And that was why the bicycle had had to disappear . . . somewhere on the road she had encountered the man wearing it. Trouble with a tire, the chain—and she must have seen it and remembered. Why didn’t matter—the fact was, she had. And therefore remembered the man.
He put away everything he had been reading, locked all of it in his valise, and then locked the door to his room, after setting his tray from the kitchen outside the door.
Leaving the hotel, he went to Mrs. Hailey’s house.
It was late, but she was still up. As he stood at the door, he could see a light in the kitchen.
He knocked. And after a time she lifted the lace curtain in the top half of her door and looked out, a frown between her eyes. But it smoothed out as she recognized him.
Unlocking the door, she opened it and said, “Is something wrong at the Abbey?”
“No, sorry, there was something I needed to ask you, and I didn’t want to wait until morning.”
“Come in then.” She stepped to one side, and gestured to the parlor. “Could I offer you a cup of tea?” she went on, crossing the room to light the lamp on the table.
“Thank you, no.” Then, as she sat down across from him, he said, “Was Patricia Lowell working at the Hall during the war?”
“Yes, of course. Well, not for the first few months. But one of the other women knew her and suggested that Lady Benton ask her. She told us that Patricia was anxious about her husband, and it would be a kindness to put her to work. She had been rolling bandages, that sort of thing, which only made her think about wounds and death and the war. The Hall on the other hand offered a very different day. Needless to say, she was very grateful to Lady Benton, and was fast one of our most dependable members of staff.”
“When the airfield was put in, was she involved in Lady Benton’s efforts to make the men’s lives better?”
“Not at first. She was the youngest member of staff, and she was married. She didn’t find it as easy to mix as I did, or Lady Benton. She did try to help some of the shyer ones, which was typical of her.”
Ah.
He said, “Anyone particular?”
Mrs. Hailey frowned, and in her usual blunt way, she asked, “Inspector. Where do you intend on going with this sort of question?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not suggesting that there was any impropriety. I’m interested in the men of the squadron.” He improvised. “I’d like to know how they got on together, with the household, with the people here in Walmer.”
“I thought you’d come to find out who was killed in Lady Benton’s private garden.”
“One of those men pretended to be Captain Nelson. I want to know why.”
“There was a young mechanic with a stutter, and she found that he could speak normally when he wasn’t anxious or pressed. Or teased. And so she would chat with him from time to time.”
Not Franklin then. There had been no mention of a stutter in any of the articles.
“Anyone else?”
“There was a man who always spent his free time alone, a knife in his hands, and a piece of wood. I never saw what it was he was carving. He wasn’t rowdy with his mates, never took part in any games or pranks. She tried to bring him into any planned activities, but he always refused. I told her he was unlikely to change his ways.”
Franklin had used a knife on his victims in France.
Including Vermuelen.
“What was his name?”
She smiled. “If you mentioned it, now, I’d know it straightaway.”
“Was anyone else close to him?”
“I don’t know that anyone was. He kept himself to himself. Someone did say—I think it was young Dunn, the local lad—that he was a fine mechanic. Or was it Captain Nelson? He’d know, wouldn’t he? And, yes, it was Patricia who told me he’d been apprenticed to a blacksmith when he was only twelve. She thought it explained his aloofness.” Taking a deep breath, as if to remind him of the time, she added, “If I remember anything else, I’ll leave a message at the house for you.”
He thanked her, apologized again for the late hour, and left.
She had been the right person to ask, he thought, walking back to the hotel. The one person who kept an eye on everything at the Abbey including Lady Benton.
Hamish said, “She would ha’ been a guid minister’s wife.”
It was true, she would have recognized every parishioner by sight and known their family history, their needs. And made certain in her own quiet way that her husband was aware of everything that might affect his flock.
Rutledge had known women like that, and felt a healthy respect for their abilities.
But she hadn’t come close enough to the man carving wood to notice his ring . . .
Patricia Lowell had.
In his room, he took out the sheets that gave the names and dates of each man in the squadron. From date of birth, date of enlistment, rank and promotions, to what had been said of him in every post where he’d served. Everything a man’s commanding officer might need to know about those under him.
Except what they had done to make a living in private life.
Even crossing out officers and those who actually flew the aircraft—assuming another man’s life meant assuming his skills or lack thereof—there was nothing in the lists to help there. But what if Franklin had also been a good mechanic, and chose the man he was going to kill for his identity because he could play the part? For some reason Robinson hadn’t been what Franklin needed.
Rutledge went back to the cutting about the body in the ditch.
Hamish, seeming to lean over his shoulder as Rutledge worked, said, “There’s dependents.”
Rutledge swore.
Each man’s dependents would be listed, those who received a share of his pay and if he died, his pension. Someone who could, if questioned by the Army, report that they hadn’t heard from their son or brother in weeks or even months . . . Who might even contact the Army to ask why their loved one had failed to write. The soldier would be summoned by his commanding officer and reminded that it was his duty to see that his family heard from him. If nothing else, for the sake of Home Front morale. Rutledge himself had done just that on occasion.
He went back over page after page of squadron names, searching for anyone who had no dependents.
And there were six men who had no dependents listed—and therefore no parents or wife or children eagerly awaiting letters.
He sat back and looked at the notes he’d taken.
Howe, Jonathan. Mechanic
Betterman, Joseph, Clerk
Cooper, Allen, Mechanic
Reed, Albert, Mechanic
It was after two in the morning, far too late to call on Lady Benton. Or even Inspector Hamilton.
On impulse he went back to the article about Miles Franklin, reading everything that had been written about the man, committing it to memory.
There was damned little. He had come to the small town of Lambert Magna as the schoolmaster, married the daughter of Mrs. Lambert, a widow, and three years later had killed both of them in their sleep, along with his wife’s sister, who was visiting. No motive was discovered. Except for the sister’s remark that Franklin was tiring of his wife and a demanding mother-in-law.
Hamish said, “He’s killed before.”