Rutledge felt a sudden, unexpected urge to laugh rising in his chest.
A tall black horse, wearing a blanket, stared calmly back at him. And yet in the fog, the shape had been almost human. The odd headgear was nothing more than its ears pricked forward. As if it had come to look for human company when it heard their voices.
Behind him, Lady Benton called anxiously, “Inspector?”
“It’s all right. Just a horse.”
But she wasn’t convinced until he opened the gate and took her across the lane to see for herself.
“It—it’s one of ours—yet it appeared—appeared grotesquely human,” she said. “And I can’t think why it should be in this field. I must have a word with Henry. He’s in charge of the tenant farms.” She reached up to stroke the horse’s nose, as if making sure it was real. And as she did, Rutledge saw that her hand was still trembling.
The horse blew, reaching down for more. But she pushed it away, telling it to go home, and it turned and ambled away, like an obedient dog.
They went back across the lane, and once more started toward the house door, along the line of hedges.
As she handed him her keys again, to unlock the door, Lady Benton said, “Would you care to come in? I don’t know what Mrs. Hailey has left for dinner, but there’s always more than enough for two. And I can manage to put a kettle on.” It was an attempt at lightness, but he could hear the undercurrent of lingering shock.
“That might be a wise idea,” he agreed. “To be sure all is well.”
They locked the door behind them and made their way down to the kitchen, Rutledge carrying the lamp that was waiting on a side table in readiness.
Shadows danced in the great rooms as they passed through, briefly catching a line of gold frame or a tall silver candlestick, casting shadows across the bust of King Charles or a pair of marble nymphs dancing together. In the dining room the salt cellar shaped like a galleon in full sail seemed to move in the silver water beneath its hull. In the flickering light, the Madonna took on a malevolent appearance, sad eyes peering over the veil at them.
Rutledge found himself thinking that Lady Benton was a brave woman to walk through this house after dark. But then it was familiar to her, not as foreign as it was to him.
In another hall, they went down steps into the kitchen quarters, the lamplight catching on the row of brass bells on one wall, before she lit two more lights to brighten the large room with its gleaming cooker and an array of pots and pans hanging above the worktables.
“We can take a tray to the sitting room,” she suggested as she reached for the kettle, and then stirred the cooker into life. “Or eat here. I sometimes do, if I’m too tired to bring my dishes back down.”
“This will do nicely.”
He helped her set out the plates of food that had been left for her, as she made a pot of tea and found a tray of tarts in the pantry, along with a pitcher of milk.
As she worked, Rutledge said, “What do you know about The Salt Cellar? It’s a pub down by the harbor.”
“It serves rather rough custom. At least that’s what the men from the airfield told me. They didn’t care to go there. As far as I know, it’s never been more than a nuisance. Mostly occasional drunkenness, that’s all I’ve heard. Why?”
“I was driving past it and noticed the rather unusual sign. Very clever. I haven’t gone inside.”
“Yes, there was a smith in Walmer who did wonderful things. He made the rack for the bells, there by the stairs. He’s gone now, sadly. As for the pub, the owner is rather an odd sort, or so I’ve heard. Bill Johnson is his name.” She smiled. “His mother was one of the leaders of the Temperance movement, which was probably his reason for buying the pub in the first place. She lived and breathed sobriety, responsibility, and self-respect—firm middle-class Victorian values—and no doubt it was tiresome to hear it night and day at home. Margaret—Mrs. Hailey—avoided Mrs. Johnson if she could. Demon gin and demon beer were all she talked about. The other pub by the harbor, The Viking, is less savory, and there’s been talk about closing it for the public good. But in its day, when the salt ships came in, it was quite popular.”
The tea had steeped and the sandwiches were ready. He dropped the subject of The Salt Cellar and asked instead about the other women who worked at the Hall.
“They’re good for me. They give me the energy to keep going. It’s a daunting responsibility to keep up this house. I’d probably be wiser to sell it or hand it over to the Trust. But it feels like such a betrayal. It’s been in the family so very long.” She shrugged lightly. “Women have had to take on such responsibility because of the war. Mrs. Hailey would never have considered being a housekeeper, but she enjoys coming here every day. Mrs. Peterson had never dusted and polished furniture in her life, but she finds taking care of the rooms such a pleasure I never have to show her what needs attention. On the other hand, Mrs. Broughton discovered she’s a remarkable needlewoman, and she can work wonders with frayed bits of chairs and drapes and tapestries. They are widows, their children grown and flown, as Mrs. Napier likes to say, and they found time heavy on their hands.”
She stared down at her plate of food, her concern for Patricia Lowell, returning as she talked about her staff. “These are not women who cause anyone any trouble. I can’t imagine what’s become of Patricia. Why anyone would wish to harm her.”
“We’ll find her. Try to rest tonight, and leave it to Hamilton to conduct a thorough search. He knows his patch.”
“I wish that was a comforting thought,” she told him. “I feel so responsible—I’m afraid that whoever is behind this has something to do with what happened to me. It can’t be purely coincidental.”
“You aren’t responsible for what happened last Friday night.”
Sighing, she replied, “Then why can’t I believe that?”
The meal finished, she went with him back to the door leading to the stables, and as he stepped out into lingering fog, she said, “So silly of me to be unsettled by a poor horse, looking to see who might be wandering around the stables.”
“We were both taken in by it,” he reminded her.
“Good night, Inspector. Will you be coming by tomorrow?”
“Very likely. Good night.”
He waited until she had locked the door behind him, then walked on to the stables.
The horse had gone. His gaze swept what he could see of the pasture, but he couldn’t say with any certainty whether the horse was still there somewhere or had been taken away.
Putting on his Wellingtons, he climbed over the fence and began to make his way through the shrouding fog. Hamish, grumbling, went with him.
He found the horse finally, but in another field. It was grazing and raised his head to stare at Rutledge before going back to feeding.
When Rutledge reached the fence again, he took out his torch to scan the long grass where the horse had been standing. Even with its light he couldn’t see anything that might have drawn the animal to that particular spot. No apples, no corn scattered about.
He went back to the stable yard and pulled the motorcar out into the lane before closing and locking the gate behind him. Instead of driving out to the main road, he turned off his headlamps and went instead down to the shadows cast by the hedges that separated the house grounds from the once-wild meadow.