A Game of Fear: A Novel (Inspector Ian Rutledge #24)(6)

Yet it was that strong sense of duty that had led to Corporal Hamish MacLeod’s death. During the bloody and seemingly endless battle of the Somme, for interminable weeks of attack and counterattack, he had seen as his duty the welfare of the exhausted and dispirited men under him, keeping them alert, keeping morale high, making certain that they faced each day ready for whatever was thrown at them. And when orders came down to take out a German machine gun that would stop the next offensive, he had called the assault what it was—sheer murder—and after repeated, useless sorties that failed to stop the German gun, Hamish had finally refused to lead another suicidal attempt to break through to it. Rutledge as the commanding officer had tried to persuade him to change his mind, and Hamish had flatly refused. Neither man realized how close the other was to breaking—neither man could find a way out of their dilemma. And in the end, faced with Hamish’s steadfast refusal, Rutledge had had no choice but to order his Corporal shot. It had been the only way to prevent what amounted to a mutiny and regain control of his men.

Rutledge had just delivered the coup de grace to the dying Scot when a ranging shell from their own side fell short and buried them all, the living and the dead, in the same grave. Only Rutledge had survived, his face pressed against the body of his dead Corporal, finding a tiny air pocket until that too gave out and rescuers pulled him unconscious out of the black and stinking mud.

He had fought on, haunted by the memory of what he’d been forced to do, haunted too by the voice in his head that had become his only way of denying that Hamish was dead. And when the war ended and he was sent home, Rutledge brought the voice with him. Survivor’s guilt, Dr. Fleming had told him at the clinic: the desperate need to blot out what he’d done, for his own sanity’s sake. Like so many officers, dealing with the terrible burden of having sent hundreds of men to their deaths while he himself escaped with a few superficial wounds, Rutledge had found his own salvation. Or so he’d believed in the darkest corners of his mind.

Shell shock, the rest of the world called it, and Rutledge had done his best to keep that secret, struggling back through the harrowing nightmares and the punishing voice in his mind just enough in 1919 to return to the Yard. He struggled still, but at least he functioned now. For as Dr. Fleming had told him on his last day at the clinic, “It’s important for you to realize, Ian, that you must win this battle for your mind. And Hamish won’t help you there. I can’t either. You must fight with all the strength in you to win. Or when the darkness comes down again, it won’t lift.”

Sometimes that was his greatest fear.

And there were also nights when he could almost wish that it wouldn’t lift, that there would be peace, finally, in oblivion.

Then somehow he found the strength of will to fight through the nightmares. Unwilling to give in. Or give up.

He had learned that they were not the same . . .





2


Rutledge slept finally as the sun was rising. But the bustle in the street beneath his window woke him again shortly after seven. He got up, shaved with cold water, and dressed, then went out to walk the streets of the village for half an hour before he was able to consider his breakfast. And after he’d eaten, he waited again, but this time until he was sure the Hall would be open.

And so it was just after nine when he turned in through the open gates and followed the drive up to the main door.

It was, he thought, an unusual blend of architecture. In front of him was an imposing facade nearly two stories tall, soaring to a slender tower that was more ecclesiastical than defensive. Above the massive door was a lovely mullioned window, with coats of arms in stained glass. The remains of what the monks had built? A graceful Elizabethan center seemed to embrace another wing, very likely built from the very stone that had come from the rest of the abbey. Several oriel windows decorated the upper floors, their diamond panes catching the morning light. Smaller than other grander houses of the day, the Hall was in perfect proportions for its size.

Hamish, stirring in the back of his mind, said, “It’s verra’ isolated.”

True enough. It was clear that the abbey had had quite large holdings, and their buildings as well as this house had been designed to last, the center of their own universe.

Looking up at the facade, Rutledge was reminded of what Wister had said about women living alone in large houses. How did that affect Lady Benton, or what she’d witnessed? He remembered that his sister, Frances, had been uncomfortable alone in their parents’ London house when he’d left for the war. Even though she’d lived there all her life, she’d kept on the live-in housekeeper who had served their parents, and the cook as well. While in a way they had made her feel safer, they hadn’t been able to fill the emptiness his departure had brought. Between the lines of her letters, he had sensed her loneliness, even though she had tried to hide it.

Had the departure of the men at the airfield played any part in Lady Benton’s ghost? But then it had been several years now. Not a recent loss . . .

He got out and went up to the door, ringing the bell.

It was several minutes before it was opened by a middle-aged woman in a black dress that looked very like a uniform.

“May I help you, sir? The house is not open until ten o’clock.”

“My name is Rutledge. I’ve been sent by Scotland Yard to inquire into the murder Lady Benton reported.”