Aloud he said, “You gave me a key to one door. Who else have you given keys to?”
“You make it sound like an accusation. Only Margaret has a key, and that’s to the kitchen door.”
“Could someone have copied hers when she was occupied elsewhere? One of the staff, for instance. Or even a visitor.”
For the first time, she looked away. “I gave one to Roger. Captain Nelson. So that he could use the library whenever he liked.”
“To which door?”
“The terrace doors. They’re closest to the library. He wouldn’t disturb me, if he couldn’t sleep and wanted a book. Eric liked to read late at night too . . .” Her voice trailed off, and as she faced Rutledge again, her eyes were sad.
“What happened to his keys, after the crash?”
“I—I never thought about that,” she said in surprise. “When the Major boxed up Roger’s things, he returned the two books Roger had borrowed. It didn’t occur to me to ask for my key as well.”
And the “ghost” had crossed to the terrace doors, after he’d appeared to kill someone. Lady Benton had been frightened because in one part of her mind she remembered that he’d had a key when the Captain was alive.
Who had that key now?
“I must speak to Wister. He’ll know where Nelson’s belongings were sent.” But the Captain had been buried in Walmer. Did that mean there had been no one to claim his personal effects?
Rutledge said, thinking aloud, “Why was the Captain buried in Walmer?”
“It was his sister’s choice. It was during the war, travel was difficult.”
As he prepared to leave, he said, “You ought to rest. Lock your bedroom door. I will always let you know if I come back to the house.”
“You didn’t this time.”
“You asked us to leave you in peace. I wanted to see where you’d fallen.”
“To be sure it wasn’t a figment of my imagination, like the ghosts in the garden?” she asked ruefully.
He smiled. “I think your ghosts were real, and so was the hand at your back.”
“I’m glad to know that. I was beginning to fear—” She stopped. “Thank you.”
Wister was at home, finishing a late dinner, when Rutledge came to his door.
“Is there no peace?” But he invited Rutledge into his surgery, and said, “It was a nasty fall, but I don’t believe there was serious damage done. Although it could have been.”
“I agree.” He took the chair Wister pointed to. “I’ve come to ask what became of Captain Nelson’s personal effects. He’s buried here, he wasn’t sent home.”
“I’ve told you, I wasn’t here at the time. But according to his file, he had no family in England. That’s why he was buried here. Afterward, Major Dinsmore and Dr. Gregson apparently decided to give most of his things—clothing, and the like—to the church for use where they might be needed. The more personal belongings were sealed in a box, in the event someone came forward to claim them, later on.” He gestured toward the ceiling. “I expect they have long since been relegated to the attic. Want to find out?”
“Absolutely.”
And so they climbed the stairs to the attic floor and began to search.
“I haven’t been up here,” Wister was saying as they looked into another box. “I arrived with two valises and my medical kit, but Gregson was a widower, and I simply took over his house, his medical books, and his surgery until such time as I could choose furnishings of my own. So far, there’s never seemed to be a good reason to do that. I expect if I ever marry, my wife will be more than glad to sort that out.”
Rutledge laughed and passed another box Wister’s way. So far they had found Christmas ornaments, trunks of clothing belonging to Gregson and his wife, and odds and ends that had been relegated to the attic over the years of their own marriage.
And then Wister said, “Look here. This could be it.”
Rutledge came across to see what he’d found. It was a small black metal box, the key still in the lock. He turned it and lifted the lid.
Inside was an assortment of small things. A man’s belongings and military effects. Cuff links, a wristwatch, a compass, a Webley revolver, his uniform insignia, including a medal, a photograph of a woman who appeared to be Nelson’s mother, a wallet with several pound notes and coins still in it, a fountain pen of good quality, a dozen other odds and ends, pathetic reminders of a hero’s life—and a ring of keys.
“Ah,” Rutledge said. “Do you mind if I borrow these?”
“The airfield is gone. I doubt they’ll fit anything now. But go ahead.”
Rutledge thanked him, and they dusted their hands and knees as they started for the stairs. “What became of the wrecked motorcar?”
Wister shook his head. “Damned if I know. I expect it was sold for scrap. Apparently, it was beyond redemption.”
At the hotel, Rutledge took out the ring of keys and began to sort through them. He couldn’t be sure what all of them might have opened. And in the end, he scooped them up, returned them to the ring, and was starting to leave the room when he noticed something on the coverlet where he’d been sitting.
A tiny bit of yellow something. Wax? From the cheap candles they’d used in the trenches and elsewhere?
He rolled it in his fingers, but it fell apart, pieces too tiny to tell him just what it was. Yet he was nearly certain that it hadn’t been on the bed when he sat down. Nearly certain that he’d have noticed it . . .
The only way to test the keys, he told himself, was to take them to the Abbey.
He was nearly out of petrol, but it was still Sunday, and he could only hope that he had enough to last until Monday.
When he reached the Abbey stable yard, he drove on to the hedge. Getting out of the motorcar, he noticed a man crossing the field where the horse had been.
Rutledge climbed the fencing and started toward him. As if the man sensed someone else in his vicinity, he turned, then stopped short.
“Thought you was her ladyship,” he said gruffly as Rutledge hailed him. “Who are you?”
“A friend,” he said, when he was closer.
The man was dressed in work clothes. Medium height, gray hair, still streaked with the sandy color it had once been, a beard that needed shaving, and blue eyes, one of them clouded by cataracts. Still, his shoulders were straight and strong for his age, and he’d walked like a man used to long distances on foot.
“You must be Henry,” Rutledge said, remembering that Lady Benton had used his name.
“Mr. Warren to you,” the man retorted, having looked Rutledge over. “Never saw you before.”
“No, I’ve only been here a few days. In fact, I was here when Lady Benton saw the mare in this field. She said it was winter pasture, and she needed to speak with you about that.”
“Well, if she’d come herself, I’d have been happy to tell her.”
“I’m afraid she had a fall, and hasn’t felt well enough to pay you a visit.”
“Why didn’t you say so, to start. The mare is in foal. I’ve kept her close to the house, because her last foaling was difficult, and I wished to keep an eye on her. Some fool left the gate open, and she must have wandered in. No harm done, you must tell her ladyship.”