Rutledge found himself agreeing, but he didn’t share it with Lady Benton.
She was saying, “Do you think he’s in the house now? That he came back while we were in the great hall?”
“There’s no way of knowing. But I think not. We’re aware now that he has been inside at least once.” But to himself he added, He’ll wait and catch us unprepared.
Hamish said something, reminding him.
Rutledge said, “There’s a favor I’d like to ask.”
“Yes. Of course.”
But it clearly wasn’t what she was expecting as he answered her. “There’s a young woman—her name is Liz—who waits table in The Salt Cellar. She’s treated rather roughly by the barmaids and some of the patrons. She applied for work, of any kind, at the hotel, but was turned away. Too many people associate her with the pub. I’d like to see her out of that situation.”
“How did you come to know this young woman?” She was frowning.
“I had looked for Nelson’s grave. And she came along. It appears she knew him, and he’d been kind to her.”
There was a flicker of something in Lady Benton’s eyes. “I don’t see how? Was she telling the truth?”
“Yes. He came to The Salt Cellar a number of times, apparently, not wishing to meet anyone from the airfield. I gather it was off-limits to the ranks. He walked her home, when she had to stay late.”
He could read her face, now. She was jealous of the time Liz had spent talking to Nelson. The Captain had been given special privileges at the Hall. He didn’t consort with prostitutes, and then call on her the next morning . . .
“He felt sorry for her. And did what he could, inside the bounds of propriety. There is no way out of what will eventually become a very different life for Liz. In the end, she’ll have to survive, and do whatever she’s told.”
“What would you like me to do?”
“The hotel is better than The Salt Cellar. Or somewhere she will be treated decently. She has very little training.”
“The women who worked there had a—a reputation, and the medical officer warned the men about possible syphilis. All right. I’ll put in a good word for her at the hotel. Or rather ask Margaret if she would. It might seem less like patronage, if Margaret handles the details.”
“Thank you.”
But her heart wasn’t in it. He could see that, in her choice of letting Margaret deal with Liz. Still, she would keep her word, he thought.
She took a deep breath, then said, “It’s late. If you don’t mind, I’ll see you out now.” And with a wry smile, she went on, “Perhaps I should find a dog.”
“Lock yourself in your bedroom. Is there anything you might like in the night? A Thermos of tea, more sandwiches? We can collect them now.”
“No,” she said calmly. “I refuse to be a prisoner in my own house. But my husband has always kept a revolver in the estate room. I shall carry that with me if I must come downstairs in the night.”
“Do you know how to use it?” he asked, alarmed.
“Yes, Eric taught me how before he went to France. He teased me, begging me not to shoot him by mistake, when he had his next leave. But he never came home . . .”
Her voice caught, and she turned to lead the way out of the kitchen.
Rutledge, following her, remembered the word on the scroll across the closed gates. A place of weeping.
For the woman walking ahead of him, the lamp held steady in her hand, it had been just that.
After Lady Benton had locked the door behind him, Rutledge went around the house and tested each door himself. Then he retrieved his motorcar.
By the time he’d reached the junction where the lane stopped at the main road, he turned toward The Monk’s Choice rather than toward Walmer.
Tonight it had what must for the pub be a goodly crowd.
Newbold was busy behind the bar, and the level of noise indicated that most of those present were enjoying themselves. They wore the usual clothing of men who worked on farms or in the salt beds. Boots with their corduroy trousers stuffed into the top, a heavy shirt and—for the benefit of the pub—a jacket over it. The ages ranged from twenty to sixty, Rutledge decided.
The noisy laughter and chatter began to fade as more and more men became aware of the differently dressed stranger joining them. They stared, reserving judgment.
Newbold’s face flushed with anger, but he said, almost civilly, “What can I get for you?”
Rutledge ordered the first half of a local brew he’d seen on a poster along the road.
Newbold served him. Rutledge, paying for it, said, “Any strangers here of late? Other than me?”
“Not here.” His voice was as cold as his expression.
“The airmen sometimes stopped in, I think.”
“Most didn’t.”
“Get to know any of them well? Anyone in particular?”
“If you’re asking if the Captain came in, the answer is no.”
“What about Gerry Dunn?”
The man behind the bar shifted his weight. “I had nothing to do with the Dunn lad. He was never welcomed here.”
“Why not?”
“His mother lived near my mother for a time. After my father died. She was temperance as well.”
Rutledge set down his glass. “I understand you have rooms upstairs. I’m thinking of moving closer to the Abbey. Shorter drive. I’d like to see what you have available.”
The man was polishing the counter with a damp cloth, rubbing at a spot that only he could see.
“I’ve taken over the best one myself. The shed out back leaks,” he said after a moment.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m seldom in my room.”
One of the patrons nearest the bar looked up and said, “Show it to him. The sooner done, the sooner gone.”
Cornered, Newbold said, “There’s no one to take over the bar.”
“I’ll be happy to have a look on my own.” Rutledge started toward the stairs, and Newbold hesitated, began to follow him, then thought better of it.
Rutledge took the steps two at a time and found himself in a narrow, dark hall with three doors facing him. He opened the one to his left, saw that it was occupied, clothes hung over the bedposts and flung across chairs, the windows grimy and the cheap coverlet on the bed stained and worn in places. The odors of sweat and stale beer filled the air.
He shut that door, discovered that the one in the middle was a shallow closet with shelves that were once intended for extra towels and bed linens but now held extra stock for the bar.
Moving on to the third door, he found a smaller room, stuffy with disuse, an underlying odor here of cigarette smoke. Otherwise, the bed against the inside wall was made, there was dust on the small washstand between the windows, the pitcher and bowl completely dry.
He turned to go, then noticed that the coverlet was long, the side he could see nearly touching the floor.
Rutledge dropped to one knee and lifted it. There was dust under the bed as well, and he was about to rise when he realized that there was something pushed far to the back wall, close to the front leg on that side.
It looked very much like a battered valise. He was about to reach for it when Newbold called from the stairs, “What are you about, up there? Doesn’t take this long to look at a spare room.”