glanced beyond him to see if her husband was following in his wake. And then it vanished as she realized he was alone.
'Have you seen Albert?' she asked anxiously. 'They won't allow me to speak to him.'
'I haven't seen him. I'm sorry,' he told her gently. 'But he'll be safe enough where he is, until Inspector Madsen gets to the bottom of this business.'
She shook her head. 'But he won't do that, will he? Where's the point?'
Mrs. Crowell opened the door behind her and ushered him into the empty room. She indicated a chair for him, but he stood, as she did. There wasn't a great deal to be said by either of them.
'What's behind Madsen's dislike of your husband?' Rutledge asked, coming directly to the point.
'We were about to be engaged once. My parents didn't care for my choice and I was young, I listened to them instead of my heart. I realized later, when I'd met Albert, that they'd been wiser than I. But at the time I was heartbroken.'
'I understand that Inspector Madsen has since married.'
'Yes, that's true. But his pride was hurt when I had to tell him my father wasn't happy with the match. Father promised he'd speak directly to Harry. But you see, my father was in the army, and there was no opportunity. Harry-Mr. Madsen-wrote to him finally, but there was no reply. My mother, who was alive at the time, always thought that the war had prevented Papa from answering. I knew that wasn't true. He didn't want to encourage either of us. He felt I was making a poor choice. A working-class man.'
'Is your father still living?'
'Yes. He's offered to come and fetch me now, but I won't leave Albert.' She sighed. 'I thought, when you first came here, that my father had sent you. I wrote to him when I saw how Albert was being persecuted. I asked him to intervene.'
'And did he?'
'I don't know,' she answered him frankly. 'He's the colonel of an East Anglian regiment. I thought he might know someone, bring a little pressure to bear in the right quarters. But look how it's all turned out. I expect there was nothing he could do.'
Her voice trailed off forlornly, and she looked at the windows. There was a bright sunshine outside, but it failed to light the room, as if sensing the despair that filled it.
Rutledge was tempted to ask her outright if she knew one Martin Deloran but thought better of it. Instead he approached the subject indirectly. 'Do you know a man called Gaylord Partridge?'
'What an odd name. I should remember that, if we've ever been introduced. Should I know him?' Hope seemed to spring awake again. 'Is there any way he can help me?'
'Later perhaps. And Gerald Parkinson. Did you or your father know him?'
She frowned, digging for the memory. 'I went to school with girls by the name of Parkinson. They were much younger; we didn't have a lot in common. But they used to tell everyone the most absurd stories about their father. He was eccentric, if half of it was to be believed. Always tinkering with things. I can't think that he's the same person you're asking me about.'
'I agree, it doesn't sound like it. Martin Deloran. Do you know him?'
'Deloran? No, that's not a name I recognize either.'
'I'll do what I can for your husband, Mrs. Crowell, but don't count on miracles.'
'But I told you-' she began indignantly.
'Yes, so you did. The fact is, you aren't a reliable witness. If the victim of murder is Henry Shoreham, then you have a reason to conceal your knowledge of him. Or anyone associated with him.'
Her mouth was open to protest vehemently. He held up a hand to stop her.
'I understand. But you must examine this matter in the same way that the police must do. First a book is found by a dead man's feet, one that has your husband's name in it. That can be explained away very well. Then there's some reason to believe that Henry Shoreham disappeared shortly before the corpse was discovered. If the man in the sketch is Henry Shoreham, then you lied to me and to Madsen. If it isn't, then where is Shoreham? Let's look at it another way. Until we can identify the victim with absolute certainty, we must investigate all the possibilities. Someone is dead, and he deserves to have justice. The police are bound to see to it that he will.'
Alice Crowell, no fool, looked at Rutledge with weary resignation.
'I don't know that this poor man will receive justice of any kind. He's too convenient a whipping boy, to make my husband suffer.'
'Could Albert Crowell have killed him? Either because he was certain he was Shoreham or thought he looked like the man?'
Her gaze moved toward the books on the shelves. 'He believes in forgiveness. He forgave Henry Shoreham, and when he has done that, he wouldn't take it back and kill the man.' Her mouth took on a grim expression. 'For some time after this happened,' she touched her face, 'I could have killed Henry Shoreham myself. I was asked to forgive him, and I said the words. But in the depths of my soul, I knew it to be a lie. And I hid it from everyone.'
Her eyes came back to his face, as she added, 'I wouldn't ask my husband to do murder for my sake. If Inspector Madsen wasn't so blinded by his own anger over my turning down his proposal of marriage, he'd realize that he has the wrong Crowell in custody. I'm the one who had the best reason to kill Henry Shoreham.'
13
Addleford was a small dale village that had begun to shrink in the nineteenth century as men found work in the mills or mines. It had continued to shrink into the twentieth. On the outskirts of town were barns without roofs and houses with boarded-up windows. But the heart of the town, with its plain church and churchyard, its one pub and its tiny shops, seemed to be hanging on for dear life.
The houses on either side of the winding street were well kept and the white lace curtains in their windows were cheerful against the gray stone of the walls.
There was no police station here, but Rutledge went to that other source of gossip and information, the local pub. He ate tough beef with a mustard sauce and fresh baked bread, enjoying the peace and quiet of the small dining area next to the bar. The man who served him limped, one leg shorter than the other, giving him a swaying walk that spoke of years of pain. He set down the charger with Rutledge's food and went about his business, taciturn and without curiosity about the stranger who had walked in and asked if luncheon was still being served.
Hamish was telling him that this was a wild-goose chase. Better to leave the troublesome Henry Shoreham to Inspector Madsen.
But Rutledge wanted every loose end tied up before he went south again. And so as he finished his flan, he asked the man who brought it where he might find one Peter Littleton.
'He's the shoemaker, two doors down from the greengrocer. You have business with him then?'
'Indeed.'
The barkeep looked at him. 'He'll be finished his dinner in a quarter of an hour. He always goes home for it.'
'Then I'll walk in the churchyard while I'm waiting.' He paid his reckoning and went out in the chilly air. The churchyard's wall cupped a small purple flower growing in a crevice, and when he stopped to look at it, he recognized heartsease. It seemed forlorn there, as if it had lost its way from someone's garden.
Hamish said, 'It's Fiona's favorite among the flowers.'
Rutledge went through the gate and walked among the stones until he saw the shoemaker striding back to his shop.
Crossing the road after him, Rutledge waited until he'd opened the shop before going inside. The musical ring of a small bell above the door announced his presence, and the shoemaker raised his head from the leather he was trimming. He bore a faint resemblance to the dead man-around the same height, the same unremarkable shape of face, brown hair, and blue eyes. Nothing to set him apart from hundreds of other Englishmen. 'm looking for Henry Shoreham,' Rutledge said. 'I'm told you can help me find him.'
