A Game of Fear: A Novel (Inspector Ian Rutledge #24)(8)

He smiled. “Then it’s comforting, not lonely.”

“Yes, very much so.” Then she gave him an amused glance. “I even hear the monks singing, when the wind is up. In a way that’s comforting too.”

Until now, she had seemed to be quite rational, capable, and as normal as the doctor.

Something in his face must have changed, because she laughed, adding dryly. “We have a multitude of Elizabethan chimneys, and God knows how many cracks in the brickwork. The wind finds a way in. I’d rather think of monks singing than more repairs needing my attention.”

He had the grace to apologize, although he wasn’t quite sure what the apology was for. “I shall remember that when my own chimneys whistle.” Changing the subject, he went on. “I understand there’s an airfield just beyond the boundaries of your property?”

“Yes. It was actually part of the estate, but as it was suitable for an airfield, the Ministry took it over. Well, we weren’t using it, it was fallow at the time. I’ve petitioned to have the land returned to the estate, but there is some talk of preserving it for history. I don’t quite see how, most of the buildings were dismantled in early 1919. There are foundations, the airstrip itself, and the ruins of a building or two. Hardly anything worth the trouble of preserving. Oddly enough we do hear of a visitor or two there. Mostly curiosity, although some of the men have returned, bringing their families to see where they served. Or their families come to see where they were posted, those who didn’t come back. There were quite a few of those.”

“Has the Captain’s family ever come back?”

He’d caught her off guard with his question. But she didn’t ask him which officer he was referring to. She knew.

“I—if they did, they haven’t called at the house.”

“What really happened to him?”

She sighed, shaking her head. “I don’t know. Men went off in their aircraft, even though they knew that most seldom survived past two or three missions, and they fought with what skill they had and great courage. I talked to a good many of them, when they came up to the house. They laughed, there was horseplay—they were so young. Dear God. But you had only to look into their eyes, and see old men lurking there.”

He understood what she meant. He’d seen recruits change after their first battle. The boy gone forever.

“Was he suicidal, do you think?”

“I don’t know.” She considered the question, but he knew she must have thought about it again and again since the man’s death. “He hid his feelings well. I liked him, you know. A charming man, intelligent, well read. We would talk sometimes. I invited him to dine here several evenings, because he was curious about our library. And he stayed until midnight once, reading a book. It was part of a collection, or I’d have given it to him to take back with him. But he never talked about himself. Of course, he was older than most of the flyers. Perhaps that was it.”

“Why do you think he came back from the grave to kill a man whose body we still haven’t found?”

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, what her answer would be.

She surprised him. “I don’t know. I only know what I saw,” she said simply. “I had wondered, waiting for the police to come, if it was something that had happened some time ago, and somehow I was able to witness it years later.”

Frowning, he asked, “Are you saying that you believe he might have killed someone in the past?”

“I’m not sure what I’m trying to say. I do know what I saw. I am at a loss to explain it. Even to myself.” She shrugged slightly. “I know Inspector Hamilton believes I’m mad. And Dr. Wister wonders if I am ill, and he hasn’t been able to diagnose that illness yet. Perhaps both men are right. All I can tell you is that madness doesn’t run in my family. At least there’s no record of it occurring.”

Every time Rutledge thought he had formed an opinion of Lady Benton, she showed him a different face.

“Who was the victim?”

“I have no idea.”

“How was he killed?”

“I’m not even certain it was a man, you know. He was there, and then he fell, and the—his killer—rushed forward to stand over him. And then he looked—he looked up at my window, as if he knew I was there, watching. I stepped back. When I dared look again, there was nothing there. Neither the victim nor the killer. Just the night.” She shivered.

“Perhaps you dreamed it?”

“I was awake, Inspector. Fully awake. I’d gone to the window as I often do to watch the moon rise. My husband and I would stand there and watch it together, some nights. And so it has become a habit for me. After a busy day, it’s in the quiet of the night that I miss him. And—as you say. It’s comforting.”



He asked her then if he could see the window.

“Yes, of course. This way.” She led him through another series of rooms to a second staircase. “This is the newer part of the house—that is, not the fabric, but the interior. My husband’s father won a great deal of money on the Derby, and brought the living quarters into the nineteenth century. I have been very grateful.”

He had kept his bearings, and thought that the room they entered was in the east wing, overlooking the distant estuary. It was large, and actually quite pleasant, with a high ceiling, the wallpaper dark blue with a pattern of silver fleur de lis, the colors picked up again in the draperies and the carpet as a soft gray and blue. After the formal state rooms he’d passed through, this one was bright, with three windows across the outside wall.