“Had he sent her packages before this?”
“Just the usual. A small vase made from a shell casing. Lovely little piece. One of his men did the engraving. And when he was sent to Paris to recover from a leg wound, he found a book about the Duc du Berry’s Book of the Hours in a French shop. I saw that myself, exquisite engravings.”
None of these were worth stealing, in a household of treasures.
Rutledge thanked her, then left.
He was reviewing what he knew—it seemed to be precious little—when he suddenly saw the connection he’d been unable to find for days.
What if it wasn’t the house that mattered, not directly? It was the airfield. And Lady Benton was involved only because she would soon own the meadow again?
But what would a man like Wilbur, the profiteer, want with a meadow that had once been an airfield? It had made no sense. The concept of a museum cum a children’s park in the middle of nowhere, no sea bathing, nothing that would draw hordes of Londoners eager to spend a weekend at the seaside, wouldn’t appeal to a man like Wilbur. He was more likely to cut down the wood at the far side of the meadow and build cottages by the sea.
Or if he did revive the airfield as a museum, that might cover small-scale smuggling. What better way to move small packages—even stolen goods—than in an aircraft, under the pilot’s seat or in the small compartment near the tail. A good many art treasures had been looted during the war, while there were men who had grown rich making shoddy goods for the war effort, and now wanted grand houses in which to display their wealth.
It was the mechanics who kept the aircraft flying. A stop at another field in France for some trumped-up emergency, a package added, then removed when the aircraft came in. Very likely only one of two pilots were involved. But war’s end had put a stop to the game.
Hamish said, “It doesna’ explain yon lass’s death now.”
And that was the sticking point . . .
But it did account for the disappearance of the mechanic Gerald Dunn, accused of desertion, but more than likely he’d been killed when he stumbled over something. Had he spoken to Captain Nelson, who began to ask questions?
But for the life of him, Rutledge couldn’t fit Patricia Lowell into the picture. If she had died while the smuggling had been going on, it would have been different. Why was she a threat?
Still, he could understand now why Haldane hadn’t kept his morning appointment with him. Haldane must have known another part of the puzzle, but had said nothing for reasons of his own.
And that was both maddening and intriguing.
It was nearly eight o’clock by the time he returned to the hotel. He left his motorcar in the back, but that door was locked and so he walked around to the main door.
As he turned the corner, he saw Liz, the young woman from The Salt Cellar, speaking to someone—one of the staff, he thought—on the street just in front of the hotel. She nodded to the other woman and turned away.
But not before he’d glimpsed a cut lip and a red mark on one cheek. He realized that she’d been slapped.
As the other woman went back inside the hotel, Rutledge hurried on and caught up with Liz.
“Hallo,” he said. “What seems to be the trouble?”
She turned her face slightly to keep him from seeing the mark. “I—I was just asking if there was a position open at the hotel.”
“And is there?”
“No.” Her voice caught on the word.
“What has happened?” he asked, and took her arm lightly, guiding her into the churchyard.
“No, I must go—”
“Who struck you? Was it Johnson?”
She stared at him in surprise, as if she hadn’t expected him to know the name of the pub’s owner. Swallowing hard, she said, “No—oh, no. He yells at me. It was one of the other girls. I—I nearly dropped my tray on a man, and she was angry, because he leaves her a nice tip. But he was about to stand up, and it was truly an accident.” She looked up at him, pleading for him to believe her.
“I’m sure it was. Is the hotel not hiring?”
“I-I have no experience. All I’ve ever done is wait in the pub. And—and it doesn’t have the best reputation, and I know Mr. Johnson wouldn’t give me a reference. He’s that way. He’d shout at me for wanting to better myself. And I do. I don’t want to work there any longer.” There was determination in her face.
“I understand,” he said, nodding. “Shall I have a word with Johnson?”
“Oh—no—please! He’ll let me go, and who will take me then?”
“If it happens again, you must come and tell me. I’m at the hotel. The desk clerk will give me a message if I’m not in when you come.”
“There’s nothing you can do. It will only make matters worse.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“Why would you bother?” Liz asked, suddenly wary. “I don’t even know you.”
“I’m a policeman,” he told her. “I deal with men like Johnson all the time. And expect no favors.”
“Then you must take Ivy into custody,” she said, suddenly angry. “She thinks because Mr. Johnson fancies her that she can treat me like a scullery maid!”
Rutledge suppressed a smile, for she had clenched her fists and was truly cross with Ivy. Then, as the spurt of anger faded, she said contritely, “You mustn’t do anything. It will only cause more trouble for me. Promise?”
“I promise, if you will tell me if there is more trouble.”
“But you’ll go away soon, won’t you? And then what?” She turned and walked off down the street.
Rutledge watched her go, then went back to the hotel and walked into Reception.
The clerk came out of the dining room and called to him. “Mr. Rutledge, sir? Sir? There’s a message for you. Hand delivered sir!”
Rutledge heard the man’s last words, and turned to come down again.
“What was hand delivered?”
The man went to the desk, opened a drawer, and took out a large envelope.
There was nothing on the outside, as Rutledge took it from him. And when he opened it, he found a ticket for the Dover ferry to Calais, and a map.
Nothing else.
No explanation, nothing to indicate who had sent it or why.
“Did you see the person who delivered it?”
“I was at the desk when he came in. He looked like someone’s valet, sir. Not much to say for himself, except that this was for you, and urgent. And he—er—made it worthwhile for me to see that it was delivered promptly, sir. But you weren’t in, sir.”
He thanked the man and went upstairs.
Haldane. It had to be. But why a ticket to France?
Or was it a wild goose chase, to get him out of Walmer?
When he looked at the ferry ticket, it was for an early morning crossing. Tomorrow.
That meant an even earlier start, if he was to drive there in time to make the damned ferry . . .
He packed what he needed, ordered his dinner, and went back to the Abbey. It was late, when he stepped into the sitting room. Lady Benton had left pillows and blankets to hand. He slept in the chair.
There would be a telephone in Dover. He could call Haldane from there and ask what the devil was in France. Unless it was the other end of a wartime smuggling affair . . .