A Game of Fear: A Novel (Inspector Ian Rutledge #24)(13)
She shook her head. “Not that I know of. Not that we’ve discovered so far.” Leaning forward on her crossed arms, she said earnestly. “A ghost. And a dead body that didn’t exist. It doesn’t make sense, does it? It’s as if they were putting on a show—whoever they are. And there must be a reason for it.”
“Was Lady Benton close to the officer who died when his motorcar crashed into the hedge?”
Surprised that he knew about the Captain, she answered, “He reminded her of Eric, I think. Her son. She missed him so. And she took the Captain’s death hard. I mean, she knew the risks. He flew, after all. And he was good at it. I expect that was how he expected to die. Not like that. Surely.”
Or it was possible that the waiting had become its own burden.
“Was it suicide? Or accident? No one seems to have an opinion about that.”
Frowning, she shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think that anyone does—”
Someone called, “Mrs. Hailey, so sorry to interrupt—”
The woman glanced over her shoulder, toward the speaker at the foot of the stairs, an older woman dressed in dark blue. Turning back to Rutledge, Mrs. Hailey said, “I’m needed. But you will think about speaking to Lady Benton?”
“Yes.” It wasn’t a promise, he told himself.
He watched her walk away, her head bent to listen to whatever problem the younger woman had brought to her to solve.
Hamish said unexpectedly, “Do ye think it was housebreakers playing at ghosts?”
The deep Scots voice seemed to echo through the undercroft, and Rutledge dropped his teaspoon, bending to retrieve it as he covered his surprise.
A great deal of trouble to go through, he replied silently, when the Abbey could be entered in the middle of the night, without fanfare. It could be the middle of the morning or later before anyone noticed a broken lock on a little-used entrance.
“Aye, then why yon charade? Even the Chief Constable wonders if Lady Benton is no’ well in the heid. The question is, will there be ither ways to frighten her—and leave doubt in the minds of those around her?”
“That’s possible,” he agreed. Rutledge rose, collecting his dishes and setting them on the little tray before taking it up to a small table, where a smiling young woman whisked them out of sight. “But what are they after? Robbery? Having her committed? Or are they simply tormenting her, for the sake of making her life a misery? If she cared about the Captain, seeing him murder someone is quite a clever way of hurting her.”
He’d made his way out of the undercroft and was passing the statue in the great hall, when a thought occurred to him. “It wasn’t her family who dispossessed the monks. I don’t see any gain in punishing her for what her husband’s ancestors did.”
“But she didna’ see a monk.”
Leaving by the main door, he went out to his motorcar and turned the crank.
Behind him, the house was quiet, the flurry of visitors dwindling as the afternoon wore on. Save for those still in the undercroft.
Looking up at the handsome facade, he thought about Lady Benton’s day. She prepared for visitors in the early morning, and then kept an eye on everything that was happening in the house, until it was time to close. Even then she must have to walk through the public rooms, turning out lamps, making certain no one had been left behind—looking to see if anything needed to be dusted or polished or even put back exactly in its place. When her staff left, what did she do then? Take a tray of food to her rooms, and shut off the rest of the house? He wondered if she could put Friday out of her mind. Not just the responsibility but the knowledge that she was alone. It wouldn’t be surprising if that led to an overly active imagination . . .
Rutledge was about to step into his motorcar when the main door opened. He was surprised to see Lady Benton herself come through and call to him.
“Are you leaving?” she asked, the slightest trace of anxiety in her voice. “Did you find any answers?”
He walked around the motorcar to meet her, realizing he shouldn’t have gone away without at least speaking to her.
Smiling, he said, “No answers. Not yet, Lady Benton. But I need to explore a number of avenues before I can reassure you that all is well. I would like to know, for instance, if lads from the village might have put on a show—”
He’d intended to relieve her worry, but instead, she had flushed a little and cut him off, saying, “Don’t. Don’t treat me like a child. I know what I saw, Inspector. I know it was real. At least, that it wasn’t a pair of boys trying to play at frightening me. Those were men I saw.”
“I’m sorry,” he said at once. “I was not suggesting that you were wrong. But I must eliminate any possibility of someone playing a prank or trying in some way or for some reason to frighten you.” When she didn’t seem to respond, he added, “There are certain things a policeman must do. For instance, look at every possible fact. Until he does that, he can’t begin to narrow his suspicions.”
She raised a hand to her throat, clearly embarrassed. “Oh—yes—all right. I’m sorry. I thought perhaps—but that was rather silly of me, expecting you to clear away this mystery, your first day. Carry on, Inspector. If you have more questions, you know where to find me.” And with a smile that tried to be understanding and patient, she stepped back inside the hall, and closed the door behind her.