in Number Six. He would have made our dear patroness proud. I'm told he's dying of tuberculosis. Sometimes of a summer's evening, one can hear him cough. Not precisely leprosy, but a wasting disease, nonetheless.'
'I appreciate your time, Mr. Singleton,' Rutledge said, rising. 'And I'll be on my way. I have business to attend to in London. But I expect to be back before long. If you see anyone at Mr. Partridge's door, make a note of it.'
'I shall, if the occasion arises.' Singleton saw Rutledge to the door and added, 'I hope you conclude your business with us shortly. We've all secrets here, and none of us enjoys the attention of strangers.'
'I'll bear that in mind,' Rutledge replied, and before he was five paces down the path, the door behind him was quietly closed.
Hamish said, 'We're no' what you'd call sociable in the Highlands, but we're no' sae unfriendly as this lot.'
'As he said, they have secrets. Not necessarily murder, but to them just as important.'
'Aye. Important enough to kill for?'
It was a thought that had already occurred to Rutledge, sitting in Singleton's tidy parlor.
But how would any of these eight householders manage to take a body to Yorkshire?
'Partridge has a motorcar.'
'And it's still here.'
'Aye, so it is. But that doesna' mean it never left.'
Rutledge settled his account with Mrs. Smith and turned the bonnet of his motorcar toward London.
He hadn't been in his flat five minutes when he saw the note propped up on the small table by his bed.
It was in Frances's handwriting and said only, 'If you are home to read this, call Gibson at the Yard.'
She had been to his flat in his absence and found a messenger on his doorstep. What had brought her here? Simon Barrington? A need to talk to someone? Another invitation to a dinner she didn't want to attend alone?
Rutledge put the thought aside and looked at the time. He could just catch Sergeant Gibson, if he hurried.
Turning on his heel, he went back to his motorcar and drove to the Yard.
Gibson was just coming down the walk as Rutledge was looking for a space in which to leave his vehicle.
The sergeant recognized him at once and came to the nearside of the car. He was a big man, and he bent down to see Rutledge's shadowed face.
'There's trouble,' he said.
'Bowles? '
'Not this time. For one thing, I couldn't find Henry Shoreham. No one has seen him since he left Whitby. Vanished from the face of the earth.'
Damn.
'You're quite sure?'
Gibson drew back, offended. 'I'm sure.'
'Sorry. I meant to say, given the case in Yorkshire, that this is the worst possible news.'
'That it is. For one thing, if he's nowhere to be found, he can't speak for himself. And Inspector Madsen has taken it in his head to send his men for the schoolmaster, to help in his inquiries.'
Rutledge swore again. 'I told Madsen the book on alchemy had nothing to do with the dead man.'
'He said as much. But since no one can produce Mr. Shoreham, Inspector Madsen is convinced he's the victim.'
'And what does the Chief Constable say? Or Bowles, for that matter?'
'They're reserving judgment.'
There was no point in going to Deloran. He'd washed his hands of this business. He would say now that since Partridge hadn't died in Yorkshire, there must be some truth to Madsen's suspicions. And leave Crowell to deal with the consequences.
But where was there any connection between a man named Parkinson, from Wiltshire, and Albert Crowell? Partridge-Parkinson- hadn't attacked Mrs. Crowell in Whitby. The man Shoreham had been taken into custody; he was a clerk, known in his community. He'd admitted his responsibility.
But turn the coin the other way-
Rutledge said, 'Do we have a photograph of Shoreham? Was there one taken when the newspapers carried the story about Mrs. Crowell's injuries?'
'I've not been told there were any.'
All right then, look at it from a different perspective, Rutledge told himself.
In the dark, how much did Henry Shoreham resemble Gaylord Partridge or rather Gerald Parkinson? Could a man with a grudge mistake one for the other?
But then where had he taken his victim to kill him? Not to the school. And Parkinson hadn't died along the road. Why, when the evidence might in the end point in his direction, had Crowell left the body in the ruins of a medieval abbey, where it was bound to be found, and only miles from where he lived?
Was he so arrogant that he didn't believe a connection would be made? Or when he realized he'd killed the wrong man, had he felt sure he was safe?
Hamish said, 'There's Mrs. Crowell. He would ha' done his best to keep her out of it, even if she'd killed her tormenter.'
Rutledge didn't relish the long drive back to Yorkshire. But there was no other choice now. Damn Deloran1.
'Is Bowles sending anyone north?' he asked Gibson.
'He sent a constable to see if you'd returned home.'
'Then I'll report to him first thing in the morning.' He said goodbye to Gibson and went back to his flat.
There he found Frances sitting in his parlor drinking his whisky.
She lifted her glass to him. 'I saw your valise by the door. So this time I stayed.'
'I'm leaving tomorrow for Yorkshire.'
She pretended to pout, pursing her lips and looking at him out of the corner of her eyes. 'I might have known. Here my life is in total crisis, and you're nowhere to be found.'
'How's Simon? '
The pretense vanished. 'Would that I knew.'
'Frances.'
She put down the glass. 'No, I didn't come for a lecture. I just needed to hear a friendly voice.'
'Frances,' he said again, but in an entirely different tone.
'I don't want to talk about it. Take me to dinner and make me laugh.'
He rephrased her response. 'Would that I could.'
'I sometimes do wish that Mother had had a large family.' Rutledge laughed. 'All right, dinner it is. Let me change.' But at the door to his bedroom, he stopped. 'Do you know a Gerald Parkin- son?'
'Parkinson? No, I don't think I do.' Her interest sharpened. 'Should I?'
'I doubt it. I ran across the name in Wiltshire, and I didn't want to ask the Yard who he is. At least not yet.'
'Forget him for one night. I'm sure he's not going anywhere at the moment.'
As he went through his door, he said to himself, 'No, he's not going anywhere. He's dead. And I don't know for certain what name will be on his stone.' inner was quiet, Frances in a mood of reminiscence and Rut- ledge distracted by his thoughts and Hamish's crushing presence. Hiding his demons from his sister proved to be trying.
But the next morning he presented himself at the Yard, found a glowering Bowles waiting for him as he walked down the passage toward the Chief Superintendent's door, and with a sinking heart, followed him into his office.
'Well? I'll not be made a fool of, Rutledge. Who's this dead man stirring up trouble in Yorkshire?'
'I've reason to believe he's one Gaylord Partridge, who also answers to the name of Gerald Parkinson. His neighbors and a postmaster confirm that.'
'And Inspector Madsen has reason to believe he's one Henry Shoreham. He can't be both, damn it!'
'I'll go to Yorkshire and get to the bottom of it.'
