“I’ve been through nearly every room in that house. There’s nothing that I can find to account for anything that’s happened. And yet it’s clear the house is at the center of what’s going on. Or the airfield. I haven’t decided which, to tell the truth.” They were on the main road now.
“God knows there’s enough in that house to make a poor man rich. And you wouldn’t have to be greedy about it. I don’t know much about the paintings, but even I can see the silver everywhere. Tea services—those platters—that bloody great ship on the dining room table. Just the inkwells and the serving spoons would be enough to set up most people for life.”
Rutledge shook his head. “It would be hard to sell many of the treasures. They’ve been cataloged for death duties twice over. Still, if you know someone who could melt it down, you could sell the silver itself.”
“Did you see that cabinet in the library? An entire fox hunt—riders, dogs, trees, even a grinning fox—all in silver. My wife would faint if I brought that home one Wednesday after market day.” Then, more serious, he added, “If most objects would be hard to sell, because they are famous, just what is someone after in that house?”
“I don’t know. Nor do I know what the airfield has to do with anything.”
They stopped for the Inspector’s bicycle, and Hamilton said morosely, after it had been lashed to the boot, “My grandfather always claimed there was Viking treasure to be found somewhere here. There was a famous battle, you know. Long before the Normans came. The Anglo-Saxons against the Vikings. Fairly bloody, but the Vikings won. My grandfather said that while they were fighting, an Anglo-Saxon thane found their treasure ship, took everything out of it, and hid it. Then he was killed in the battle, and the secret went with him. But none of that appears in any history of Walmer. Yet the story survived all these centuries.”
There were stories of buried treasure all over the country. If the monks hadn’t buried it before being attacked, the invader had buried his plunder before he did battle. King John was even said to have lost the English treasury when he crossed The Wash in Norfolk.
“If that was what they were after, someone would have been digging up the meadow every night after dark. Or the Abbey gardens. No, if something is buried there, it has nothing to do with Vikings. But it’s worth killing for. And that’s what worries me.”
Even as he said the words, Rutledge had a sudden image of Mrs. Dunn’s worn face, as she asked him to find out what had become of her son . . .
Had Patricia Lowell somehow learned where he was? Alive or dead . . . And was killed before she could tell anyone?
10
As soon as he’d seen Hamilton safely home, and the bicycle unloaded, Rutledge turned around and drove back to the Abbey. He left his motorcar down by the hedge where it wouldn’t be seen and walked back to the house.
He let himself in with the key Lady Benton had given him, and after standing in the stairwell, listening, he quietly made his way through the rooms to the great hall. The stained glass in the window above the main door made a pretty pattern against the floor as he went to the stairs leading down to the undercroft.
He had brought his torch with him, and now he scanned the steps carefully.
There was no evidence that someone had laid a wire across, hardly visible in the dimness of the stairwell, to trip up Lady Benton or anyone else who started down.
Only partly satisfied, he turned the light against the far wall, finding the place where Lady Benton had struck her forehead as she lost her balance. There was still a faint smear of blood on the rough stone surface.
The account he’d been given matched what he’d found here, and he flicked off his torch, preparing to leave.
As he started back up the steps, he nearly ran straight into Lady Benton.
“I’m sorry—”
His words clashed with hers. “I thought you might be here—”
She had pinned up her hair, but she still wore the clothes he’d seen earlier.
“I thought there might be signs that someone had left a wire across the steps.”
Lady Benton shook her head. “I was pushed, Inspector. I distinctly felt a hand against my back. And before I could do anything to prevent it, I went headlong.”
Rutledge said, “Forgive me. But are you sure?”
“It was warm. Human. Not my imagination. And whoever it was, meant for me to fall and be seriously hurt. If the stairs hadn’t curved, I’d have gone all the way to the bottom. The floor down there is flagstone.”
She turned to walk back through the hall, and he followed her. “That means that someone is in this house. I’ve just been round to all the doors, and they’re locked. Just as they were last night. How, then, did he get in? And—is he still here?”
“I don’t know. I came back to find out.”
“Do you have any idea just how many places one can hide in this house? I do. Eric loved to play hide-and-seek with his friends from school. We’d have them for a weekend. And as long as they didn’t break anything in the state rooms, they had the run of the house.”
They were walking to her sitting room, and when they reached it, she went to the decanter on a table by the hearth and poured two whiskies, one for herself and the other for him.
“Don’t tell me you can’t drink it because you’re on duty,” she said brusquely. “I prefer not to drink alone. It’s a dangerous habit to fall into.”
“You were unconscious. Do you think whisky is a good idea?”
“We’ll soon find out. The tea Margaret brought me didn’t help me. Or harm me.”
She sat down in her favorite chair. “Will you spend the night in the house, Inspector? For the first time, I am not comfortable in my own home.”
“I think it might be a very good idea.”
“Thank you.”
He said after taking a sip of his whisky, “Do you trust Margaret?”
She stared at him. “What do you mean, trust her?”
“She’s in your confidence. She knows your schedule. She knows your way of doing things. She’s often, so you told me earlier, the last person to leave.”
“Of course I trust her. But I’m no fool, either. I inspect the doors every night. I read the ledger of guests, the money we’ve taken in, I keep a watchful eye on my house and my accounts.” She sighed. “I have to depend on someone. I believe Margaret deserves the trust I have in her.”
Rutledge took that with a grain of salt, but said nothing.
When she had finished her whisky, she rose and set her empty glass on the tray. “We might as well start with the ground floor.”
He finished his glass as well, handed it to her. “The monks in abbeys that were in danger from invaders often had a way of escaping if they were trapped in the church. Is there anything like that here?”
“No. Nor is there a priest hole. The Bentons were thoroughly Protestant, which is why they were in King Henry’s favor.”
“You’re certain of that?”
“When his father died, my husband went through archives. If he’d found any such thing, he’d have told me. And Eric.”
Then someone with access to this house was involved, he thought to himself.