Crowell was involved in any fashion, now that the book is explained away.'
'Too conveniently explained away if you ask me. I should have been present when you interviewed Hugh Tredworth. Why wasn't I sent for? You don't know this part of the country the way I do. How can I be sure he was telling the truth? Damn it, you don't know these people.'
Rutledge said only, 'I know when I'm being lied to. Your case is wide open, man, it's time to get on with it. If London can place the victim from the sketch, then you'll be the first to know. Meanwhile, you're letting what evidence there is grow cold. I'd speak to the under- gardener on the estate, for one. And talk to the nearest stationmaster. He may remember a stranger arriving by train. Hold the inquest, and ask the coroner to bring in the verdict of murder by person or persons unknown, to give you more time.'
'Don't teach me how to run an inquiry,' Madsen went on, fuming. 'And why are you here in the first place? Because Alice Crowell's father has friends in high places, looking after his daughter. I tell you, the schoolmaster thought he was killing the man who'd scarred his wife, and you'll not convince me otherwise. Oh, yes, I got that story out of Mary Norton.'
'It's a dead end, Madsen. I'll have to return to London tomorrow. I need to look into several other possibilities.'
Or to put it another way, reporting to the Colonel, Madsen told himself in disgust. 'Good luck to you then.'
It was bitter, far from wishing him well.
As Rutledge walked out of the station, Madsen watched him go. The man from London hadn't come to discover who the dead man was, whatever he said, Madsen told himself. He'd been sent by Alice's bloody family to keep her precious husband safe. Once that was done, it was good-bye to Yorkshire, leaving the local man with an unidentified corpse and no murder suspect.
He let the legs of his chair slam back to the floor, relishing the sound. He'd have liked to throw the chair after the departing Londoner, but that would be the end of his own career. And he was having none of that.
There was one thing to be done to spike the Londoner's guns.
Find Henry Shoreham, or failing that, someone who knew him well enough to say if the dead man was Shoreham or not.
And if it was, then Crowell could damned well take his chances in a courtroom, Colonel Ingle be damned.
D
uring the long drive back to London, Hamish was insistent, railing at Rutledge for his handling of Madsen and Crowell alike.
'Ye didna' gie yon inspector the whole truth.'
'It's not mine to give, is it?'
'It would ha' gone a long way toward placating him.'
'The War Office can look at this sketch and tell me if we've found our man. If we have, then I'll be back in Yorkshire before the week is out, to discover what happened to him and why.'
'And if it isna' Partridge?'
'Then very likely I'll be sent back by the Yard. The Chief Constable will be involved by that time. Madsen will complain to him before we've reached Cambridge.'
'Ye should ha' told him as much. That you'd be back.'
'I'm not at liberty to explain why I think there's more to this case than he realizes. If those boys hadn't confessed, Crowell could well be facing the hangman. And if the victim turns out to be Shoreham after all, he's still the chief suspect.'
'Then why the robe, why the mask?'
'To throw us off. As it did. Although if it was Crowell, he should have been clever enough to rid himself of the body altogether.'
'He couldna' leave his wife long enough to take the body verra' far.'
'I'm still not convinced that dying so easily would provide a satisfying retribution. A shotgun in the face perhaps, or throttling with one's bare hands would be a more convincing vengeance.'
'Aye, but there's nae weapon, in a gassing.'
Which was an excellent point.
Rutledge arrived in London too late to return to the Yard, but the next morning, he was there before Chief Superintendent Bowles had arrived.
Sergeant Gibson, passing Rutledge in the corridor, said, 'Walk softly.'
Which meant that the Chief Superintendent was not in a good humor.
Rutledge stopped him and said, 'Can you find me information on one Henry Shoreham, of Whitby, Yorkshire? Taken up for public drunkenness after accidentally knocking a young woman into an iron fence and scarring her badly.'
'I'll speak to a constable I know in Whitby police station, if you like. What's he done?'
'Nothing that I'm aware of. But he could well be a murder victim. In Yorkshire. I'm particularly interested in his appearance-whether he has a cleft in his chin.'
Gibson nodded. 'I'll do my best.'
Gossip had it right. Superintendent Bowles had just had a dressing- down by his superiors, and he was nursing his wounds. No one was safe.
There had been a very careful watch set up for a killer cornered in the East End, and somehow the man had slipped quietly through the net and escaped. Bowles had borne the brunt of official displeasure.
As Rutledge came through the door, Bowles looked at him with narrowed eyes. 'And what are you doing here? I thought I'd sent you north to Yorkshire.'
'You had. I brought back a sketch of the dead man. I think someone in the War Office ought to have a look at it.'
'Very clever of you,' Bowles declared in a growl. 'What makes you think they want to meet with you, pray? Sketch or no sketch?'
'Because I don't think they're very keen on traveling to Yorkshire themselves to see the body. There are no distinguishing marks, and any description would fit half the men walking past our door. If they want Partridge badly enough, they'll agree.'
Bowles grunted, but picked up the telephone and put in a call. It took nearly a quarter of an hour for someone to get back to him.
He sent for Rutledge and told him shortly, 'Martin Deloran. Someone at the War Office will take you to meet him. They're waiting. Bloody army.'
Rutledge retrieved the sketch from his office and left.
When he was finally admitted into Deloran's presence, Rutledge had had enough of secrecy and chains of command. He sat down in the chair pointed out to him and said without preamble, 'It's possible I've found Partridge. It's for you to decide.'
Deloran took the folder that Rutledge passed across the desk and said, 'I'm told by Chief Superintendent Bowles that this body was found in the ruins of Fountains Abbey, wrapped in some sort of cloak, with a respirator on his face. Hardly sounds like the man we've somehow mislaid.'
'The respirator was torn. The cloak I think is theatrical.'
He had a sudden image of his parents leaving for a party, his mother in an Elizabethan costume, the ruff around her face framing it becomingly, the scent of her perfume mixing with the heavier one of cedar shavings. And his father, looking like Charles II in a wig that reached below his shoulders.
Deloran said, 'Well, that's not Partridge, I can tell you. I doubt he ever went to the theatre in his life.'
'A masquerade,' Rutledge said. 'Not theatrical.' It fit-the fineness of the weave and the quality of the robe…
Nothing changed in Deloran's face. But the fingers holding a pen tightened. He said, 'I doubt Partridge would have been caught dead in a masquerade.' Then he realized what he'd just said, and smiled. 'Sorry. But you take the point, I'm sure.'
He picked up the folder, almost as if to satisfy Rutledge rather than from any curiosity on his part. Looking at the sketch, he said thoughtfully, 'It's hard to say, given the inferior quality of the drawing. But I can tell you that this
