There was a sneer on the man’s face now. “Oh, aye? And how many people have you killed?”
With an effort of will, Rutledge kept himself from showing his shock. He said, something in his voice now that wiped the sneer from Newbold’s face. “I was in the war. I know how it feels. And the first time is the easiest. Be careful that they don’t turn on you.”
And he turned, walked out, and left the door standing wide.
By the time he reached the motorcar, he’d got himself under control. But Hamish was hammering at him, and his voice, when he spoke to Lady Benton as he got beside her, had an edge to it.
“I believed you were having a rest.”
“I couldn’t sleep. And since you hadn’t spoken to that man, to ask if he’d seen Patricia on the day she went missing, to see how far she might have got—or even if she had been taken at her own door—I asked him myself. Do you have any idea what it’s like, waiting for news?”
“And you expected him to tell you the truth?”
“Did he tell you the truth?” she demanded.
“If he’s a part of what happened, he wasn’t fool enough to keep either the bicycle or Mrs. Lowell at The Monk’s Choice. For the simple reason that he might have seen her that day.”
“I did learn one thing,” she said, angry with him. “I learned that she had pedaled past the pub ten minutes after she’d left the house on her bicycle. That’s about right.”
“The distance between the Abbey and the pub is shorter than the distance between the pub and Mrs. Lowell’s house. When they took her, whoever they were, they’d have waited until then. It’s more open there. The Home Farm is between the Abbey and the pub. There are several pairs of eyes there.” Exasperated, he said, “Look, if I wished to abduct Mrs. Lowell, I’d allow her to see the house ahead of her. She’d feel safe then, past the dreaded pub, within reach of sanctuary. It was broad daylight, after all, they couldn’t just rush up behind her and throw sacking over her head. Even in the open.”
She looked at him. “That’s cruel.”
“People who kill usually are cruel.”
Silence fell.
As they turned in at the stable yard, he said, “They were very likely waiting in or near that little shed, where Mrs. Lowell usually keeps her bicycle. Then they took it with them to throw doubt on her whereabouts. After she was killed, they had to rid themselves of it. Or whoever had been hiding it, wanted to have it gone before it was found in his possession. And while they were about it, I stumbled into the thing in the fog.”
She shivered. “I can’t bear to think about it. About how frightened she was. But why did they kill her?”
He’d asked that question before, and had no better answer now. And so he said, “It would have been quite easy to abduct you today, walking along that road alone, and no one to know where you had gone, or when. It wasn’t very safe.”
“I can’t imagine anyone wishing to abduct me.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Lowell had no idea anyone would take her—or kill her.”
He came around to open her door. “What is missing, that someone needs to find?”
“What?”
“It must have been either something Mrs. Lowell saw that cost her life, or something she knew. Would someone who had been here during the war have trusted her to keep something for them, while they were away fighting? Something someone else now wants?”
“Surely not! She wasn’t that close to any of the squadron. Friendly, yes, but not close enough to encourage confiding in her.”
“Did her husband send her anything—a souvenir—something in a letter that might have caused trouble if it were known?”
“If he had, she would have asked me what to do about it. She wasn’t a secretive person, Inspector.”
He took a deep breath. “There’s a piece of this puzzle that’s missing. Does this really have anything to do with the war? Or is that only because the airfield is out there, confusing the matter. I wish I knew.”
She stared at him. “I have no earthly idea what you’re asking me.”
“It isn’t important.” It was. But he still didn’t know why, and she was already unsettled enough by what had happened.
“Then why are you still here?” she asked. “If my ghosts and Patricia’s dying aren’t important? No—I can find my way to the house. Thank you.” And she strode on toward the door, leaving him standing there.
Rather than ask Lady Benton, Rutledge drove all the way back to Walmer, interrupted Inspector Hamilton’s day once more, to ask, “I need to find Margaret Hailey. Any idea where she lives?”
“Mrs. Hailey? Here in Walmer.” He gave Rutledge the direction.
It was an older house, set back from the street, with a small garden in front. It was a prosperous part of town, not wealthy so much as quite comfortable. As he drew up in front of number 14, West Road, he wondered why Mrs. Hailey needed to work at the Abbey.
Hamish said, “She’s the kind of woman who doesna’ want to sit still.”
And Rutledge thought that might very well be true. When he knocked at the door, she answered it wearing an apron.
“Oh,” she said, staring at him. “I thought you were the neighbor’s boy. His mother isn’t well, I was making soup for the family. Come in. Has Lady Benton sent for me?”
“I’m here as a policeman,” he said, smiling to make his words less official.
“Indeed.” She led him into the parlor. It was what he’d rather expected, tidy to the point of stiffness, although it was an attractive room, bright and pleasant with the sunlight coming in the windows. They were polished to such a perfection that the glazing might not even be there, it was so clear.
“Is it about Lady Benton? Or Mrs. Lowell? She’s been very distressed over Patricia’s death. And the fact that it was on her own property—or will be as soon as the meadow is returned to her. She feels somehow responsible. I think that’s why she fell, too much on her mind to pay attention.”
“You don’t believe she was pushed?”
Mrs. Hailey sighed. “I don’t know what to think—except that the house was locked. We aren’t careless about that, Inspector. I close up and Lady Benton herself makes the rounds again, after me.”
“A window, then?”
“I don’t see how someone could manage to climb through a window. Those in the rooms open to visitors are double locked. Mr. Eric saw to that.” She looked away. “Such a tragedy, losing him. I grew quite fond of him myself.”
“Is there anything missing from the house?”
“I’ve worked in that house since 1911. I know every inch of it by heart. If someone took something, I’d spot it at once. Not to speak of Lady Benton.”
He considered that for a moment, then asked, “Is there something that ought to be there—but isn’t? Or isn’t, any longer?”
“Death duties were punishing, I can tell you that. But so far she’s not had to sell anything to keep the house up. I’d know if she had.”
He couldn’t think of another way to reach the answer he needed. He was about to thank her and take his leave, when she said, “Sadly, there was something Mr. Eric was sending to her from France. But it never came, and she’s always wondered what it might have been. He couldn’t say much in his letters—the censors kept a sharp eye out for anything that mattered. But they had a code of sorts, Lady Benton and her son. They’d worked it out before he left, and so he could ask about his favorite rose, and she’d know he was going to be in the rear that week. Out of danger. It kept her going, that code.”