The main gates were still open. He got into his motorcar, drove around to the stables, and opened the wide doors of the carriage house. The Rolls fit neatly into a space behind a handsome landau with the family arms on the side paneling.
He took his time going back to the house, first searching the stables, then making a circuit of the grounds, testing the seldom-used doors. Making certain all was well, even though it was too early yet for anything to happen. The staff was still clearing away.
Hamish said, “There isna’ a reason why he’ll come tonight.”
“He can’t put it off much longer. But whatever it is he wants, he’s already taken a risk coming back here for it. That tells me he’s convinced it’s worth it. Someone—most likely Captain Nelson—could have led him to believe there was damning evidence in his possession. For that matter, we don’t know how the Captain or anyone else got on to Franklin in the first place. Franklin has been very clever from the start. He’s left no trail to follow. Unless the Captain had some reason to think Reed wasn’t the man he was pretending to be, I can’t imagine how he uncovered any evidence at all.”
“It might no’ be evidence. He kept yon ring. It could be anither thing that belonged to the real Albert Reed.”
Rutledge shook his head. Then realized he’d been talking aloud to Hamish for a good five minutes. Breaking off, he went back toward the stables.
Using his key, Rutledge let himself in to the house and locked the door behind him. As he opened the sitting room door, something large and dark came at him fast.
“Bruce!” Lady Benton commanded him. “Down.”
But the shaggy gray animal was trying to lick Rutledge’s face. He caught the big paws resting easily on his shoulders, and set him down.
“I told you, he’s not too bright. He took you for a villain as soon as he heard you at the outer door. Long before I knew you were there, I heard him growl. But I don’t think he’s going to be much protection.” She handed him a handkerchief to wipe his face.
“He got here quickly enough.”
“Yes, he lives just up the road, toward Walmer. Mrs. Hailey is locking up, then I’ll make my rounds. Will you stay, at least until I can learn to manage Bruce? We don’t have another tour scheduled for today. She tells me there is a sufficient amount of sandwiches left for our supper.”
But he had already made up his mind to stay.
When the usual routine of closing up the house had been carried out, Rutledge went round with Lady Benton to be certain the locks were in place and all the lamps had been turned out, while Bruce whined behind the door of the sitting room.
They spent the next hour going back over the past.
Rutledge hadn’t told her that he believed Franklin had killed Captain Nelson because he had somehow stumbled on the truth. That was the only explanation for the death of Gerry Dunn after the Captain’s crash. A mechanic himself, Dunn might well have discovered whatever had been done to the motorcar to cause it to crash. His mother had said he was mad about all things mechanical.
And so when they had brought a fresh pot of tea back to the sitting room, Rutledge said, “Did the men from the airfield come inside?”
“I’ve told you. I spoke to all of them, but in various places. On the lawns, in the kitchen, the old butler’s quarters. The Captain had the run of the library, but that was because I trusted him to be careful, discreet, and to lock up when he left.”
“Could the Captain have put something in the house for safekeeping? Something he wished to keep private? Flying as often as he did, he left his quarters unguarded. Anyone might go in. And he was killed in the crash before he could recover it.”
“What could he possibly have wished to leave here? And why didn’t he tell me it was here?”
“I don’t know. Something about the squadron, perhaps?” Rutledge wasn’t ready to tell her that it might have to do with a murderer.
“That’s not like Roger—Captain Nelson. If there was a problem at the airfield, he’d have gone straight to Major Dinsmore. And he only came into the house to borrow books.”
“Then we should go to the library.”
Once in the handsome room with its row on row of books, shelves climbing nearly to the high ceiling, with several lamps lit to enable them to search, it appeared to be a daunting task. They had brought Bruce with them, and as he curled up on the hearth rug, content, Rutledge asked, “What in particular did the Captain like to read?”
“The Classics. Books on navigation, history—memoirs. I never asked. I saw him with a Cicero once, and again with an account of the Great Mutiny in India. We had a fine collection of books with lovely plates of Greek statues. I pointed those out to him, myself.”
Rutledge considered shelves running around the room. “Did others know his tastes in reading?”
“I have no idea.”
Then Hamish spoke, and Rutledge turned away, to hide his expression.
“He wouldna’ leave anything in a book he had read.”
And that made a certain sense. Rutledge began to scan the shelves. He found a book on flowers of the world, and took it down to search. Lady Benton, watching him, said, “I see what you’re thinking. That he would choose something less likely to appeal to him.”
It was almost as if she too had heard Hamish’s comment.
She picked out a book on the development of firearms, another on the Moghul Empire, and two on ancient architecture. Rutledge meanwhile looked through a multivolume set of County Records.
He moved the ladder and climbed to look on the higher shelves.
Bruce lay snoring on the Turkish carpet in front of the hearth.
Lady Benton sat down, resting her head against the back of her chair. Looking at her hands, she said, “These shelves need a good dusting.”
A few minutes later she was back at work.
It was growing late. Rutledge looked at the tall coach clock on the mantel, and decided they could devote only half an hour more to what was becoming an impossible task. It would, he thought, take several people days to do a thorough search.
He had just found a three-volume set on fishing in Scotland when Lady Benton said in a surprised tone of voice, “Inspector? I think—you ought to have a look.”
He climbed down the ladder and crossed the room to where she was standing.
Rutledge couldn’t have said afterward exactly what he was expecting to find. Anything, from a newspaper cutting to a letter from the real Albert Reed’s solicitor trying to find him, even a military file.
Instead Lady Benton was holding a photograph.
It was of a wedding party. The bride and groom, smiling. A bridesmaid beside her, and another man standing next to the groom. It was an excellent photograph, quite sharp, quite clear.
“What is it? Do you recognize these people?” he asked.
“No. Well, yes. That’s to say—I’m not sure—perhaps the groom?” Her voice was doubtful. “Who are they? Ought I to know them?”
“Possibly. Someone did, or the photograph wouldn’t be here. Tell me who you think he might be?” Rutledge tried to keep his voice level—interested, but not alarmed.
Her answer was not what he was expecting.
“I’m not sure. He’s so much younger here.” She shook her head. “He’s—well, I believe he’s working at the Home Farm. Henry took him on for the planting season. I’d told him to look around for a man. He’s getting too old to do everything. Even with that new tractor.” She shook her head. “I’ve only seen him once, at a little distance . . . always working.” Looking up at Rutledge, she said, “But why is his photograph—I expect it must be his wedding photograph—in one of our books?”