“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.”
She turned away, walked off briskly, hurrying down the street to the pub, head down.
Rutledge didn’t follow her, although he waited until she was safely inside.
Hamish said, “Puir lass.”
“Why does everyone simply call him the Captain? Why did he come to The Salt Cellar? Was it really to get away from his rowdy mates?”
“He’s deid,” Hamish retorted. “Ye canna’ ask him.”
“Is he?” Rutledge turned and started back the way he’d come. “His ghost is accused of a murder.”
Inspector Hamilton was just leaving the police station. Rutledge could read his hesitation—whether to pretend he hadn’t seen the tall Londoner coming toward him but still some distance away or to wait for the man. In the end, he hesitated a bit too long and then couldn’t escape.
“Just going home to my supper,” he said gruffly, when Rutledge was close enough.
“I won’t keep you. Does the town know the truth—that Lady Benton thought she had seen a ghost in her garden?”
Hamilton’s mouth twisted. “Well, not the ghost part, precisely. We let it be known that a murder might have been done on the grounds of the house and we’d have to investigate. Still, we had to question people who’d been at the house the previous day, and talk naturally reached the village before tea. No way to prevent it.”
That didn’t explain Liz’s lack of knowledge about the supposed ghost. But it did confirm Lady Benton’s fear that people stared.
“Since the air station was shut down, have you had any scavengers about, looking for souvenirs or something worth selling?”
“Most people seemed to want to forget the war, once it was finished. We have a handful of visitors now, mostly the families of men who served here and didn’t come back. Cheaper than going to France, I expect.”
“Do they ever stop in here, to speak to you?”
“No. Well, not so far. They come and look, for what it’s worth, and they leave. Not surprising, nothing much to see there today. Sometimes they visit the Abbey.”
“Thanks. I’ll leave you to your supper.”
As if realizing he’d been less than helpful, Hamilton asked, “Comfortable, are you? At the hotel?”
Rutledge took the question as it was meant, replying, “Yes, thank you for asking.”
“I don’t know what else I can do to help you. I expect London will be pressing for answers. Sooner or later.” He paused, torn between moving on and satisfying his curiosity. “What’s your opinion of Lady Benton?”
“I think she believes what she tells us she’s seen. But she has no way of explaining it, any more than we do. The lads who went to find the ghost as the airfield was being taken down—are there others like them who might decide to play charades with an audience of one?”
Hamilton was half-angry at the suggestion. “No. We’re not that kind of town.”
Rutledge didn’t pursue it. “It was a possibility. I had to ask.”
Slightly mollified, Hamilton said, “The truth? I don’t see a way out of this, except to say that Lady Benton imagined it. That will be hard for her.”
“We’ll see,” Rutledge replied, and with a nod turned back to the hotel.
He was just stepping into the lobby when someone behind him called, “Sir?”
Turning, he found a boy standing in the street, looking up at him.
“Hallo,” he said, smiling. The boy must be eight or nine, he thought.
“Are you the man who came up from London?”
“I am. Scotland Yard,” he answered.
“My mother would like to speak to you, sir. But you mustn’t tell anyone.”
“Now?”