A game of fear, p.25
A Game of Fear, page 25
Rutledge recalled something Farmer had told him earlier. “You said you had gone to Mrs. Lowell’s house, after she had come here to look for you.”
“Yes—yes I did. But she hadn’t come home from the Abbey. The hours there aren’t regular, I’m sure, depending on whether or not they have an afternoon tour.”
“And there was nothing at the house that seemed irregular?”
“If there had been, I’d have told you on your last visit. I was there for no more than five minutes, I’m sure. I knocked at the door, there was no answer. The handyman came around the corner of the house and told me she hadn’t returned from the Abbey, I thanked him and left. That was all.”
“What handyman?”
“I didn’t ask his name. He said Mrs. Lowell had hired him to clear out the bicycle shed. Rats had taken up residence in a back corner, and he had dealt with them. He was waiting for her to come home to pay him for the day’s work.”
Rutledge swore to himself. “What did he look like, this handyman?”
“Thirties, I expect. Polite. Brown corduroys and a flannel shirt. I thought perhaps he’d come from the Abbey. He didn’t appear to be itinerant, or living rough. It wouldn’t have taken more than a few hours to rid her of the rats. It was the sort of thing Lady Benton would do for her.”
But Lady Benton had told him that she had had to let Bert and the gardening staff go in the autumn . . .
“Was it usual for Mrs. Lowell to take on someone to help her at the Old Rectory?”
“Bert, the gardener at the Abbey, often did a bit of work for Mrs. Lowell on his days off, and I have recommended someone to Mrs. Lowell when she needed help. A plumber in February, when there was trouble with the drains, and another time she needed someone to chop wood for the house fires. I myself went over back in December to help her put up a small Christmas tree, then returned in the New Year to take it down. In March my wife helped take down the curtains in the kitchen and wash them, then put them back up . . .”
Rutledge wasn’t listening. Farmer didn’t know that Bert and his helpers had been let go.
He thanked the Rector and left.
On his way back to Walmer, he made two stops.
The first was at the Old Rectory, where he spent ten minutes looking for any sign of rats in the shed where Mrs. Lowell had kept her bicycle. But he found no sign of them, and there was no indication someone had been there to destroy a nest.
He went on to the Abbey. Lady Benton was busy but Margaret told him what he wanted to know.
“Bert left in early November, and the two under gardeners left about two weeks before him, because they’d found work at one of the estates in Suffolk. There hasn’t been anyone else.”
“Had Mrs. Lowell told you about the rat problem in her shed?”
“Rats?” She made a face. “Were you there at the house? Is that how you found them? She would have hated that. Nasty things, rats. We keep a sharp eye out for them here.”
He thanked her and left.
If the man the Rector had seen at the Old Rectory was Franklin, if the suitcase left at The Monk’s Choice was his, where was he now? And had he been the man the elderly woman had seen sleeping by the table tomb in the Rector’s churchyard?
That would mean he’d reached England, had had to sleep rough the first night, then was given a room at The Monk’s Choice.
But when Rutledge stopped there to demand an answer, Newbold swore that there had been no strangers there. And he denied all knowledge of the suitcase under the bed.
Oddly enough he appeared to be telling the truth.
Frustrated, Rutledge set out for Chelmsford. He’d have preferred London, to speak to Haldane face-to-face, but if he was being watched, he dared not stay away another night.
Someone was using the hotel’s telephone when he got there, and Rutledge paced for a good ten minutes before it was free.
He put through the call to Haldane’s house, was asked to wait—another five minutes—and by the time Haldane’s voice came over the receiver, he was in no mood to be kept in the dark.
He said, “There’s something missing in the information I’ve been given about Franklin. I need to know if there is any link he or his family might have had to East Anglia—or Essex in particular? Why, if he was here during the war, did he come back here? Why not Northumberland or Cornwall?”
“We can’t seem to find any more information about him. It’s possible that Franklin isn’t his real name. Still, there is no evidence to support that either. He seems to have come out of nowhere.”
“He was a schoolmaster in Dorset. There would have to be some credentials. Some proof that he was trained for that profession.”
“When we looked into them, they proved to have been forged. The headmaster told the police that Franklin gave every impression of having been well educated. But where is still a mystery. We can’t trace him beyond that first set of murders, the ones before Dorset. Which leads me to think he’s had to change his name several times. The barrister who took on his case in Dorset told us Franklin claimed he had no family living.”
“And you’ve been to Somerset House?”
“We have. The only Franklin who might have been our man died as a child.”
“Then he found the name in a churchyard.”
There was brief silence on the other end of the line. Then Haldane said, “A very good guess, Rutledge. The child died in a small village near Lancaster in 1876. But there was no trace of Miles Franklin there. One of the other schoolmasters in Dorset did mention to the police that he thought Franklin had a brother, but they were estranged. The question arose because Franklin never got any mail addressed through the school. The schoolmaster asked if he had any family, and that was why the mention of a brother came up. Another lie? Or the truth? So far we’ve been unable to trace so much as a cousin. But then the man is an accomplished liar.”
There was a reply swirling in the back of his mind now, but he wasn’t ready to put it to the test. He thanked Haldane and hung up.
Then stood there thinking. . . .
He’d asked over and over again if there had been any strangers in the village, and the answer had consistently been no.
Because there were no strangers. But there was someone’s relative, accounted for and accepted, for the simple reason someone could vouch for him. It was the only explanation for the man’s ability to come and go without attracting attention.
Hamish said, his voice loud against the bustle in the lobby just around the corner from the telephone closet, “Newbold.”
That made sense. It explained why, having to leave France so abruptly, Franklin had come back to Walmer. It was where the valise had been shoved to the far corner underneath the bed in the other room upstairs in The Monk’s Choice. And Newbold could lie with a straight face about strangers staying there.
He must have enjoyed deceiving the police . . .
And Newbold could easily have been the “victim” in that charade in Lady Benton’s garden.
The question that still needed to be answered was, given that Franklin had found temporary sanctuary in Essex, why had he brought attention to himself by playing at being a ghost, and then killing Patricia Lowell? Franklin had always appeared to kill for his own benefit. What was the benefit in Walmer?
16
Rutledge went directly to the Abbey as soon as he reached the turn for Walmer.
The gates were open, and two motorcars were waiting in front of the great doors.
There were guests today.
He walked in, went through the state rooms toward the sitting room, and encountered a party of five being taken round by Lady Benton herself.
He nodded to the surprised guests, and went on through to the sitting room.
Almost an hour later, Lady Benton came to find him.
“I heard that the body of Gerald Dunn has been found. How awful! I’m afraid my first thought was gratitude that he wasn’t on my property. I don’t think I could have borne it.”
She sat down in her usual chair, and almost in the same moment, the door opened again and Mrs. Hailey brought in a tray of tea and biscuits. She nodded to Rutledge and said to Lady Benton, “They’ve gone. And very happy with their tour.”
“Thank you, Margaret. That’s marvelous.”
When Mrs. Hailey had left, Lady Benton busied herself with the tea things, and when she had given Rutledge his cup, she sat down and sipped hers gratefully.
“I don’t find the same joy in the tours as I once did. I’m almost afraid I’ll find a body in one of the rooms, much to the horror of my guests.”
He said, “I’ve come to ask you about four names. I’d like to know if you recognize any of them.”
“Names? Of the airmen, you mean?”
“Yes.” He took the list from his pocket and read them one at a time, waiting for her to respond. “Jonathan Howe. He was a mechanic.”
“Howe . . . Oh, yes, he was too large to fly, perhaps taller than you, and several times he came in to help us shift a heavy piece of furniture.”
“Joseph Betterman. A clerk.”
“Yes, he was a bookkeeper before the war. Tall, thin. He helped Margaret set up a much better accounting system. We still use it.”
“Allen Cooper. Another mechanic?”
“I didn’t know him well, but Roger—Captain Nelson told us he was thorough and dependable. As was Gerry Dunn, for that matter. He often assigned them to his aircraft, because they were so good at hearing the slightest change in the pitch of the engine.”
“Albert Reed. Another mechanic.”
“I don’t—or was he one of Patricia’s pets?” She bit her lip, then said, “We should never have called them that. She had a soft heart, always trying to make other people happy. If someone was generally by himself, when he came up from the airfield, she would try hard to find something to interest him. Croquet. Tennis. That sort of thing. But some of the men just seemed to prefer their own company, and they’d find a quiet corner to write letters to their families.”
“Mrs. Hailey told me he liked to sit and carve.”
“Was that Reed? Actually, I don’t know that I ever saw him carve anything. He would watch the other men, a stick of wood in his hand, the knife too. As if they were just there as—as props, so that he could appear to be busy and people would leave him alone.”
“Was he a good mechanic?”
She frowned. “Yes, I expect he must have been. Someone mentioned that before the war, he had worked designing motorcars. At least I think it was Reed? Perhaps it was one of the other men. Still, all of the mechanics would have to be experienced, wouldn’t they, to keep all those aircraft ready to fly?”
“Did you ever hear of any disciplinary problems with any of these names?”
“I never thought to ask about that sort of thing. I tried to keep a distance from airfield matters. The men came here to relax. Sometimes to mourn a pilot who had been killed. It wasn’t my place to judge them. I left that to Major Dinsmore.”
“Would you recognize Reed if you saw him again?”
“Good heavens. Well, if he came into the sitting room in uniform, I just might. Those I often talked with, I’d probably have no trouble recognizing. But there were so many who came and went, and I didn’t get to know many of them very well. Patricia of course–”
She broke off. “No. You don’t think—you aren’t saying that—that she recognized him, and he—he killed her? But in God’s name why?”
He weighed how much to tell her. How much was safe, how much was very likely dangerous.
“That’s speculation at the moment. Do you know if he had any family members living close by? Like Gerald Dunn, for example, whose mother lives in Walmer.”
“Relatives? I have no idea. Many of the men talked about their parents or their wives and sweethearts. Especially in the beginning, when they were so homesick. Major Dinsmore frowned on having family members visit, it was a distraction. After all, family members weren’t allowed to visit airfields in France. Why?”
He was about to ask if she had ever seen Reed with Newbold, then changed his mind. “Did many of the squadron go to The Monk’s Choice in the evening? I’ve been told it was popular during the war.”
“It probably was, since it was so close to the airfield. Men could walk there. The Captain did say once that he had tried to put it off-limits, because the men who went there usually drank too much. But Major Dinsmore overruled that. The men went into Walmer when they could get leave. Especially the pilots.”
“Do you know why he overruled the Captain?”
“I was only told that he had.”
“Was Reed one of the heavy drinkers?”
“Again, I wouldn’t know. Where are you going with these questions?”
“I’m trying to narrow my list of names.”
But she wasn’t to be put off. “I think you already have.” She carefully set her cup on the table by her chair, then said, “Was he—was this man Reed the one Captain Nelson appeared to kill that night in my garden?”
“We haven’t got that far in our inquiry.”
She rounded on him. “Stop it. You’re leading me down the primrose path! ‘Speculation.’ ‘Haven’t got that far.’ That’s not like you, Inspector. What are you keeping from me?”
He took a deep breath. “The less you know, the less the risk to you.”
“That’s rather chivalrous. And just as impractical. What do you know? You must tell me the truth.”
“Very likely there was an imposter among the men at the airfield. He had stolen the identity of a dead man, and used the war to avoid being found and charged. He’s a murderer. I don’t why he’s back in Essex. There’s a strong possibility that he came back here either because of the airfield or because of this house. Or even for the grounds. It’s even possible that he put on that little drama in your garden to frighten you away for a few days. Did the Captain—Major Dinsmore—anyone from the squadron ask you to keep something for them? And never collected it again?”
“No. Absolutely not. That isn’t to say that something wasn’t left here. If it was, none of us knew about it.”
She swallowed hard, taking it in. But she said only, “Thank you. I feel safer, knowing what it is that I’m facing.”
“You must come back with me to the hotel. Where it will be more difficult to find you.”
“And leave this house unprotected? My husband’s inheritance, and my son’s? Thank you for your concern, but the answer is no.”
“You’re carrying your sense of duty too far. If this man killed Mrs. Lowell, he will have no compunction about killing you. For all we know, his was the hand that pushed you down the crypt stairs.”
“He can find me at the hotel. There are other people about, I won’t see him coming for me. Here, I know who ought to be here and who shouldn’t be. I’m safer.”
“You can’t watch every window, all the doors. You can’t guard every room.”
“Then I’ll borrow a dog. Mrs. Bradley owns one, a great hulk of a beast. Not too bright, but he has a ferocious bark. And you should see his teeth. He’ll hear what I can’t.”
“Is she still here?”
“I expect she is—there were dishes to be dealt with, and some rather nice lemon poppy seed cakes. You just had one.” They had finished their tea. She rose, and as he stood to follow her, she shook her head. “No, I don’t want to frighten the staff. Or worry them. I’ll go and ask for Bruce. She will be happy to lend him for a night or two, if I tell her that we have a rodent problem.”
She left him there, and as soon as the door was closed, Hamish said, “Ye canna protect her forever. He’ll only wait for his chance.”
“I’ll leave the motorcar in the carriage house. Out of sight. He’s taken the valise. It’s very likely that he knows he has to move on. Either he’ll cut his losses and go, or if he’s desperate enough, he’ll strike soon.”
“You’ve no’ got a weapon.”
“There’s a gun room. I’ll borrow one, then lock the door.”
“Ye’re a fool.”
And he fell silent.
The door opened and Lady Benton came in. “She’s delighted to lend Bruce to me. She’s gone to fetch him now.”
“I’ll put my motorcar out of sight. You’ll be safe enough with the others still here.”
The main gates were still open. He got into his motorcar, drove around to the stables, and opened the wide doors of the carriage house. The Rolls fit neatly into a space behind a handsome landau with the family arms on the side paneling.
He took his time going back to the house, first searching the stables, then making a circuit of the grounds, testing the seldom-used doors. Making certain all was well, even though it was too early yet for anything to happen. The staff was still clearing away.
Hamish said, “There isna’ a reason why he’ll come tonight.”
“He can’t put it off much longer. But whatever it is he wants, he’s already taken a risk coming back here for it. That tells me he’s convinced it’s worth it. Someone—most likely Captain Nelson—could have led him to believe there was damning evidence in his possession. For that matter, we don’t know how the Captain or anyone else got on to Franklin in the first place. Franklin has been very clever from the start. He’s left no trail to follow. Unless the Captain had some reason to think Reed wasn’t the man he was pretending to be, I can’t imagine how he uncovered any evidence at all.”
“It might no’ be evidence. He kept yon ring. It could be anither thing that belonged to the real Albert Reed.”
Rutledge shook his head. Then realized he’d been talking aloud to Hamish for a good five minutes. Breaking off, he went back toward the stables.
Using his key, Rutledge let himself in to the house and locked the door behind him. As he opened the sitting room door, something large and dark came at him fast.
“Bruce!” Lady Benton commanded him. “Down.”
But the shaggy gray animal was trying to lick Rutledge’s face. He caught the big paws resting easily on his shoulders, and set him down.
“I told you, he’s not too bright. He took you for a villain as soon as he heard you at the outer door. Long before I knew you were there, I heard him growl. But I don’t think he’s going to be much protection.” She handed him a handkerchief to wipe his face.
