And yet he hadn’t. There was nothing to indicate a crash.
Instead, the place where broken branches had healed over time, where the density of the hedge still showed healing scars, was closer to the long terrace he could see above the hedge. In fact, almost where the long terrace ended and the corner of the house marked the beginnings of the kitchen gardens.
And that must indicate that something had gone wrong with the steering . . . That he had swung to his left instead of his right because it had suddenly veered or locked or gone out.
Rutledge walked toward the hedge, and when he was close enough, he could see that he’d been right, it was here that Captain Nelson had died. Looking up toward the house, he could see the windows of the upper stories from where he was standing.
And someone looking out from that vantage point would have had a very different view of events. Would have seen the man in the motorcar struggling to regain control, and unable to stop himself from plowing into the hedge as the speed increased. Because the brakes too failed?
It could have looked, to those watching from the airfield, as if the motorcar was deliberately veering into the hedge. They could only see the rear of the vehicle turning wildly in that direction as its speed increased.
No wonder there had been a suspicion of suicide.
And if someone had witnessed that struggle from the windows, it might have looked like murder.
Then why hadn’t he or she spoken up at the time? Was it because he or she hadn’t understood what they were witnessing? And no one from the investigation into the Captain’s death had thought to question anyone from the house. After all, his death would have been seen as a military matter, and only the officers and men on the airfield at the time would have been asked about it.
Rutledge turned away, and walked back to where he’d left his motorcar.
A death and a disappearance . . .
Were they connected? If so, how?
He was just turning from the farm lane onto the main road when he remembered that someone had waved to him as he was exploring the airfield.
Turning in at the Abbey gates, he drove up to the front door and knocked.
Mrs. Hailey opened the door to him, as she had done on his first visit.
“I thought I saw Lady Benton on the back terrace, waving to me while I was down at the airfield.”
“Come in. I’ll find her and ask.” And she left him there in the great hall.
It was a good ten minutes before Lady Benton herself came into the hall, and said, “Inspector. Yes, it was I, there on the terrace. I have found some photographs of the airfield, if you’d like to view them. When the buildings were still there.”
“Yes, that would be very helpful.”
Two women and a man came into the hall from the rooms on display, and Lady Benton turned to smile at them. “The café is just there.”
They thanked her and walked off toward the stairs down to the crypt.
She sighed. “We’re short a member of the staff today. Margaret—Mrs. Hailey—is seeing to the door and watching in the first room. If you’ll come this way?”
She led him back to the comfortable sitting room and went to a cupboard where she collected something, then turned and brought him a tin with a bouquet of roses on the lid. “My parents gave me this tin filled with chocolates when I was sixteen. I remembered it when I looked for something to put the photographs in. I’ll leave you to look through them on your own, shall I? I must get back to the visitors. We don’t have many today. But I’ll be glad when they’re gone.”
As she hurried away, he took the tin to the desk by the window and sat down. Opening the lid, he found a collection of photographs inside. Some were of a small boy playing with his dog, a few with Lady Benton and a rather attractive man, smiling beside a Christmas tree in this very room. Others were of people he didn’t recognize, and then he found the photographs of the airfield.
They were like others he’d seen here and in France, but they proved he’d been right when he’d guessed at some of the foundations. In one of the photographs a tall man with a military mustache appeared to be the officer in command, for he was standing with several other men, hands shielding their eyes, scanning the skies for returning aircraft. For someone had caught them unawares, their gaze worried, their posture stiff with the strain of waiting. And there were others of young men standing beside their aircraft or lounging in the mess, mugs of tea in their hands, cheeky grins on their faces. A few more showed men playing croquet on the lawns of the house or sitting in chairs under the shade of the ornamental trees.
He rather thought someone other than Lady Benton had taken most of these. Going through them carefully, he searched for the Captain, but he didn’t seem to appear to be in any of them. Perhaps he’d borrowed her camera? For surely if she had taken the photographs, there would have been several of the same man . . .
He was just putting them back in the tin when Lady Benton returned, apologizing.
“Were they helpful?” she added, coming to help him gather up the photographs.
“Do you have any of Captain Nelson? I’d like to see them.”
She bit her lip. “It was too painful to look at them, afterward. And so I took them out. I’ll look them up another time, shall I?”
“Yes, please.” He paused. “Did you witness his motorcar crashing into the hedge?”
“No—there was always so much to do—”
He couldn’t tell whether she was lying or if she simply found it difficult to talk about.
He rephrased his question. “Did anyone else on your staff see what happened?”
“I-I never asked. I was so terribly upset. It never occurred to me—and no one said anything to me.”
Possibly out of kindness? Knowing how distressed Lady Benton was. Such details would have only added to her grief.
“Did you go down, while he was still in the motorcar?”
“God, no. Of course I wouldn’t have done.”
“Surely,” he pressed quietly, “someone came up to the house to inform you that he was dead?”
“Afterward—afterward one of his friends came up. And broke the news. He was terribly upset—he’d helped to lift Roger—Captain Nelson—from the motorcar. But he assured me that the Captain hadn’t suffered. That he’d died swiftly, without any pain.”
He thought that must have been a kind lie. Nelson hadn’t died at once.
What was it that Melinda had told him? That she’d known the man in charge? And he’d taken the death hard.
Had he survived the war?
But Rutledge said nothing of that to Lady Benton. Instead he asked, “Was there an ambulance at the field?”
“Yes. For any man returning with wounds. There weren’t many. Most of the deaths occurred over France, as you’d expect. Although some aircraft limped home and the pilot was hurt.”
He thanked her then, and she saw him to the door.
There he asked, “You mentioned that one of your staff wasn’t in today. Is she ill?”
“No. It was the anniversary of her husband’s death. Patricia takes flowers to his grave on that day. Well, he’s not actually buried—there’s a memorial stone for him.”
“Was your son brought home?”
“No. He’s buried in France. There’s a brass in the church. I leave my flowers there.”