A Game of Fear: A Novel (Inspector Ian Rutledge #24)(16)

“Books. Music. He had a volume of poetry he lent me, and sometimes we talked about that. Wings of Fire. Do you know it?”

He did. He could quote from it by heart. He’d carried it in his pocket most of the war.

But he said, “I think I’ve heard of it.”

“It was about the war. He liked it because he thought the poet had been there and knew what was true about it.”

The poet had been a woman in Cornwall who had never seen France. But the man she loved had . . . She had seen it through his eyes.

“Where was he from? The Captain?”

“Somerset, I think. He lived near the Quantock Hills, and spent much of his childhood exploring them. He liked nature, and walking. He knew so much about birds.” She smiled. “He’d hear one sing, and recognize it straightaway. I could hardly name the ones I actually saw.”

“He was a pilot, I think?”

“Oh, yes, he loved to fly. He was posted to the airfield not far from here.”

He began to walk back the way he’d come, and she fell into step beside him.

“I stop by here sometimes,” she went on. “I expect he must be lonely with no family to come and visit.”

“Were they dead? His parents?”

“I believe so. He always talked about them in the past. But he had a sister. You’d think she might want to come at least once, and leave flowers.”

“Did he have friends in the squadron? Anyone in particular?”

“He was older than most of them. They called him the old man. I couldn’t tell whether that was a term of respect or not.”

“It can be. He was a survivor. They would respect his record.”

“They would come into the pub from time to time, but they preferred the hotel bar. It was livelier. I think that’s why he chose ours. Just local people there most of the time.”

“I was told there was a pilot out at the airfield who liked to show off. Was that Captain Nelson?”

She shook her head. “I’ve heard people say that. My guess is, he had to look the part of the air ace. The white scarf and leather jacket, laced boots. He showed me a photograph once, and we laughed about the man in the picture. He called it his other self. He was dressed for riding in it, and I liked it.”

“Was he sad, do you think?” They had left the churchyard behind, and he could see the houses nearer the harbor just ahead of them.

“I never saw it, if he was. Just—quiet. I was never much good at flirting with the patrons. Georgie, now, she could make every man who came in feel that he was special. But it was me he wanted to talk to.”

Rutledge, reading between the lines, could see that she had fallen in love with the quiet flyer. She had told him as much when she’d admitted she would have gone out with him.

It also explained why she had talked so freely with a stranger. There was probably no one she could tell how she’d felt, not at the pub, nor in her personal life.

“How did he die?”

“His motorcar crashed.”

“Here? Or in France?”

“Here. At the airfield,” she told him reluctantly.

“Accident?”

She was silent for a time, then she said, “I wish I knew. I’ve wondered. It’s worried me, because I’d have helped him, if I could. But you can’t help what you don’t know about, can you? He never said anything to me.”

“Did he have any enemies?”

“He never said, if he did.”

Rutledge could see the pub ahead of them, down the street another thirty feet. From this vantage point the wrought iron salt cellar above the door identified it clearly.

They were almost there when she added, “I wondered . . .”

“Wondered?” he pressed when she didn’t go on.

“Well, there was Lady Benton. But she was old enough to be his mother, wasn’t she?” The woman stopped short. “Here. I never should have said any of that. I don’t know why I did. You’re just like him! The Captain. Well, a stone would speak to him, wouldn’t it? He had that same way of listening, and before you knew it, you’d done most of the talking, hadn’t you? Are you a flyer too?”

He smiled. “Infantry. I was in the trenches.”

But she wasn’t reassured. “How did you come to know him, then? Why were you at the graveside? Why were you asking me questions?”

Rutledge said, “I wanted to know him better.” It was clear she knew nothing about the alleged ghost, or what it was said to have done. “Is that so wrong?”

She stared at him, confused.

“You spoke to me, remember?” he added gently.

“So I did,” she said finally. She rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know. It’s been bottled up. All this time. Georgie, and even Ivy, who serves in the dining room, would tease me about my posh beau. But it wasn’t that. I mean, not to him. And so I kept it in, how I felt. And nobody knew how I cried when I heard. It liked to’av broke my heart.”

“What is your name?”

“Liz.” It was reluctant.

“Liz,” he repeated. “I’m sorry. It must have been difficult for you.”

Tears filled her eyes. “I know what I am. I work at the pub down here by the docks, and I’m not likely to meet someone like the Captain in the ordinary way. At least not someone who didn’t want more than I was prepared to give. It was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I wanted it to go on forever, even though I knew it wouldn’t. He’d be shot down—transferred—the war would be over and the field would be closed—or he’d just stop coming to The Salt Cellar.” She wiped the tears away angrily. “I just wanted something I could never hope to have.”