inside.'
The house was plainly furnished, many of the pieces early Victorian. But it appeared to be comfortable enough, weather tight and warm with the coal fire on the hearth.
'How long have you lived here?' Rutledge asked with interest as the dog slumped down on the hearthrug and sighed.
'I inherited the property from my father's cousin. He had no children. Neither do I, but there it is, the house is mine. He ran sheep here, but I couldn't manage it. A neighbor offered me a good price for them, and I'm living on what I was paid for them.'
'How well do you know your cousin Peter Littleton?'
'He's on my mother's side of the family. I haven't seen him in many years.'
'And Henry, from Whitby? Did you see him often?'
Williams shook his head. 'It's a long way to travel. We were never close.'
'Yet you offered him houseroom here.'
'Which he never took me up on. Just as well, I don't know how the two of us would manage. The house is large enough, but the money I have isn't. I don't know that I could afford to keep him.'
'He left Addleford, to come here to you.'
'And changed his mind, as far as I know. I expect he was walking or looking for a lift, and found another place he liked better. You drove here, you know how long a journey that would be. I'm not saying he's dead, mind you. He just never came to this part of Wales.'
There was no anxiety over Shoreham's fate, no concern about the long walk across Wales, no interest in what the man might have encountered, poor and alone and with no friend to turn to.
'You never made any attempt to learn what had become of him? If he were ill, dependent on the charity of strangers, dead and buried somewhere as a pauper?'
Williams had the decency to look ashamed. 'It's not that we don't care,' he said hotly, 'it's that life is hard enough without taking on another man's troubles. Henry isn't here. You can search the house, if you like. You won't find him. If I knew where he was, I'd want to help him, but I can't go searching half of England in the hope of finding him. There's not the money for it.'
'And what about the man dead in Elthorpe? I could make a case that you and Peter Littleton between you tired of your cousin and killed him, leaving him to be found by strangers.'
Williams's face paled, his dark eyes wide and alarmed. 'But you can't do that. We've not touched Henry. We've not left him anywhere but where he wants to be-away from Yorkshire.'
'Inspector Madsen has one Albert Crowell in custody, to be charged for Henry Shoreham's murder. There's evidence enough to see him hanged.'
Williams sat down heavily. 'You're lying to me.'
'I'll bring Inspector Madsen to you, to confirm what I've said.'
'But why would this-this Albert Crowell wish to harm my cousin?'
'Because Shoreham scarred his wife for life. You know this, it's the reason Shoreham is unemployed and living on the charity of his family.'
Williams shook his head, shock still washing over him. 'I know about the accident. That's what it was, an accident. Henry swore it. What do you want me to do, help you prove that this is Henry? I haven't seen him in years. Did you show this sketch to Peter? What did he say?'
'He avoided answering me. He cared as little for your cousin as you appear to do.'
'No, that's not fair, it isn't a matter of caring. God knows-' He broke off, swallowing hard.
'If you pass off a dead man as your cousin, and Albert Crowell is hanged for it, what then? Henry Shoreham has done enough harm to the man and his wife, and this will compound it.'
Williams began to cry, his face worn with grief. 'Go away and leave me alone. I won't hear any more of this. It's all a trick, and I won't be taken in by it.'
'Then I shall have you summoned for the trial. You can sit there and watch what happens, and then if your conscience pricks you, you can tell the court what became of your cousin.' It was harshly said, and intended to be.
'I can't afford to come to Yorkshire. I have no money, it will break me.'
'Better to break you than to hang an innocent man.'
Rutledge had drawn his conclusions by this time. He knew what was coming and he braced for it.
'You can't do this to me, I've been punished enough. Leave me alone.'
'Then you're a coward, Shoreham, and I'll have you in that courtroom if it's the last thing I do.'
He turned and walked through the door, the dog, hackles rising, coming to nip at his heels. The man did nothing to call him off. But Rutledge had just turned the motorcar to go back the way he'd come when Shoreham was in the doorway, calling to him.
'Stop-'
Rutledge paid no heed.
'For the love of God, wait!'
Rutledge braked but didn't turn. He could hear Williams splashing through the puddles to the side of the motorcar, his face ravaged.
'All right. I'm Henry Shoreham. Peter wrote me about the dead man, nobody knew who he was, even Inspector Madsen didn't. We thought-we thought if he was nameless, it wouldn't matter to anyone if we let the police think it was Henry. Me.'
'How long have you lived here?' Rutledge asked again.
'For two years. Since my cousin Llewellyn died and left the house to me. I thought-I thought I could take his place, use his name, find work again, and live like a man and not someone else's dependent. Peter had done his best, but they couldn't keep me.' He wiped the rain from his face. 'Then two years ago a man from Whitby and his wife came to live in Addleford with her mother. They'd done their banking where I worked. They knew me. I couldn't stay on. I came here and looked after Llewellyn until he died, and I took his place. Peter pretended I was still there, in Yorkshire, and everyone believed him. They never saw me, I was known to be a recluse. How would they know if I'd gone away or not?'
'Your cousin couldn't go on lying forever. You hadn't expected him to do that.'
'We played a little game. He'd tell the rector I'd seen him pass by the house. Or the butcher that I'd appreciated the bit of beef for Sunday dinner. But Peter's children were getting to an age where someone might ask them how I fared. We were casting about for a way to explain I'd gone to London to search for work when the constable came looking for Henry Shoreham. They told Peter no one knew the dead man, and he was quick to see how it might help me to be dead and buried. We didn't know the Crowells were back in Yorkshire.'
'You were interfering with a murder inquiry. It was a stupid thing to do.'
'I never meant harm to anyone, I swear it. You don't know what it has been like. The Crowells are everywhere I turn, and I can't escape them. He forgave me, did you know that? In public. I fell on my knees and cried afterward, but he never knew that. Others blamed me, though, and word that I wasn't to be tried ran round like wildfire. I couldn't go on. If Peter hadn't asked me to come and stay, I'd have killed myself somehow. I didn't mean to harm Alice Crowell, but she's repaid me in kind. I've suffered as much for my sins as she has for my carelessness. What am I to do to find any peace?'
'Come to Yorkshire with me. The case will be closed and you can come back here and get on with your life. I don't think Inspector Madsen is going to make a great noise about any of this. It can be done quietly.'
Shoreham looked up at him. 'I have no money. If I go to Yorkshire, I'll have no way to get back to Wales. I can't ask Peter, he's strapped as well.'
'I'll see you safely back,' Rutledge said.
'Inspector Madsen will be furious. He'll know we lied to him.'
'It might do him some good,' Rutledge said. 'He needs a lesson as much as you do.'
'I'll pack my things and find someone to see to the dog. If you'll come back later, I'll be ready.'
'And find a dead man here in your place?'
'I won't end it, I swear it.'
'The temptation may be stronger than you think.' He began to turn the motorcar again, and Shoreham walked beside it to the house.
