.'
Rutledge considered them. 'If you're sure?'
'Yes, sir.' It was a fervent chorus.
He turned to leave, then stopped. 'What do you know of this business the police have been speaking to your schoolmaster about?'
Children heard their elders talk and were sometimes better at putting two and two together than adults.
But Hugh's reaction was unexpected. Like a cornered animal, he backed against the stone wall of the chapel and seemed to have lost his tongue.
Johnnie was sick again, dry heaves jerking his body.
Rutledge waited until the worst had passed, then handed him a handkerchief.
Hamish said, 'Ye can see he's in no case to answer ye.'
Johnnie, looking as if he wanted nothing more than his bed at home, leaned against the nearest tombstone.
Rutledge persisted, speaking mainly to Hugh but keeping his eye on Johnnie. 'Did you see something the night when someone was killed near Elthorpe? Did you see Mr. Crowell leave the school where he was working that evening, and go to meet someone?'
Hugh took a deep breath. 'We were home in bed, weren't we, Johnnie? There was nothing for us to see.'
It was the truth. Even Hamish could read that in the boy's fervent manner.
And yet it wasn't the whole truth.
'Who did you see leave the village?' Rutledge persisted.
'Nobody!' they exclaimed loudly, in unison.
'You needn't be afraid. If there's something you want to tell me, I'll see that no harm comes to you.'
The boys stood there, hangdog but refusing to budge.
Hamish said, 'Ye havena' found the key.'
Rutledge changed direction. 'Do you like Mr. Crowell? Is he a good master?'
They nodded vigorously. Reassuring him, proving that they had no reason to step forward, no reason to be afraid.
'Is there anyone else at the school, other than the Crowells?' He'd seen no one, but that might be the rub. If not Mr. Crowell…
'There's Old Fred. He cleans,' Hugh said, as if offering up a sacrifice to hungry gods. 'We had two other masters, but they were killed in the war. Mr. Crowell has had to manage on his own since he came back.'
'And Mrs. Crowell. Does she walk at night? Without her husband?'
'I never saw her,' Hugh maintained. And the ring of truth this time was clear, unequivocal. 'What would she be going about at night, alone, for?'
'Johnnie? '
'No, sir. Never. You can ask anybody.'
Rutledge gave it up. 'You're sure I can't see you home? Johnnie? Do you have far to walk?'
'Not far.' He gripped his stomach with both arms wrapped around his body. 'Please, can we go now?'
'Yes, be on your way.'
Rutledge watched them scurry away, like mice frantic to escape the claws of a cat.
Mary Norton was looking after them also as he reached the motorcar and stopped to turn the crank.
'I think you've put the fear of God into those two. Was it really necessary? '
'I think they've put the fear of God into themselves, and I'd like to know why.'
'Then you're still harassing Albert Crowell,' she said, making it a statement and not a question.
'I'm trying to get at the truth,' he answered her as he closed the door on his side of the motorcar and let in the gear. 'I'm not here to badger anyone.'
