A Game of Fear: A Novel (Inspector Ian Rutledge #24)(12)

Over his head the sky was a bowl of blue with only a few clouds, and he remembered meeting an officer of an Essex regiment who talked about the breadth of the sky in this part of the county. And it did seem larger than the same sky in London or even in Kent.

Reluctantly turning away, he walked back to the house, looking for the crypt. He quickly learned that there was no outside access to it. Which made sense. For the great hall had been part of the original church choir and Lady Chapel, and the crypt would have been beneath it.

In a corner of the great hall, he found the arch and a flight of twisting, dimly lit, shallow stone steps worn by centuries of feet, and as he made the final turn, he could hear voices and the clink of cutlery and china. The smell of food wafted up to him.

The ceiling was low and the space partially taken up by heavy stone pillars supporting the church above, with a long counter to one side marking off the service area. Round tables filled the bays between the pillars, and there were some ten or twelve visitors sitting at them. The counter was piled high with trays of little cakes and thick sandwiches, there were dishes and cups, silverware at the end where a woman sat to take money, and a large kettle of what must be hot water for the tea in the caddy beside it.

The woman behind the counter smiled at him, asking what he’d have, and he ordered a cup of tea and one of the lemon cakes. She was younger than Lady Benton, with a sweet face. She set his selections on a tray, and after he’d paid for them, he carried the tray to a table in a corner.

Voices echoed here, and he caught snatches of conversations as visitors talked among themselves.

“I liked the blue room, best—”

“How long do you think it takes to dust everything—?”

“Mind you, the bedrooms are quite nice, but aren’t the beds rather small—?”

“If there are horses in the stables, can I ride—”

He’d just finished his food when the woman who had opened the door to him that morning came down the stairs, looked around, and spotted him. Threading her way through the tables, she said quietly as she reached him, “May I join you?”

He noticed that she had avoided his title.

“Please do.”

“I’m the housekeeper. I’ve been here at the Abbey since 1908.” She sat down. “I have asked Lady Benton if she would like to have me stay in the house for a while. Until this—situation—has been resolved. She won’t hear of it. I would like to ask you to advise her to bring someone in. Only temporarily, of course. She might listen to you.”

“Truthfully? I don’t think I could persuade her. It might frighten her, if I tried,” he replied.

She regarded him impatiently. “I don’t believe she’s safe.”

“Why?”

She glanced over her shoulder, making certain that she couldn’t be overheard. “I believe her when she tells me that someone was on the grounds, that Friday evening. I don’t know who they were or what they were about. But she’s not safe.”

“Why?” he asked again. “Is there anyone who might wish to harm her?”

The woman bit her lip. “No—I can’t imagine why anyone should. But then why put on such a display when they must have been sure she was watching?”

That, Rutledge thought, was the first practical view of what had happened on Friday night.

“Who would do such a thing? To what purpose?”

“You’re the policeman, I expect you to tell me the answer to that.”

“There’s the question of who is to gain if something happened to Lady Benton. Who inherits the Abbey, if she were to die?”

“It’s left to the National Trust. There’s an elderly cousin somewhere, Wiltshire, I think. But he wants no part of the house. Never did, as far as I know. I don’t believe he’s ever set foot in it. At least not in my time here.”

“Perhaps,” Rutledge said, “he’s changed his mind.” Or someone in his family had finally realized what he had so cavalierly dismissed.

But she shook her head. “It’s not likely. According to Lady Benton.” She glanced over her shoulder again. Then added, “There are valuables in the house. Paintings, silver, books. And she owns some nice bits of jewelry. If someone frightened her into moving into the village even for a few days, the house would be vulnerable. He could take his time going through the rooms.”

“Have you ever had a visitor who aroused suspicion—asked too many questions about certain objects or appeared to be—different from the usual run of person who comes through?” Rutledge asked.

She sighed. “A few times. One of the gardeners is rather burly. We had him ask one man to leave. There was no trouble. Still, it was worrying.”

“What about insurance? For the more valuable pieces?”

“I don’t know. She doesn’t tell me such things. And I expect it’s quite expensive. There’s that alcove in the Green Drawing Room. Meissen figures, shepherds and shepherdesses, harlequins. And there’s that silver salt boat in the grand dining room. A galleon in full sail, that piece. Of course, it would be more difficult to sell, it’s too well known. Still, that’s why there’s always someone sitting in the rooms when we’re open. Too easy to scoop up a small treasure, pocket it, and walk out.”

“You’re suggesting that the events in the terrace garden were a cover for robbery. Has anything actually gone missing?”