He had the grace to apologize, although he wasn’t quite sure what the apology was for. “I shall remember that when my own chimneys whistle.” Changing the subject, he went on. “I understand there’s an airfield just beyond the boundaries of your property?”
“Yes. It was actually part of the estate, but as it was suitable for an airfield, the Ministry took it over. Well, we weren’t using it, it was fallow at the time. I’ve petitioned to have the land returned to the estate, but there is some talk of preserving it for history. I don’t quite see how, most of the buildings were dismantled in early 1919. There are foundations, the airstrip itself, and the ruins of a building or two. Hardly anything worth the trouble of preserving. Oddly enough we do hear of a visitor or two there. Mostly curiosity, although some of the men have returned, bringing their families to see where they served. Or their families come to see where they were posted, those who didn’t come back. There were quite a few of those.”
“Has the Captain’s family ever come back?”
He’d caught her off guard with his question. But she didn’t ask him which officer he was referring to. She knew.
“I—if they did, they haven’t called at the house.”
“What really happened to him?”
She sighed, shaking her head. “I don’t know. Men went off in their aircraft, even though they knew that most seldom survived past two or three missions, and they fought with what skill they had and great courage. I talked to a good many of them, when they came up to the house. They laughed, there was horseplay—they were so young. Dear God. But you had only to look into their eyes, and see old men lurking there.”
He understood what she meant. He’d seen recruits change after their first battle. The boy gone forever.
“Was he suicidal, do you think?”
“I don’t know.” She considered the question, but he knew she must have thought about it again and again since the man’s death. “He hid his feelings well. I liked him, you know. A charming man, intelligent, well read. We would talk sometimes. I invited him to dine here several evenings, because he was curious about our library. And he stayed until midnight once, reading a book. It was part of a collection, or I’d have given it to him to take back with him. But he never talked about himself. Of course, he was older than most of the flyers. Perhaps that was it.”
“Why do you think he came back from the grave to kill a man whose body we still haven’t found?”
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, what her answer would be.
She surprised him. “I don’t know. I only know what I saw,” she said simply. “I had wondered, waiting for the police to come, if it was something that had happened some time ago, and somehow I was able to witness it years later.”
Frowning, he asked, “Are you saying that you believe he might have killed someone in the past?”
“I’m not sure what I’m trying to say. I do know what I saw. I am at a loss to explain it. Even to myself.” She shrugged slightly. “I know Inspector Hamilton believes I’m mad. And Dr. Wister wonders if I am ill, and he hasn’t been able to diagnose that illness yet. Perhaps both men are right. All I can tell you is that madness doesn’t run in my family. At least there’s no record of it occurring.”
Every time Rutledge thought he had formed an opinion of Lady Benton, she showed him a different face.
“Who was the victim?”
“I have no idea.”
“How was he killed?”
“I’m not even certain it was a man, you know. He was there, and then he fell, and the—his killer—rushed forward to stand over him. And then he looked—he looked up at my window, as if he knew I was there, watching. I stepped back. When I dared look again, there was nothing there. Neither the victim nor the killer. Just the night.” She shivered.
“Perhaps you dreamed it?”
“I was awake, Inspector. Fully awake. I’d gone to the window as I often do to watch the moon rise. My husband and I would stand there and watch it together, some nights. And so it has become a habit for me. After a busy day, it’s in the quiet of the night that I miss him. And—as you say. It’s comforting.”
He asked her then if he could see the window.
“Yes, of course. This way.” She led him through another series of rooms to a second staircase. “This is the newer part of the house—that is, not the fabric, but the interior. My husband’s father won a great deal of money on the Derby, and brought the living quarters into the nineteenth century. I have been very grateful.”
He had kept his bearings, and thought that the room they entered was in the east wing, overlooking the distant estuary. It was large, and actually quite pleasant, with a high ceiling, the wallpaper dark blue with a pattern of silver fleur de lis, the colors picked up again in the draperies and the carpet as a soft gray and blue. After the formal state rooms he’d passed through, this one was bright, with three windows across the outside wall.
“My father-in-law slept in the old Master Bedroom suite until he redid these rooms, and then moved the family across to this wing, with real mattresses and conveniences.” She had crossed the room as she spoke and reached up to pull the curtains wide. “We always slept with these open—heresy to my husband’s old housekeeper, who believed that one must shut out the miasmas of the night.”
As Rutledge joined her, he could look down on a narrow terrace with steps leading down to the lawn. Wide borders enclosed this, set in patterns of colors. It was a private garden, he thought, with a small fountain in the center and wrought iron chairs, painted white, at the far end.
“Where were the figures?”
“They came up from the left—the direction of the airfield. There’s an arch in the hedge just by the terrace. One was ahead of the other, and when the second figure appeared just below us, by the terrace steps, the other man stopped and turned. He was just there, near the little fountain. It’s a cupid, a pretty little thing. Then he backed away as the second man started forward. See where the colors change from red to pink? There, more or less, is where he stopped again. And the second figure kept moving toward him . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“And what happened next?”
She took a deep breath. “The man with his back to me—the victim—was moving when his knees suddenly seemed to buckle—and he went down, falling slowly forward onto his face.” Her voice changed. “I—he didn’t move, you see. Not after that. And—and his companion—his companion looked up at this front of the house, as if he could see me here in the window. But he couldn’t—I’m sure of it—I wasn’t close to the glass.”
Rutledge thought she was trying to convince herself. And so he waited.
She drew another deep breath, trying to steady herself. And failed. “I stood there, frozen. Then—then he walked forward. He passed the man on the ground without a glance. Still looking up. Moving straight toward the terrace, and the doors there, as if he intended to come into the house. That’s when I recognized his stride, you see. And even in the moonlight, as he drew nearer, I recognized his face. It seemed to glow from within, somehow. I was in a panic. I knew who he was—and I knew he was dead.” Her fear was real, even now, her hands trembling although she at once clasped them together to stop it. “I turned and rushed to lock my door and even pushed that chest across in front of it.” She turned slightly to point at a tall chest just by the door. “By the time I could cross back to the window, he was nowhere to be seen—but the other man—the one who had fallen down—was gone as well.”