A Game of Fear: A Novel (Inspector Ian Rutledge #24)(9)

“My father-in-law slept in the old Master Bedroom suite until he redid these rooms, and then moved the family across to this wing, with real mattresses and conveniences.” She had crossed the room as she spoke and reached up to pull the curtains wide. “We always slept with these open—heresy to my husband’s old housekeeper, who believed that one must shut out the miasmas of the night.”

As Rutledge joined her, he could look down on a narrow terrace with steps leading down to the lawn. Wide borders enclosed this, set in patterns of colors. It was a private garden, he thought, with a small fountain in the center and wrought iron chairs, painted white, at the far end.

“Where were the figures?”

“They came up from the left—the direction of the airfield. There’s an arch in the hedge just by the terrace. One was ahead of the other, and when the second figure appeared just below us, by the terrace steps, the other man stopped and turned. He was just there, near the little fountain. It’s a cupid, a pretty little thing. Then he backed away as the second man started forward. See where the colors change from red to pink? There, more or less, is where he stopped again. And the second figure kept moving toward him . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“And what happened next?”

She took a deep breath. “The man with his back to me—the victim—was moving when his knees suddenly seemed to buckle—and he went down, falling slowly forward onto his face.” Her voice changed. “I—he didn’t move, you see. Not after that. And—and his companion—his companion looked up at this front of the house, as if he could see me here in the window. But he couldn’t—I’m sure of it—I wasn’t close to the glass.”

Rutledge thought she was trying to convince herself. And so he waited.

She drew another deep breath, trying to steady herself. And failed. “I stood there, frozen. Then—then he walked forward. He passed the man on the ground without a glance. Still looking up. Moving straight toward the terrace, and the doors there, as if he intended to come into the house. That’s when I recognized his stride, you see. And even in the moonlight, as he drew nearer, I recognized his face. It seemed to glow from within, somehow. I was in a panic. I knew who he was—and I knew he was dead.” Her fear was real, even now, her hands trembling although she at once clasped them together to stop it. “I turned and rushed to lock my door and even pushed that chest across in front of it.” She turned slightly to point at a tall chest just by the door. “By the time I could cross back to the window, he was nowhere to be seen—but the other man—the one who had fallen down—was gone as well.”

She kept her eyes on the sunny window, refusing to look at Rutledge. Striving to bring herself under control and failing.

He said gently, “Are you certain the other man was dead?”

“Yes—I—he—it was the way he lay, you see. Crumpled. Not struggling or moving.”

“He couldn’t have used the other man’s movements to get to his feet and flee?”

“Where could he have gone? The only way out of the garden is by the arch in the hedge. His killer was between him and any escape.”

“Did you hear a shot?”

“Oh, no, there was no report, no flash.”

“Did anyone try to break into the house?”

“No. I didn’t sleep. As you can imagine. When it was full light, and I could hear people stirring downstairs, doors opening and shutting, as the staff arrived, I moved the chest again, unlocked the door, and went down to the terrace doors myself. But they were all right.” She smiled, more anxiety than humor. “I expect ghosts don’t need to break in, do they?” When she looked up at him, there were tears in her eyes.

Before Rutledge could speak, she said quietly, “I’m not mad. At least I don’t think so. I did see what happened. I wasn’t dreaming or walking in my sleep. I unlocked the terrace doors and went out onto the grass. It was still wet with dew, and I realized that I’d forgot to put on my slippers. I knew just where the men had stood. Where one had fallen. But there was no blood. The grass wasn’t even bruised . . .”

“How could you be sure of the right place? In the night, the colors of the flowers would have been white or gray. You couldn’t judge their colors.”

Lady Benton shook her head. “I’ve lived here for so many years. Do you think I couldn’t find my way around this house or the grounds, in the middle of the night?”

“Did the police—Inspector Hamilton—come up to your room to see the scene as you’d shown it to me?”

“No. Once there was nothing in the garden to support my account, he was more embarrassed than he was interested. Well, to be fair, in his place I wouldn’t have believed me, either.”

“And you are sure the man you saw was the Captain? That’s a good distance, it was dark.”

“I’ve told you. I recognized his walk. And—and his face glowed. I could see it clearly.”

“You mentioned that before. How do you mean, glowed?”

“Yes, all right, think me silly or mad or whatever you please. But it was—I could see his features clearly. Even as frightened as I was.”

He found himself thinking that fear sometimes heightened the senses, rather than dulling them.

She turned away from the window, crossing to the door. He had seen what he needed to see, at least until he knew more to look for.