“Let’s get out of the rain,” he said. “I’ll take you to the hotel for a cup of tea—or would you prefer to go home?”
“Not to the Hall. People will ask questions. And I know I can’t school my face well enough to convince Margaret that all is well. I’d rather not frighten them.”
“The hotel, then.” He led her back to the motorcar, and they drove back up the High to the hotel.
He asked for a private parlor for her, and they were led to a small but pleasant little room overlooking the back garden.
They were divesting themselves of their wet coats when the tea came.
The woman bringing it in said with a smile, “The kettle had just come to a boil, but you’d best leave it a minute or two. I’ve added some cakes.”
She set the tray on a small table, and left them then.
Lady Benton sat down by the little table, without thinking, accustomed to being the hostess.
She hadn’t said anything on the short drive to the hotel. And now she sighed, looking down at the teapot in front of her. “I’ve known Patricia for a very long time. I can’t imagine her being involved in anything that would harm me or the Abbey. She’s a kind person, a conscientious person. If I ask her to take care of something, I know it will be done well.”
“I don’t believe I’ve met her.”
“Did you go into the croft at all? She’s in charge there. People like her.”
He tried to recall the woman behind the counter. He had a vague memory of a pleasant young woman, smiling and helpful. Dark hair. Blue eyes?
“Not the sort of person to find herself in trouble. Or to leave me without a word. Something has happened to her, Inspector. What I don’t understand is why.”
“Any hint of problems in regard to her husband?”
“Good heavens, no. George was a lovely man, I liked him from the start, and I thought it was a fine match. He was one of Eric’s friends, actually. That’s how they met, you know. He came to a birthday party, Patricia was there, and if you believe in love at first sight, it happened that evening. Afterward, George found a dozen excuses to visit us, it was quite comic in a way, and then he’d borrow a horse or a bicycle, and we wouldn’t see him for an hour or two. He’d come back to the Abbey, grinning, pretending he’d got lost on one of the country lanes or that he found a quiet place for a walk. Eric and I said nothing, we knew what drew him back to us. And we were as happy as George’s ’s parents when they were engaged. Eric was best man at the wedding.”
She seemed to remember the tea, and poured two cups, passing him one of them.
“Well, you needn’t hear their entire history. But I assure you, George had no enemies, and neither did Patricia.” She handed him the plate of little cakes.
“Did she ever have problems traveling back and forth to the house?”
“Of course not. I do know she didn’t care to pass that pub. Not that any of the patrons ever troubled her. It’s just that the owner is rather odd, and he’d stand in the door sometimes, watching her ride past. I told her several times that if she had any misgivings about traveling that road, I’d send someone for her and take her home again. She assured me that she didn’t need to be given special treatment.”
“Still, she was younger than most of your staff. Is that true?”
“It is.”
“I’ll leave you here, if I may, and speak to Inspector Hamilton. He may have something that will help us.”
Lady Benton frowned. “Patricia of all people would hate to be the object of curiosity.”
“It’s necessary, under the circumstances.”
“I do understand. But her father was of the old school, that a lady never saw her name in the newspapers except for three times in her life. Her birth, her betrothal, and her death.”
He left her then, walking from the hotel to the police station.
Hamilton was in his office. “You have heard of umbrellas, haven’t you?” he asked, looking at the tiny droplets of rain on Rutledge’s shoulders.
Ignoring the witticism, Rutledge got to the point. “Patricia Lowell. Do you know her?”
“One of the widows working for Lady Benton, I think,” he said, all attention now. “Next village over but still my jurisdiction. What about her?”
“She’s missing. Two nights ago, she left for her house apparently as usual, and she hasn’t been seen since. I’ve been to the Old Rectory, and she isn’t there. No sign of a struggle. What’s more, there are no flowers on her husband’s grave, even though yesterday was the anniversary of his death. According to Lady Benton, this was important to Mrs. Lowell, fair weather or foul, and yet it wasn’t done.”
Hamilton swore. “I’ll start a search straightway. The Old Rectory has some land behind it, a small orchard, pasture for horses. Did you look into the outbuildings?”
“I did, and her bicycle is missing as well. At a guess, whatever happened took place between the Abbey and her house.”
“The Monk’s Choice is on that stretch of road. I’ll have a Constable out there.”
“What flower shop would she have used?”
“The Flower Pot—just off the High—is popular with the ladies. Start there.”
“Don’t waste your time at the Abbey. I was going room to room when Lady Benton asked if I’d go back with her to the Lowell house.”
“Find anything useful?”
“No.”
Hamilton grunted. “I shall have to apologize to her, before this is over. I’d not taken Friday night as seriously as it now appears to warrant.”
Rutledge let that go. “There’s a man named Wilbur who has been harassing Lady Benton. He’s after the airfield, or the land it sits on. Do you know him?”
“Nasty piece of work,” Hamilton said, rising. “War profiteer. Shoddy blankets, boot laces that rotted in the wet of the trenches. Nothing proved, he blamed his factory managers for the shortcuts. You aren’t saying he’s behind this business?”
“I doubt it. But I’m keeping an open mind.”
The drizzle had stopped, and in its place, fog was coming in from the rivers, settling over rooftops.
In spite of it, Rutledge found The Flower Pot easily enough. He could understand why it was popular with the ladies, as Hamilton had described it.
The front window held everything the avid gardener might desire, from a selection of handsome pots to a variety of pretty gloves, and even a black-and-white cat stretched out asleep by the glass panes.
He opened the door, and walked inside. There were flowers everywhere, from live ones in buckets of water to silk ones in attractive vases. A middle-aged woman came forward to greet him.
The last thing he wanted was to start a rumor about Mrs. Lowell’s disappearance. And so he said, “Mrs. Lowell has a standing order, I think, for flowers for her husband’s grave?”
“Indeed, and on the date of their wedding as well.” She frowned. “Although she didn’t come in for them this time. Are you here to fetch them for her? I do hope she isn’t ill?”
“When did she usually come for them? Morning? Afternoon?”
“Punctually at ten o’clock, sir. Even if it was raining. I always keep a little cellophane on hand to cover the blooms so they aren’t ruined by the weather before she reached the churchyard.” She gestured toward the array of flowers. “Shall I wrap her order for you, sir?”