A Game of Fear: A Novel (Inspector Ian Rutledge #24)(11)

Yet there was no sign of any altercation here on the neatly trimmed grass. Still, he quartered the garden, examined the beds on either side for footprints in the soft earth, and even looked into the wide basin of the fountain. Above his head, the cupid stood balanced on one foot, a bow in one hand and a quiver of arrows slung across his shoulders. He was looking down at Rutledge from a tall pillar of carved roses, forming a platform for the toes of his right foot, a stone smile on his chubby face.

Where the hedge enclosed the far end of the garden, there was a pair of wrought iron chairs, where one might sit and admire the range of color in the borders against the backdrop of the house and the tall chimneys rising from the rooftops.

Hamish, who had been silent since Rutledge had arrived, spoke suddenly, startling him. The voice was derisive.

“Did ye expect to find anything?”

Without thinking, Rutledge retorted, “What should I have found? What do you see?”

And cursed himself for answering Hamish aloud.

“An empty garden. Ye must ask yoursel’, why yon Captain? Why did he kill the ither man, and no’ the reverse?”

Rutledge stopped. “The Captain is already dead . . .”

“Aye. Ye canna’ kill a dead man.”

But you could. When he only lived in your own mind, you could put a revolver to your own head, and pull the trigger.

The thought ran through his mind before he could prevent it.

And heard Hamish’s deep chuckle.

Forcing himself to concentrate instead on the task at hand, after a moment he looked up again at the windows of Lady Benton’s bedroom, then purposely walked forward, almost to the foot of the terrace steps, keeping his gaze fixed on them, as he’d been told the killer had done.

But he couldn’t have said whether she was there watching him or if the room was empty. The glass reflected only the cloudless bowl of the sky above his head. It must have done much the same in the night.

Then he turned to his right, where according to Lady Benton a path ran through another opening in the hedge and down to the airfield.

But he’d already explored that facade of the house, where lawns spread out under the windows and ornamental trees offered shade. Where was this path? He hadn’t seen it.

Rutledge went back through the gate in the arch, and walked toward the distant airfield beyond the manicured grounds.

There was hedging beyond the lawns, forming a tall, dense boundary that enclosed them, and it ran right around from where he was standing to the stable block and tennis courts to his far left. He could just see the weather vane on the stable rooftop rising above the deep green of the hedge where it ended at the lane. The hedge itself was old, threaded with wild clematis and other vines, trees that had taken root and flourished, not well trimmed like that around the private garden. And it appeared to be unbroken . . .

Turning slightly to his right, Rutledge caught sight of a rough opening. Not a formal arch, more a break where many people must have come and gone over the war years. This then must have been how the men from the airfield came up to the house.

He crossed the lawns toward it.

The abbey had been set on a long, lofty ridge, rather like that in Walmer, where the harbor was on flatter land and closer to the water. Here, there was no water—just a vast meadow running toward distant wind-twisted trees. At one time it must have been marshy ground, possibly reclaimed over the centuries for a sheep run. Solid enough now, from the looks of it. And if he was any judge, Rutledge thought, the meadow was north and a little east of Walmer, which would put it closer to the sea.

The monks had chosen well. Raiders might come up the estuary to look for plunder and stumble across a village where Walmer stands now. There was not even a river here to lead them to the Abbey.

He turned his attention to the path, now overgrown and showing no signs of recent use. As far as he could tell, not even a Constable had tried to make his way down to the airfield.

This was a good vantage point to examine it, although there was hardly anything left to see. Rutledge stopped and scanned it.

There were only broken foundations now where a building had once stood, just as Lady Benton had told him.

The offices, quarters, and mess, along with other miscellaneous structures had been taken down, save for one or two smaller huts scattered out by what must have been the runway, farther to his left. Paths still snaked among the ruins, worn to bare earth by the feet of men posted here for the duration of the war.

The runway had been flattened and smoothed, the wiry meadow grasses and brambles kept short. He thought he could see where the aircraft had been parked, dark patches of oil and fuel spills still marking the line, backed up by the maintenance shops as well as the short observation tower where officers could stand to watch aircraft taking off or landing. Other foundations he could only guess at, but the long shapes of the barracks were clear enough, and the square that had been the mess.

Hamish said, just at his shoulder, “Here are the ghosts. The buildings that are gone.”

And in a way it was true. Men had lived and died as they served here.

This was not the time to explore, but he walked a little way down the path in the hope of seeing where the damaged hedge might be, indicating where Captain Nelson had wrecked his motorcar. But from this angle it was not visible. Nor was there any indication of a lane in and out of the field. He rather thought the entrance was the lane that passed by the stables. But that could wait.