There was another reason for him to be chary of asking anything of the man. Rutledge had always felt that any service Haldane rendered was a personal debt rather than assistance to the Yard, and the price of that service would inevitably be collected at some point in the future. It had never been addressed in words, but there was something in the man that Rutledge, a soldier himself, recognized: a sense of duty that bordered on the ruthless.
When he left his motorcar and went up the short walk to the door, it was opened almost as soon as he’d let the knocker fall against its plate.
“Good morning, sir.”
“I’ve come to call on Haldane.” Rutledge had never known any other name, Christian or surname, by which to address him. And wondered sometimes if even that was fictitious.
“If you will step in, sir, I’ll see if he’s receiving visitors.”
To Rutledge’s ears that had always struck him as regal rather than social.
He nodded and moved into the foyer.
After several minutes, the man returned. “He will see you now, sir.”
And Rutledge was admitted to the large study where Haldane was often found working. He was setting some papers aside as Rutledge entered, careful to turn them facedown so that their contents couldn’t be read across the desk.
He greeted Rutledge as quietly as he always did, and pointed to the chair in front of the desk, his face unreadable. Hamish had commented once that he would not choose to play cards with Haldane. Rutledge had agreed.
“How can I help you?”
“There’s a small airfield just north of Walmer, on the Essex coast.”
“Yes, I seem to remember that its purpose was to watch for Zeppelins, guard the coast, and escort troop and supply ships crossing the Channel. That changed with the war. Some fine pilots in that squadron.”
“I need a list of personnel posted there. From late 1916 to the end of the war.”
“That’s a rather impressive request. Why do you need it?”
“A man was killed in a car crash during the war, and another was listed as a deserter. The officer in charge of the airfield took his own life at war’s end. Now a woman has been killed, her body left in one of the remaining sheds on the site. By themselves they can be explained away. Together, they raise questions.”
“And you believe that these are somehow connected with the men who were posted to the airfield?”
“I don’t know,” Rutledge replied truthfully. “So far I haven’t found any direct connection with Walmer itself. That leaves the airfield.”
“Or the house that stands nearby.”
Rutledge hid his surprise. Haldane knew about the Abbey. Why?
“It can’t be discounted.”
“Let me see what I can do. With no promise of results, you understand.”
“Absolutely.”
“Come back tomorrow at ten.”
It was a dismissal, and Rutledge left.
As he was walking back toward the motorcar, Hamish said, “He doesna’ tell you what’s going on in his heid. It would be helpful if he did.”
Rutledge smiled grimly. Haldane had actually told him more than was intended.
He debated going to the Yard, but chose to drive on to his flat instead. There would be questions about his return to London when he was expected to be conducting an inquiry in Essex.
As he turned the crank and got into the motorcar, he tried to imagine explaining Haldane to Markham.
For that matter, he himself was never really certain why Haldane was willing to provide information to a mere Inspector at the Yard. Unless he had very good reasons of his own for doing it. If nothing else, it might allow him to clarify something where he didn’t wish his own hand to be seen.
In this case, did Haldane’s cooperation have to do with Major Dinsmore’s death?
There were several letters waiting for Rutledge on the silver tray where his daily put his post, and he read through them, then spent two hours working on his notes. The more he looked at them, the less he felt he understood about what was happening in Walmer. Or to be more precise, the Abbey. Where could he find the key that would unlock the secrets surrounding it?
Hamish said, “Yon Lady Benton is the center of it. Ye’re tae close to see it.”
If that were true, then she was in danger. But she was connected with the Chief Constable, if only through her dead son. She couldn’t be killed without raising half the county to find the person who had done it.
Or so he told himself. Still, he hadn’t counted on being away overnight, and he hadn’t warned her to be careful while he was in London.
In his mind’s eye he kept seeing the still body of Patricia Lowell under the sheet in Dr. Wister’s surgery. He had a niggling feeling that his arrival might have triggered her death, that there might have been something she knew—but didn’t know the importance of it. And she had had to die before she became aware of it. But what could someone like Mrs. Lowell know? A quiet widow who worked at the Abbey, seldom went into Walmer, and spent most of her free time alone? She was uneasy, passing The Monk’s Choice—if she had been interfered with, it would have been the first place he, Rutledge, would have looked. But he couldn’t quite see Newbold as a killer. Besides, there appeared to be no motive. So far.
Restless, he paced the floor, was tempted to go out to dine, and then remembered that he wasn’t supposed to be in London. And Hamish, reflecting his unease, was there, waiting for him in the dark.
It was a long night.
It was hard enough to endure in an hotel somewhere in England. Harder still when he knew that in the trunk beneath his bed was respite in the form of his service revolver.
In the morning, he rose early in spite of lying awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, reliving the war in his head.
And he was on Haldane’s doorstep at ten sharp.
The manservant opened the door at his knock and said, “He asks you to forgive him for not meeting you as promised.” He produced a blank white card and a pen. “If you will leave your direction, he will contact you as soon as possible.”
There was nothing to do but leave the name of the hotel in Walmer. As he wrote that down, he had the feeling that Haldane could find him in the mountains of Peru, if need be.
The man thanked him and shut the door.
Rutledge was irritated. There had been no need to stop over in London last night. He went back to his flat and put clean clothes in a smaller valise and took it out to the motorcar, put new batteries in his torch, and closed the boot. Then he went back inside to leave a note for the daily, who would be coming in the afternoon.
He was just capping his pen and putting it in the pocket of his coat when there was a knock at his door. It was so light a tap that he almost didn’t hear it. Thinking that Haldane might have sent a message, hoping to catch him while he was still in London, Rutledge strode back through the flat and opened the door.
Kate Gordon was standing there, her face pale, her mouth set in a resolute line. And then he noticed the valise at her feet.
His surprise showed before he could stop himself, and she said, “I know, I’m so sorry, Ian, but I stopped at Frances’s house first, and she wasn’t in. Could you do me a very great favor? I hesitate to ask, but I can’t think of anyone else to turn to.”
“Kate, yes, of course, anything,” he said, and stepped aside. “Come in. We can’t talk in the open doorway.”