A Game of Fear: A Novel (Inspector Ian Rutledge #24)(5)

“For a start, could she describe the victim? What sort of weapon was used? Was any blood found at the site? I understood from Hamilton that Lady Benton believes she recognized the killer. But was she as certain about any other details?”

“I don’t think anyone actually asked that many questions. I expect Hamilton searched, but never found any evidence to support what she’d told him. Including blood. He’s always thorough. Still . . .” He cleared his throat. “Women living alone sometimes start at shadows. Hear noises where there are none. They worry about their safety, and she lives in a very large house with no live-in staff.”

“What did you do for her? Give her a sedative, to help her sleep?”

“Well, it was the next morning, when she came in to report what had happened. Hamilton brought her to me, because she appeared to be in some distress. I got the rest of the story out of her over some very hot, very sweet tea. Apparently she’d locked herself in her room until first light, then drove herself in. No breakfast, of course. But I’m a doctor, I listened closely, and I didn’t judge. Because I could see that she believed every word of her story.”

Changing the subject, Rutledge asked, “Who did the post mortem on Captain Nelson, when he was killed?”

“Dr. Gregson, my predecessor. He died in the influenza epidemic, but he was a fine record keeper.” He gestured toward a cabinet against the wall by the windows. “I looked up the report, after speaking to Lady Benton. Just to satisfy myself that Nelson was dead. Internal injuries were severe. The wheel crushed his chest. That hedge is very old, with trunks as thick as trees, and at the rate of speed he was said to have been going, the motorcar suffered heavy damage as well. Otherwise, he was a healthy young man, nothing physically that might explain what happened, like a sudden heart event—and nothing that might have worried him to the point of ending his life. That’s to say, no fatal illness developing. Emotionally—that’s another matter. I dealt with men in France. Gregson didn’t. There might have been something that he missed.”

Rutledge looked away so that Wister couldn’t read his eyes and see what was there. But the doctor had something else on his mind.

“A suggestion?”

“By all means.”

“Be careful. Interviewing Lady Benton. You don’t want to make matters worse by making her doubt herself. Not doubting her account, you understand—herself. There’s a difference.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? It’s important that you do. I’m the one who will have to pick up the pieces long after you go back to the city.”

Rutledge stood up. “You will have to trust that I know what to do. How do I find the house?”

Wister reluctantly gave him her direction.

Then, at the door, Rutledge asked, “What became of the motorcar? Afterward?”

“According to Gregson, it was left there until after the inquest. In the event it was needed. And then there was the wait while the Captain’s sister was reached in America. Finally the commanding officer saw that it was removed and disposed of—it was bad for morale. And Lady Benton insisted as well. She told him it was distressing to her staff to see it there. The Major cleared it with Gregson, of course. He made a note of that too. For the record. What became of it after that I can’t tell you.”

Rutledge thanked him, and left.

When he drove out to the Hall, several miles north and east of the village, he passed the ruins of the gatehouse that had once marked the entrance to abbey lands. The base was flint, but there wasn’t enough left to judge more than its size. A mile farther along he came to gates of the house itself, set into the high wall that appeared to encircle the estate. They were closed.

He could see what must have become of the original gatehouse, for the wall was flint, the tall pillars on either side of the gates as well. The original builders hadn’t wasted good materials.

He’d hoped to find them open, even at this hour, but perhaps after what had happened, he thought, Lady Benton wasn’t eager to have either visitors or curiosity seekers.

It was as he was reversing to return to Walmer, that he noticed the gates themselves.

Tall, wrought iron, inset into the pillars and rising in a graceful arch. There was half of a brass scroll on each that came together in the center when the gates were shut as they were now.

He’d taken for granted that it simply gave the name of the property. But it wasn’t the name, it was a single word.

Lachrymosa



Rutledge stared at it.

Latin. A place of weeping . . . Tearful.

He could feel Hamish stirring in the far corners of his mind, and as he drove back to the village, he knew he was in for a long night.



Rutledge ordered his dinner standing at the desk in Reception, then went up to his room. The sky was still clear and sunlight lit the roofs he could see from his windows, but it didn’t brighten his mood.

His meal was brought up, and he’d barely finished it when the darkness began to come down.



Corporal Hamish MacLeod was dead. His bones lay in the black mud that was once a battlefield and now a cemetery. Yet it was more difficult for Rutledge to think of him there than it was to deal with the voice in his head that seemed to come from outside it, just by his shoulder. Where Hamish had stood through so many night watches, waiting for the dawn and another attack across No Man’s Land. They had shared a friendship, two very different men from very different backgrounds, brought together by war. The young Scot had been a natural soldier, with an eye for tactics and strategy, a good mind, and a strong sense of duty. His acute hearing had often saved them from night attacks and quickly pinpointed the source of a concealed sniper’s shots.