“Yes, of course.”
And then the guests were saying good night to Lady Benton, profusely thanking her for a marvelous evening, commenting on the beauty of the rooms by candlelight, and slowly making their way out the door.
As the rest of the party came up the stairs and began to leave, Rutledge examined them more closely. The men were mostly in their fifties, he thought, two of them probably ex-officers, their backs ramrod straight. Even so, none of them as agile as the man he’d been chasing.
From the stairs, the woman who had been serving signaled Lady Benton that they were all accounted for, and then she went back down to clear away.
Several of the women glanced sideways at Rutledge as he stood behind and to the right of Lady Benton, as if wondering who he might be. He kept an appropriately formal expression pinned to his face, all the while wishing they would hurry out the door.
And then they were gone, in a flurry of goodbyes and final words of thanks. He stepped forward and swung the heavy door shut as soon as they had reached the drive and the motorcars waiting for them.
Setting the locks and putting the bar in place, he said, “We need to talk.”
“Not until everyone has gone. If you’ll help Cynthia clear away the trays from downstairs? We can leave the rest until morning. We don’t have a tour scheduled for tomorrow.”
As she left for the kitchen, he did as he was asked, carrying up the heavy trays of food and the used dishes. Cynthia, grateful for the help, was chatting about the guests. “Sir Anthony knew the late Lord Benton,” she was saying. “They had gone to school together, and he was remembering coming here for a weekend as a boy. I think that’s why he asked to bring his houseguests over.”
He listened with half an ear, trying to finish here and move on to the kitchen.
When they got there, the tea was ready, and the staff helped themselves to the remaining sandwiches and little cakes.
Excusing himself, he went out the back passage and quietly tested all the doors. Mrs. Hailey had been thorough, and they were locked. By the time he came back to the kitchen, the staff was beginning to leave. Lady Benton or Mrs. Hailey let them out the stable yard door, and then Mrs. Hailey herself left, in a hurry to reach Walmer before dark.
Lady Benton came back to the wreckage that was the kitchen, and shook her head. “I couldn’t ask them to stay any longer. Do you mind if I wash these dishes and the silver? They are our third best, but I don’t care to leave food on them.”
Mrs. Hailey had cleared them and put them into soak. Rutledge was given a cloth and asked to dry as Lady Benton washed. She looked up once, smiling. “I’ve had any number of distinguished guests in this house, but never has Scotland Yard dried my dishes. What is it you want to tell me?”
“I don’t know what is happening, at least not yet. But it’s possible that a man who was known to have committed three murders and very likely two more, might have been a member of the squadron posted here.”
She stopped what she was doing. “How could that be? I met most of the young men who served here. Some of them were rough around the edges, but I can’t think of one of them who might have done such things. And how, pray, did he come to be in the Royal Air Force? Did they not look into the backgrounds of the men they trained?”
“He was very likely using another name. And we were desperate for men, out there. Even if his credentials were stolen, when someone examined them, they would appear to be in order. There would be no reason to question their authenticity. As long as the photograph, if there was one, appeared to match the face, the credentials were accepted. God knows, their likenesses were poor enough at the best of times.”
“No, I don’t believe anyone I met was a murderer.”
“Did you meet all of them?”
“Yes. Not right away, but eventually. Well, they had access to the grounds here, I had to be careful myself.” She finished the plate she was washing and passed it to him. “Do you have a name? Any name?”
“Franklin. Miles Franklin.”
She said the name over to herself silently. “I can tell you he didn’t use that name. But there were at least three men with the initials M F.”
“He wouldn’t have had a choice in his new name. It would have had to match the orders he was carrying. Otherwise, he would arouse suspicion. The trouble is, we have no idea who those orders were actually written for. And the man who took them over was very careful to show that he was capable of carrying them out. No one had any reason to doubt him.”
“But all the men left. Why would he come back?”
“As far as I know, he went to France shortly after war’s end—as soon as he was demobbed—before the airfield was taken down. He’s probably been there ever since. Now he’s come back to England, and we think he might have come here.”
“Why?”
“That’s the difficulty. We’ve no idea. Possibly because he can’t continue to use the false name he had assumed in France. Or even more likely, because he wants to change it, and there is something that prevents it. And he’s focused on this house.”
“But I couldn’t have known him, could I? I’m fairly certain Eric didn’t.”
Rutledge took a deep breath as he dried the last cup and set it aside.
It was a leap. Still, he asked, “Could Captain Nelson have discovered the truth, and that was why he had to die?”
“How could the Captain have known the truth? Besides, he’d have warned me.”
“He might have believed you would be safer, if you didn’t know. Until he had alerted the authorities and steps could be taken.”
She hung up the cloth she’d been using to wash up, and took the tea towel from him to hang that up as well.
“Why would this man have killed Patricia?”
“Perhaps because she saw him and recognized him. And he didn’t know just how much the Captain had told everyone in the house.”
“That’s rather awful to think about.”
“Yes.”
“Why was he in this house? If he believes I might also recognize him?”
After a moment he said, “Could he be searching for something? Not money, not something to take away and sell. For something that he believes would incriminate him.”
“Now you’ve frightened me.”
“I’m sorry. It’s what I believe. And you need to know.”
There had been something on her mind. He’d sensed it since Margaret Hailey had left them alone in the kitchen. But he had waited. In her own good time, he thought.
Now, after a pause, she said, looking out the window at the shadows in the garden. “He pushed me on the stairs to the undercroft. Didn’t he? Why didn’t he kill me then, and be done with it?”
“I don’t know,” he told her truthfully. “Perhaps because you are friends with the Chief Constable. Or perhaps because he misjudged his push, and you survived after all.”
Hamish, speaking up in the lamp-lit kitchen, the pots and pans overhead catching the light now and then, the glasses and cups and saucers lined up like soldiers on the deal table, said, “Because he doesna’ know if he will find what he’s after. The house will be shut, and he canna’ come and go sae freely.”