Rutledge got to his feet, and set out in a jog for the stables. There he found what he wanted, an iron rake, and he carried it back to where the ashes lay.
He carefully began to smooth out the embers, spreading them this way and that. Hamish, busy in his mind, told him it was useless.
“Ye ken, it burned in the fire. That’s why it was set.”
But he kept telling himself that the hut had had to be set on fire because it would cover something that wouldn’t burn, something that would be concealed by the very ashes he was so carefully inspecting.
And then something clinked against the iron tongs of the rake that wasn’t an ember, and he brought it toward his feet where he could pick it up.
As he did, he saw that it was part of the iron door hinges.
He kept at it, found the other set, then the latch itself.
Hamish urged him to give up, but he worked on, coughing sometimes when the last of the smoke moved with the little breeze.
And finally he was rewarded. Something rolled out of the ashes nearly to the toe of his boot.
He reached down and picked it up.
At first it appeared to be a twisted piece of metal, but when he’d taken out his handkerchief and rubbed away where the fire had touched it, he could see that it was a ring. A man’s, judging from the size of it. The question was, how long had it lain under the rough planking of the flooring of the hut? Slipping unnoticed through the cracks. Who had lost it? A killer—or the men who had once worked here.
He dropped it into his pocket and continued to rake. There a charred bit of paper, a halfpenny, and what might have been a coat button. The last thing he managed to find was a key. He turned that over in his fingers. It was very like the one he’d been given by Lady Benton.
Hamish said, “It’s more likely one o’ the officers.”
That was possible too. Giving up, he raked the remnants of the hut back where they’d come from, then picked up the rake to carry it back to the stables.
Hamish said something in warning, and he looked up.
Someone was standing on the terrace overlooking the lawns, a hand shielding her face as she watched what he was doing. He couldn’t tell if it was Lady Benton or one of her staff.
Rutledge returned the rake to the stables and was about to go back to where he’d left his motorcar when he heard his name called. Turning, he saw Lady Benton coming toward him.
He greeted her, but she didn’t smile. “Where were you when we had the fire?”
“I had business in London.”
“I thought your inquiry was here?”
“It is, of course. But there was information I needed about the airfield.”
“What sort of information?”
“The names of the officers and men who lived down there at the airfield.”
“What on earth for? And as to that, I have all of their names. In a book that they signed. You had only to ask.” At his look of surprise, she said, “I bought the book, thinking that when Eric came home he might like to look through it—possibly might even know some of the men. And I kept it up, out of habit when Eric didn’t come back.”
“I’d like very much to see it.”
She led the way back to the door, and into the small sitting room. “The Major was kind enough to let me know when there was someone new, and I’d invite him to tea.” Shrugging slightly she added, “It made me feel safer, in a way. A hundred or so strangers on one’s doorstep is not usual.”
As she went to a cupboard and took out the leather-bound book, she added, “Why were you looking through the ashes? It was rather macabre. I couldn’t sleep at all last night, thinking that if we hadn’t found Patricia, she might have burned with it. That would have been horrible. Unthinkable.” She shivered a little. “I can’t forget that she died on my land. Well, once my land, and soon perhaps mine again. It makes me feel that I could—should have done something to save her.”
“There was nothing you could do. You didn’t know she was there.”
“But I knew she had gone missing, you see. I keep feeling responsible. That perhaps her death is related to the Abbey. To the—the men I saw in the private garden.”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Still . . .”
She handed him the book, and he opened it.
There were several signatures on each page, as if the men had come in twos or threes, sometimes. He found Nelson’s name, and that of Gerald Dunn, as well as the Major’s, as he’d expected. Looking up from the page where the Captain had signed, he asked, “Are these names all the men who served here?”
“Yes, as far as I know.”
“Did any of them make you feel—uncomfortable?”
“Several did,” she admitted. “Some of the ranks had so little in common with Lady Benton. As you’d expect. I tried to put them at ease, but it was clear, coming here to tea was comparable to an invitation to a hanging.”
He smiled. He’d read the names on every page, and none of them leapt out at him as a possible suspect.
She was saying, “Some of them were quite charming. I expect others wrote to their wives or their mothers, telling them all about tea here. They had probably never been in a house like this one. One or two undoubtedly believed this was far too much for one person to own. Very Bolshevik in their thinking.” She smiled. “One of the men was local, and he’d probably heard stories about the Abbey all his life. He asked to see the Madonna.”
“What did he think of her?” he asked, curious. This was very likely Gerald Dunn.
“He asked who had carved her. It was one piece of oak, and that fascinated him.”
Frowning, she added, “I was quite shocked to learn later that he’d deserted. He didn’t seem to be the sort.”
“In what way?”
“He had nice manners. He was quiet, until he spoke of his younger brother, and then he was quite animated. He clearly liked the child, and enjoyed spending his leaves with his family.” As he closed the book, she took it from him and put it back in the cupboard.
“Why did they burn down the hut?” she asked, turning back to him.
“I don’t know. Unless they feared they’d left something there that might betray them.” He took out his handkerchief and unfolded it. “I found these things.”
She came to stand beside him, looking at the items. “This key. Do you think it’s to the house?”
“We’ll try it and see.”
“And this ring. It’s rather odd, don’t you think? Not the sort of thing one might find in a jeweler’s shop.” She set it aside. “And this bit of paper. It looks like part of a ticket of some sort. Too bad there isn’t more of it.” She carried it to the window where the light was better, but shook her head. “I expect it’s nothing in particular.”
When he collected the items and put them back in his coat pocket, they took the key and tried it in each of the house doors.
It didn’t fit any of them. Turning it over in her fingers, she said, “I feel much better knowing that it doesn’t. I only gave out one key, and that was to Captain Nelson. I shouldn’t care to think someone else had a copy.”
He left soon after that.
But not to return to Walmer just yet.