looks nothing like our man.'
He closed the folder and passed it back to Rutledge. 'It appears we were wrong about Yorkshire. I expect Partridge will show up in his own good time, whether we look for him or not.'
'This man was very likely murdered,' Rutledge told him bluntly. 'He didn't die there in the ruins. He was carried there, after he was dead.'
'Yes, very sad.' Deloran prepared to stand, ready to dismiss Rut- ledge. 'Thank you so much for your help in this matter. We are more grateful than you know.'
He was standing now, and he gestured to the sketch. 'I hope there's a successful conclusion to this case. Are you returning to Yorkshire?'
'At the moment, no.' Rutledge stood also.
'Just as well. Let them sort out this inquiry. I'm sure they'll manage very well. Local people know best, oftentimes, deep roots in their patch, and all that. Sorry to have muddied the waters.'
'Are you quite certain this couldn't be your man Partridge?'
'Absolutely.' Deloran offered his hand, and Rutledge took it. 'Innis will see you out.'
As they walked out of the room, Hamish said, referring to Deloran, 'I wouldna' care to play cards wi' him.'
Innis was waiting to escort him out of the building. Rutledge, considering the gray-haired man, would have placed him as a retired sergeant-major, ramrod back, calm face, an air of unquestioned authority that had nothing to do with a uniform.
On the street once more, Rutledge answered Hamish. 'I'll give you any odds you like that our dead man is Partridge. The question is, why wouldn't Deloran admit to it?'
'He's deid,' Hamish said. 'And that pleases someone.'
'Yes,' Rutledge answered slowly.
His dismissal rankled. The bland lies, the willingness to abandon a man who was inconvenient, even though someone had murdered him, the arrogance of the assumption that Rutledge would walk away as well, case closed, not even warning him off so much as believing that a policeman could be so easily gulled, left a bad taste.
And in the meantime, Inspector Madsen, with a corpse on his hands and his main suspect cleared, was to be left in the dark.
Back at the Yard, Gibson was waiting for him outside his office.
'I've been on the horn to Whitby. They remember your man Shoreham. He was never tried for the injury to Mrs. Crowell. The family refused to take the matter further. Shoreham left town shortly after that, and Whitby has quite lost track of him.'
'Shame, I should imagine.'
'Very likely,' Gibson responded. 'After losing his position, he found there was no use staying on where he wasn't wanted. Another town, another life.'
'Quite,' Rutledge answered.
'No one remembers his chin.'
'I'm not surprised.'
'And so far as Whitby knows, he never came to the attention of the police again. No inquiries in regard to a troubled past.'
'A lesson learned. Yes. Thank you, Sergeant. Well done.'
He was about to walk on, when Gibson added, 'No inquiries, that is, until this morning. From an inspector in Elthorpe, or so I was told.'
Rutledge stopped in his tracks. 'Indeed.'
'Seems they have a dead man they can't identify. And they're coming round to thinking it could be Shoreham.'
Rutledge swore.
'Keep searching for Shoreham, then. I need to be sure he's alive. More important, I need to know where he's currently living.'
'That's a tall order,' Gibson said doubtfully.
'Yes, well. If we don't find him, someone is going to hang for his murder.'
Rutledge walked on down the passage to Chief Superintendent Bowles's office. As he went, he made up his mind about what he was going to say.
Bowles looked up as he entered the cluttered room.
'Well?'
'The case is closed. At least as far as Mr. Deloran is concerned. I'm not so sure.'
'You don't want to run afoul of that lot.'
'No. On the other hand, I have a feeling that they'd rather sweep a murder under their carpet than tell us the truth. There's a man dead in Yorkshire, and they would just as soon ignore him. I'd like to clear up a few loose ends before I accept their verdict. Frankly, I wouldn't put it past them to have got rid of this man Partridge themselves.'
'We can't go meddling into matters that are none of our business.' There was alarm on Bowles's face now. He'd already run afoul of his superiors this week.
'The dead man could be anyone. From anywhere in England. But if Inspector Madsen has his way, he'll call him Henry Shoreham and take one Albert Crowell, the schoolmaster, into custody on a charge of murder. We can't seem to lay hands on Shoreham. Before we can say with any certainty that he's the victim, we must make certain to eliminate the choice that sent me to Yorkshire in the first place. I'd like to ask someone who knows-knew- Partridge well to tell me the man in the sketch I had made is not Partridge. It will clear the field to pursue the issue of Shoreham's whereabouts. If it is Partridge, we can save a good many man hours searching for Shoreham.'
Bowles considered his options. In the end, it would be his duty to report to his own superiors how and why Rutledge came to be meddling in affairs that were none of his business. On the other hand, the Chief Constable of Yorkshire was not to be trifled with. He was vocal and did not suffer fools lightly. If there was any chance that one of Bowles's men was intent on pursuing a wrong course that could lead to a public embarrassment-
He wiped a hand across his face.
'Damned if we do, and equally damned if we don't,' he said. 'All right. Look into the business. But hear me, Rutledge! I won't have toes stepped on for naught. You'll go about this quietly, whatever you do. Tying up loose ends is all very well, but we needn't bruit it about. Ask your question without prejudice and come back to London with your answer. Understood?'
'Understood, sir. I'll leave in the morning.'
He went back to his flat that evening, packed his valise with fresh clothing, ready to set out for Berkshire.
He got a late start through no fault of his own.
His sister was at his door just after breakfast, and he could tell from her face that all was not well.
She toyed with a slice of toast in the rack, buttering it and then putting it down untouched.
The purpose of her visit was-ostensibly-to ask his opinion of a new hat she'd bought the day before.
It was quite fetching, as her hats generally were. On the other hand, Rutledge thought, on her, most anything would look fetching.
'You aren't here at this ungodly hour because you have doubts about your milliner,' he said lightly. 'What's happened?'
'It's Simon,' she said, keeping her voice steady with an effort. 'He's been avoiding me. I know that for a fact, I have it on good authority, so don't tell me I'm imagining things. I don't know why he's doing this. I thought-well, I thought we were good friends.'
'Why should he avoid you?' He threw up a hand, adding, 'No, I'm not saying you're imagining anything. I want to know what reason you think he might have. Something you commented on, for instance, that you regretted as soon as it was out of your mouth. A remark you shouldn't have made about one of his friends. Something you said that might have led him to believe your feelings for him were stronger than his for you.'
'Ian. I'm not likely to make stupid remarks, and I'm not likely to criticize him or wear my heart on my sleeve. You aren't helping.'
He laughed. 'I'm a policeman, not a seer.'
