A Pale Horse by Charles Todd

Author:Charles Todd
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Rutledge, Yorkshire Dales (England), Police Procedural, Detective and mystery stories, Mystery & Detective, Police - England - London, 1914-1918 - Veterans, Ian (Fictitious character), Fiction, General, Suspense, Great Britain - History - George V, Historical, 1910-1936, World War
ISBN: 9780061672705
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2008-12-15T06:20:00.184910+00:00

Rutledge drove straight through to Elthorpe, fighting drowsiness and an ache across his shoulders as he took the most direct route back—Shrewsbury to Manchester, Leeds, and then Harrogate. Rutted roads, slow-moving drays, overladen lorries, and the occasional wandering livestock made the journey feel longer than it was. Outside Shrewsbury he waited impatiently for cows to make their way along the road for morning milking, and in Cheshire, the Royal Mail had come to grief in a ditch, where heavy rains had made a bend tricky. A farm cart and a half-dozen burly men were doing their best to pull it out again.

Hamish said, “They willna’ manage without help.”

Rutledge caught himself just before he answered aloud, then called to the driver to offer his services. He gratefully accepted, and in short order the Royal Mail was on the road again.

They stopped for food and petrol and sometimes to stretch their legs.

Shoreham was quiet, resigned now, though Rutledge kept an eye on him throughout to gauge his mood.

One act of drunken unruliness, unintended yet preventable, had altered the direction of Henry Shoreham’s life. And Crowell’s forgiveness, well meant, had only driven the guilt deeper, without hope of expiation. It had become, in a way, retribution.

It was possible he’d change his mind at some stage of the journey to Yorkshire, preferring to take his chances alone and nearly penniless rather than revisit his nightmare.

And in truth, if he did change his mind, there was no legal way to stop him. The need to identify a stranger had brought him back to his own personal hell, and indeed, the closer they got to Elthorpe, the more noticeably anxious Shoreham got.

Still, he said nothing, and the silence was a strain on both men. Hamish filled it instead, his voice alternately hostile and questioning.

At one point Rutledge asked, just to silence it, “Shoreham. Do you know a Gerald Parkinson? Or Gaylord Partridge?”

“No. Should I? Is this another test?”

“Not at all.”

And the silence reigned once more.

When the motorcar pulled at last into Elthorpe in the late afternoon, a cold rain was falling and the streets were empty. In the teashop they passed, the tables were filled and steam clouded the windows. The pub was dark, but there was a motorcar in front of the hotel, two men descending and walking briskly through the door.

Shoreham said, “Peter Littleton lied as well. But for my sake. Don’t punish him for my sins.”

Rutledge didn’t answer.

Inspector Madsen had gone home for his tea. Elthorpe was tranquil once more and no murderers wandered in the ruins of an abbey, or anywhere else. He could afford to take his time.

Rutledge sent the constable on duty for the inspector, and it was with studied reluctance that the man did as he was asked.

In short order, Inspector Madsen came striding in, confident and in good spirits. His gaze swept over the stranger and moved on to Rutledge.

“Well, then, what brings you north again? Track down Littleton, did you? Fool’s errand, I could have told you as much, but there you are.

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