He had told Hamilton that he could vouch for the Abbey, having been searching the rooms himself for other reasons. But he hadn’t searched the airfield since Mrs. Lowell had disappeared. Not that there was any chance that anyone had been there since his last visit. Still, it had to be done. Even on a night like this.
It was dark. Cloud cover and the fog had put paid to any sunset or starlight.
Taking out his torch and shielding it with his gloved hand, he walked toward the airfield. The mist was soft and damp against his face.
And Hamish was there, just behind his shoulder as he’d so often been in life. Rutledge did his best to ignore the voice, concentrating instead on where he put his feet.
When he reached the first of the foundations, he had to be careful not to go sprawling over the rough remains, hardly visible even in the torch’s shielded light. Then he began a search of the handful of small buildings that had been left standing.
He had to rely on memory to guide him as he moved from one to the other of them. They were as empty as they’d been the first time he’d explored the airfield.
Hamish was saying. “It’s a lang way fra’ her house. Rough going on a bicycle.”
“Are you sure she’s here?” he asked before he could stop himself.
“It’s as weil to be certain. Ye ken, she didna’ seem to be a woman to do foolish things.”
It was true. He’d had the same impression of Mrs. Lowell, in that brief encounter in the croft. A quiet, pleasant, sensible woman . . .
By this time there was only one building left. He started toward it—and the batteries in his torch began to go, dimming the light. Twice he stumbled over something underfoot.
This shed was taller than the others, looming out of the mist as a dark shape. He found the door, reached for the handle to pull it open—and it nearly came off its rusted hinges.
Rutledge caught it in time, shoving it to one side, then picked up his torch to shine what was left of the beam into the shed’s black interior.
As he did so, the torch went dark.
Rutledge struck it with the heel of his hand, and it flicked on briefly, then died completely.
But not before he had seen what was hanging from the bare rafters above his head.
8
Setting the torch down on the rotting floorboards, Rutledge reached for the lighter he’d been given by one of his men as they had waited for the dawn to break. It had been made from a rifle cartridge shell casing. He’d carried it ever since.
For a wonder it caught the first time he tried, and he held it up.
He’d seen Patricia Lowell only in the café, but he recognized the distorted face even in the patchy light.
And he swore.
Rutledge made his way back to where he’d left his motorcar, and without turning on the headlamps, he barely made it back down the lane to the main road. Creeping along, he took his time reaching Walmer, but there was no one in the police station when he got there.
He roused the doctor, who was already asleep. As Wister pulled on his coat and reached for his bag, he said to Rutledge, standing in the hall waiting for him, “Are you sure she’s dead?”
“I am,” he told the doctor tersely, and they went together to wake up Hamilton. “I didn’t care to leave her there, but there was no one to send or stay.”
“This fog is so dense, we couldn’t search the Lowell property,” the Inspector said, when he’d dressed and come down again, looking a little more awake than he had been five minutes before. “Did I hear you say you’d found the Lowell woman’s body?”
“In a shed on the airfield. I couldn’t cut her down—it was pitch-dark after my torch died, and I had no ladder.”
“And no idea why she might have killed herself? And at the airfield, of all places!” Hamilton asked, climbing into the rear seat of the motorcar.
“No.” Rutledge dared not turn and look at Hamilton, in Hamish’s seat.
“Damn.”
They fell silent as Rutledge made his way back to the Abbey, and took the lane a second time that evening. He looked for the horse as he passed the gates to the stable yard, but it hadn’t returned to the fence.
Hamilton fell twice on their way to the shed, impartially cursing the mist and the rubble under his feet as Rutledge, the Inspector’s borrowed torch in his hand, led the way.
Before leaving, he’d set the broken door almost in the opening, to keep the scene fairly protected, and now moved it once more, allowing Dr. Wister to step past him and look up as Rutledge swept the light up to the discolored face.
The doctor swore, as Rutledge had done.
“There was no need for this . . .”
They found the overturned stool beneath the dangling feet, and set it upright for Rutledge to stand on to cut her down.
Hamilton and Wister laid the body on the rough flooring, and then, kneeling beside her, Wister said, “You were right, of course. Dead.” He finished his examination and rocked back on his heels. “I’ll have a better idea when there’s enough light to see clearly. But I’d say she’s been dead for at least a day, possibly longer. Rigor has passed.” He got slowly to his feet. “What the hell possessed this poor woman, to die this way, and in this place? She’s a widow—was she still grieving for her husband, do you think?”
It had been the anniversary of his death—two days ago . . .
Mrs. Lowell was wearing a light coat against the chill, and Hamilton went through the pockets as Rutledge watched. He found gloves in one, and in the other a handkerchief, the key to her house, and a crumpled bit of paper.
Rutledge was still holding the torch, and he brought it closer as Hamilton smoothed out the wrinkled sheet.
I can’t go on without him
Hamilton read the words aloud in a low voice, as if not to disturb the dead woman lying there beside his knees. “Is that her writing?” he asked, holding up the paper for the other two men to see more clearly.
“You’ll have to ask Lady Benton,” Wister said.
“Not tonight,” Rutledge added. “Let’s get her out of here.”
Dr. Wister had brought a blanket with him, and they carefully laid the body in the center of it.
Hamilton was saying as they did, “We’ll have to come back in daylight. Although we’ve most likely trampled any clues there might have been. Footprints, the like.”
“I looked before I stepped inside. The floor appeared to be clean. No prints at all.”
“Where did the stool come from?” Hamilton asked.
Rutledge was searching his memory. “I’ve seen it before. In the shed out by the field. Where maintenance was done. They’d have needed it to reach the aircraft cowling.”
“Sounds about right,” Wister said. “I’ve been on several airfields.” He paused. “I also knew the doctor who served here for a year. We met in France toward the end of the war. He had to convey a crash victim to hospital in Chelmsford.”
“Captain Nelson?” Rutledge asked.
“No, no. Pilot. Broke both legs, poor man, when the motor shut down too far out. He barely managed to keep control as far as the field. Then she dropped like a stone, ended up on her nose. This was well after the Captain’s death, of course.” He rubbed his chin, his fingers scraping over the night’s growth of beard. “In the ambulance, that young man—the pilot—told my colleague that he’d seen the ghost of the Captain standing in his path as he took off. It had unnerved him, but he managed to get into the air and do what he had to do. And later, the doctor of course mentioned it to me. That wasn’t the only pilot—another said much the same thing before he died. Burn victim, that one.”