Grateful tears filled her eyes. “Thank you, sir. You’re the only person who would listen. Thank you.” She turned and walked away, unwilling to let him see her relief.
He walked on into the hotel, having left his motorcar on a side street not far from the church, where no one would notice if he used it later.
After his dinner, he walked the streets of Walmer, passing the time until it was dark. The days were not yet as long as they would be, but the increasing clouds helped speed the light away.
Finally it was dark enough to provide the cover he needed. His Wellingtons were in the boot as well as an umbrella, in case of rain, and so was his torch. He left the hotel without having to carry anything with him, wearing dark clothing under a dark jumper beneath his overcoat, for the temperature had dipped with the cloud cover.
Walking without haste, he went to his motorcar and drove it out of the village, heading for the main road. There, out of sight, he changed direction and drove on toward the Abbey, passing it without stopping. Beyond it, he found the rough farm lane that ran between the stables and a fenced pasture, and cutting his headlamps, he turned down it. As he’d noted earlier, it continued for some distance beyond the house, past the boundary hedge on one side, and farm fields on the other, and ending finally at the airfield. Reversing over the rough ground, he put the motorcar out of sight in the protection of the tall hedge, and got down. Overhead the clouds appeared to have thickened, and there were no shadows. Changing his boots for his Wellingtons, he picked up his torch, thought twice about the umbrella, and began to walk, following the hedge past where the Captain had died, all the way to the path that led up to the lawns.
He didn’t go closer, his movements could be too easily seen from the house windows. And there was no way of knowing just where Lady Benton might be, attending to a fraying carpet or a tilted painting, not afraid to move about the rooms as she pleased.
Leaning into the hedges, he waited. To his left the airfield sprawled in darkness, and sometimes he could hear soft scurrying in the hedges, as small animals ignored his presence.
This was the way the two men had come up, then walked toward the private garden.
He had no reason to believe anything would happen tonight—but the events of last Friday hadn’t removed Lady Benton from the Abbey, and he was beginning to think that that was the intent.
And only someone who knew that she and Captain Nelson had been close could have created such a charade. Someone local, someone who had been here during the war—or someone familiar with Lady Benton herself . . .
Someone who knew or had even seen the treasures in that house?
Someone in need—or greedy—or for some reason intent on hurting her.
Hamish said, startling him, “If yon treasures are stolen, will the National Trust still want the house?”
An interesting point. But what could be done with house or property, here on a quiet bit of Essex coast?
“Ye need no’ do anythin’ with it.”
Which brought Rutledge around to the owner of The Monk’s Choice. Who held a grudge.
Who else held a grudge against this family?
It was an interesting possibility to consider.
Standing watch in the trenches, he’d watched the stars make their way across the night sky, but tonight there were only clouds scudding across, still thickening as he watched.
And no one came.
It wasn’t until close on midnight that the rain finally began to fall. He felt the first heavy drops, and began to withdraw, leaving no mark of his own presence as he went. The house on the rise above him was dark. And there was no one on the airfield—he would have seen them before they could possibly pick him out against the darkness of the hedge.
His shoulders were wet, his dark hair as well, by the time he got back to his motorcar. Still, he looked it over carefully before turning the crank.
Just on general principles, he told himself, he turned to drive past where The Monk’s Choice stood along the road. But it was dark as well, and quiet. Not even a dog to bark at the motorcar that passed by once, then reversed and perforce had to pass by it again.
It was raining hard when he pulled into the yard at the hotel, and then ran for the rear door. It was unlocked, for which he was profoundly grateful.
Peeling off his wet jumper and the shirt beneath it, he hung one over the chair back and hung the other in the wardrobe, leaving the door open.
His sheets were damp, but not bloody, as he turned out the lamp before going to bed.
Rutledge was grateful for that too, and Hamish’s silence.
By dawn the rain was no more than a dreary drizzle, leading to a gray and dreary day.
As he came down for breakfast Rutledge was informed by the young man behind the desk at Reception that there was someone waiting for him in the dining room.
He was certain that it was Mrs. Dunn, but the man at the table by the window who looked around as Rutledge came into the small dining room, then half rose as if expecting him, was a stranger.
Middle-aged, heavy-set, and shorter than Rutledge by a head, he looked tired.
Rutledge said, “Scotland Yard. You wished to see me?”
“Yes, if you please. Could I join you for breakfast?”
“Of course.” He took the other chair as the newcomer subsided into the one he’d already taken.
Rutledge asked the woman serving them for tea and a menu, then turned to his visitor. “Your name?”
“It’s Wilbur, sir, Tobias Wilbur. I own a tea shop just down from the greengrocers. Among other properties, in Chelmsford and Colchester. A man of business, you might say.”
“How may I assist you, Mr. Wilbur?”
“I have an interest in the airfield that is close by the Abbey. I’d like to buy it from Lady Benton. I understand she has petitioned to have the property returned to her now that the War Office has no need of it. I’m prepared to wait until it is fully in her possession, but perhaps she would agree to signing some letter of intent?”
“Why do you want the property?” Their tea arrived, and Rutledge busied himself with that, not looking at Wilbur as he asked the question.
“For many years, the Abbey, and particularly the Madonna, have attracted a good many visitors. But that day has passed. It’s my belief that the airfield, restored, would be an attraction. An—er—memorial as well.” He amended quickly as he saw Rutledge’s expression change. “We will reconstruct many of the necessary structures, outfit them like a museum, persuade young flyers to come here and offer rides. I understand that’s quite popular. Perhaps a tea room, and something for the little ones. I have seen a small but nice carousel for sale. It will require a fresh coat of paint—”
Rutledge had heard enough. “Why do you think Lady Benton would wish to sell the meadow? Or in fact wish to have an attraction set up within view of her windows?”
“In light of what happened—two ladies were discussing events at the Abbey this past Monday. Ghostly villains, murder being done. On summer evenings, if she’s agreeable, we could reenact what had occurred. I haven’t been able to see her, I thought perhaps you could tell her what you’ve heard, and she would change her mind about seeing me.”
Word was spreading. And the scavengers were beginning to arrive.
“I don’t have Lady Benton’s ear,” Rutledge said, keeping his voice level, shutting down the anger rising in him. “Still, I don’t believe she has any intention of selling.”