“That’s even odder. The Ministry was starting to dismantle the field after the war, and before the work was finished, a half dozen village lads decided to go there one night to find the ghost for themselves. And they saw him. They came home frightened out of their wits. When a number of the village men went back to see what was happening—more likely to hunt for a human prankster than a ghost—the airfield was empty. They didn’t even start a hare or a stoat. But the boys couldn’t be persuaded that there was no ghost. They were that certain of what they’d witnessed.” Clearing his throat, he added, “My youngest son was one of them.”
“He still claims it was a ghost, even today? Or has he forgot his fright?”
“Oh yes. He won’t talk about it. But one look at his face when he came home convinced my wife he’d seen something. I tried to talk to him about it when I got home, but he refused to say anything. Whether it was a ghost or not, who can say?”
“And the woman who lives in the house? Does she believe in ghosts?”
“Lady Benton? The Hall had once been a small monastery, a sister house to one in France. Under Henry VIII the monks were turned out and the abbey was about to be dismantled when it was granted to a Benton ancestor for some prowess or other at a tournament. He’d unseated the King or some such, depending on which historical record you want to believe. The ancestor came posthaste to have a look at his new property, tore down parts of the abbey, and turned what was left into a manor house. Quite a handsome one, in fact. It would probably be poetic justice to say the ghosts of the dispossessed monks got their own back by haunting the house. What’s more, the village has a long memory—you’ll hear the house referred to as ‘the Abbey’ more often than it’s called the Hall.”
“Most manor houses claim to have ghosts,” Rutledge commented.
“If there’s one here, I’ve never heard tales about it. Although they do tell visitors at the Abbey that one kitchen maid a century or more later swore she heard bells in the night, calling the monks to their prayers.”
Rutledge smiled. “Indeed. What about the victim in this case?”
Hamilton shrugged. “Apparently she didn’t recognize him. Nor could she say whether he was real or imaginary.” He toyed with the handle of the knife on his plate. “I can’t tell you what has caused her to be so wholly convinced that she saw a ghost do murder. I even spoke to Dr. Wister, to see if there was any medical reason. And he knows of nothing that might cause her to have such hallucinations.”
“How will she take to my poking about?”
“Truthfully? I think she’ll welcome it. This business has unsettled her. Not surprisingly.”
Hamilton began to rise, collecting his papers. “You could do worse than staying here at the hotel, by the way. There’s a small inn not far from the Abbey, but it’s mostly for drinking. Not much of a kitchen and only two very small rooms.”
Small rooms. The thought made Rutledge shudder inwardly, his claustrophobia awakening with a vengeance. He’d been buried alive in the trenches and had barely survived, leaving him with a dread of confined spaces. It was one of the reasons he never took a train anywhere, the thought of sharing a cramped compartment putting him off.
“Thanks for the warning. I’ll bespeak a room here.”
As they crossed the garden to the rear door of the hotel, Rutledge asked, “Who was the victim of the airfield ghost?”
“That’s just it. We’ve no idea. Nor does Lady Benton. Captain Nelson had no enemies. Unless you count the Hun pilots.”
It was going on seven o’clock, but Rutledge went to call on the doctor after settling into the hotel.
“You’ve come about Lady Benton,” he said, after Rutledge had introduced himself.
“Inspector Hamilton told me that he’d spoken to you about her.”
“Good man, Hamilton. He told me about his village while I was digging a bit of shrapnel out of his shoulder, just outside Ypres. I remembered that when I was finished with the Army. I wanted a quiet surgery where there were no broken bodies lined up on stretchers and no time to do a decent job on any of them. And Walmer suited me when I came here to take a look.”
Dr. Wister was young, perhaps thirty-five or six, but he looked ten years older. Rutledge wondered if he drank—there was something about his eyes that suggested long nights and unpleasant dreams. As if sleep was hard to come by.
Physician, heal thyself. It didn’t always work.
Wister gestured to the chair in front of his desk, as he walked around it and sat down. “She’s perfectly sane. I’m not convinced her eyesight is what it ought to be. But this business with the ghost and a murder . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know what she actually saw—only what she believes she saw. It was late, dark—and Hamilton would be happy to learn that it was nothing more than a bit of undigested dinner. Like Scrooge. He’s used to dealing with evidence. And apparently there isn’t any.”
“For a start, could she describe the victim? What sort of weapon was used? Was any blood found at the site? I understood from Hamilton that Lady Benton believes she recognized the killer. But was she as certain about any other details?”
“I don’t think anyone actually asked that many questions. I expect Hamilton searched, but never found any evidence to support what she’d told him. Including blood. He’s always thorough. Still . . .” He cleared his throat. “Women living alone sometimes start at shadows. Hear noises where there are none. They worry about their safety, and she lives in a very large house with no live-in staff.”
“What did you do for her? Give her a sedative, to help her sleep?”
“Well, it was the next morning, when she came in to report what had happened. Hamilton brought her to me, because she appeared to be in some distress. I got the rest of the story out of her over some very hot, very sweet tea. Apparently she’d locked herself in her room until first light, then drove herself in. No breakfast, of course. But I’m a doctor, I listened closely, and I didn’t judge. Because I could see that she believed every word of her story.”
Changing the subject, Rutledge asked, “Who did the post mortem on Captain Nelson, when he was killed?”
“Dr. Gregson, my predecessor. He died in the influenza epidemic, but he was a fine record keeper.” He gestured toward a cabinet against the wall by the windows. “I looked up the report, after speaking to Lady Benton. Just to satisfy myself that Nelson was dead. Internal injuries were severe. The wheel crushed his chest. That hedge is very old, with trunks as thick as trees, and at the rate of speed he was said to have been going, the motorcar suffered heavy damage as well. Otherwise, he was a healthy young man, nothing physically that might explain what happened, like a sudden heart event—and nothing that might have worried him to the point of ending his life. That’s to say, no fatal illness developing. Emotionally—that’s another matter. I dealt with men in France. Gregson didn’t. There might have been something that he missed.”
Rutledge looked away so that Wister couldn’t read his eyes and see what was there. But the doctor had something else on his mind.
“A suggestion?”