to have none of that. No sense of the past in the square buildings with their slate roofs, gray in the cloudy light. No sense of history, no armies marching through the churchyard, no Roman ruin under the baker's shop, no medieval tithe barn on the fringe of the village. The abbey must have wielded some influence here-if not Fountains, then one of the others. Ripon, perhaps. What had the monks run here? Sheep, or even cattle? Or was this tilled land? Beyond the village, where he could see green and heavily grassed pastures, there must have been good grazing from the earliest days. Surely the inhabitants of Dilby had been tenants of the abbeys, not monks. Laymen or even lay brothers, earning their keep and owning nothing until the Dissolution of the Monasteries by Henry VIII had left them masterless and destitute, scraping out a living where they could or falling under the sway of whatever lordling had coveted these acres.
He had come to the end of the village now, and turned to walk back.
Hamish said, 'It's no' a place of comfort.'
Rutledge was about to answer him when he saw a face in an upper- story window staring down at him.
A young boy's face, so terrified that he seemed to be on the verge of crying. Glimpsed for only a moment, then gone, as if Rutledge had imagined it.
It wasn't Hugh or his friend Johnnie. He was certain of that.
What did these children know? What were they so frightened of?
Rutledge walked on, an unhurried pace that took him back to his motorcar, nodding to men he passed on the street, touching his hat to the women. No one stopped him to ask his business.
They already knew. The blankness in their eyes as they acknowledged his greeting covered something else, an unwillingness to be a part of what was happening.
How long could the schoolmaster go on living here, if the cloud of suspicion wasn't lifted, and soon? He would be sent packing, no longer the proper person to form young minds. Miss Norton was right about that.
Rutledge drove back to Elthorpe in a bleak mood, as if the village had left its mark on him.
On the outskirts lines from the poetry of O. A. Manning seemed to express what he felt about Dilby. It had been written about a shell- gutted village in France, empty of people, empty of beauty, empty of hope.
There is something cold and lost
Here, as if the people died long ago,
No one left to mourn them or tell me why.
My footsteps echo on what was the street,
A rose blooms in a corner where no one sees
The beauty that it offers to the dead.
I thought to pluck it and take it away,
But it belongs here, a memorial to them.
No birds sing in the ruined trees,
No fowl scratch in unweeded kitchen gardens,
No child's laughter answers a mother's voice.
There's only the wind searching for something to touch
And passing through unhindered.
A fleeting memory came to him-Alice Crowell's welcome, as if she had been expecting him. And yet as far as he knew there was no reason why she should.
8
The next morning found Rutledge back at the Dilby school, encountering a surprised Albert Crowell in the passage just as he came out of a classroom. Rutledge had brought the sketch of the dead man back with him.
'Inspector. What can I do for you?' Crowell asked.
'I'd like a word with your wife, if she's here.'
There was a wary expression in his eyes now.
'In regard to what?' Crowell asked bluntly.
'I'm afraid that's police business at the moment.'
Crowell gave some thought to the request and then said, 'She's in the small room we call the library. Four doors down and to your left.'
'Thanks.' Rutledge walked on, feeling the man's gaze following him as he counted doors and stopped to knock lightly on the fourth.
A woman's voice called, 'Come in.'
But whoever it was Alice Crowell was expecting, it wasn't Rutledge this time. Surprise crossed her face, and she bit her lip before saying, 'You haven't come to arrest my husband, have you? Please tell me you haven't.'
'Not at all. I didn't intend to alarm you,' he said easily, coming into the room and shutting the door.
As if Hamish knew now what he was about to do, the voice in his head seemed to swell into angry remonstrance.
'No' here, it isna' wise, what if yon schoolmaster is guilty? '
He ignored it as best he could.
There were handmade bookshelves around the walls, most of them half full. The titles ranged from simple children's works to more serious books on history and geography and biography. He recognized a tattered copy of Wordsworth, and another of Browning, among the poetry selections. A meager library, but for this small place, it must seem handsome.
Mrs. Crowell gestured to a chair across from the one where she was sitting. It was an intimate arrangement in the center of the room, two chairs and a scattering of benches for the children. A woven carpet covered the floor, and there was a fireplace in one wall.
'It's here we read to the children at the end of the day,' she said. 'They may never have access to such books after they've left us. Sadly, most of them are destined to work on the farms for their fathers or their uncles. But on the other hand they've known that since they were old enough to understand anything, and they take it as a natural course of events.'
'It must seem to you a waste, at times. With a particularly bright student.'
'Education is never wasted. But yes, we've taught a few who might have gone on to university. We encourage them, of course we do. But who will work the farm while they're away? And what will happen to that farm if the son of the house comes to prefer London or Ipswich or Canterbury to Dilby? Do you have children, Inspector? Do you expect them to be policemen?'
He could see that she was avoiding asking him what had brought him to her.
'Sadly, I'm not married,' he told her, 'but if I had a son, I'd hope he chose the career most suited to him.' He found himself remembering a small boy in Scotland, named for him but not his son. 'Did the war reach as far as Dilby?' he went on quickly, before the memory took hold.
'Oh, yes,' she replied with sadness in her voice. 'We paid a high price here, considering our numbers. Most of our men wanted to serve together, and so they were killed together as well. A good many of our children were orphaned. It's been very hard for them. And Albert lost his brother, Julian. But Mary has told you about him, hasn't she? I'm sure she has.'
'Your husband was in the war, I understand.'
The wariness crept back into her eyes. 'Yes.'
'We didn't disparage the men who drove ambulances,' he said. 'They were very brave to go where they were needed most. And they were caring. In the worst of the fighting, they were often the last touch of England that many dying men knew.'
A smile brightened her face. 'Thank you,' she said softly. As if she too had wondered about her husband's bravery under fire and had had no one to ask.
He went on, 'I've come to make a request. I'd like to speak to several of your students, alone if possible.'
'Why? And which of them do you have in mind? I didn't think you knew any of them.'
'The one called Hugh. And his friend. Johnnie. The one who went home because he'd been sick.'
