“But how could he be certain the Captain would be killed? Not simply injured and able to tell the police what went wrong? Even who might have done something to the motorcar?”
“I daresay he was hoping it would be fatal. Desperate as he was, Franklin could hardly kill Nelson himself and toss the body into the sea. It might be believed that Dunn deserted. But not Nelson. Not the air ace. There would have been an uproar, and London would have sent people down here to help in the search.” People like Haldane, but he didn’t say that aloud.
“If this is true,” she asked, her voice husky, “why on earth did that man come back to Walmer? Why not leave well enough alone—leave these hidden forever?”
“For one thing, it’s possible that he didn’t know for certain just what the Captain had hidden. If this is indeed the only known photograph of Franklin, he’d want to destroy it. If it wasn’t in the Captain’s quarters, if it wasn’t in the records in Dinsmore’s office, it had to be here. And you might eventually come across it. Again, the simplest solution would be to kill you. But like the Captain’s death, yours would have to seem natural. Like a fall down the crypt stairs. It’s very likely Franklin was already planning a new life and name elsewhere, and he wanted to be certain there was nothing in the past that might follow him. He’s always carefully removed anyone who could prove who he was. For another, it’s likely that the real Franklin and Newbold, at The Monk’s Choice, are brothers. He’d feel safe here.”
“No, that can’t be true. We’ve known the Newbold family going back generations. He has no brother. Anyone can tell you that.”
“Are you sure?” he asked sharply. “Newbold’s father wasn’t married twice?”
“Of course I am sure. Ask Inspector Hamilton—or look in the church records at St. George’s. I don’t think he ever set foot outside Walmer.”
He was collecting the cuttings, and she handed him the photograph, and he took a last look at it, committing the face to memory.
Lady Benton leaned forward to see it one last time.
“Who is the bride? Is this the woman he killed? Is this Mary Elizabeth?”
“I expect it must be. Nelson’s sister sent it to him, and the clippings. She identified her on one of them.”
Lady Benton shivered. “Put that back where we found it. It’s safer there, and I don’t want to have to look at it again. And then we’ll go to the police—to Inspector Hamilton.”
“I think it’s best to wait until morning. I don’t want to leave the house unguarded.”
“You aren’t armed. There’s the gun room. My husband has a shotgun, and a set of dueling pistols that came down in the family—”
He was already closing the pair of books Myths and Monsters, crossing the room to put them back on the shelf. “That’s not a bad thought.”
She stopped halfway to the door. “Henry. At the Home Farm. Dear God, what are we to do about him? He’s got a murderer sleeping in the tack room in the barn!”
“It’s best to do or say nothing. He’s safe because he has no idea what’s happening. Leave it that way until we can take Blackburn, or whatever his name is, into custody.”
He had just turned from putting the books where they had come from, his hand already reaching for one of the lamps, to put it out, when Bruce lifted his head from the Turkish carpet and growled deep in his throat, a low, rumbling warning.
Lady Benton turned slowly, staring at the dog, then looking at Rutledge, her face suddenly pale.
Bruce lumbered to his feet, his massive head turned toward the terrace doors in the garden room on the other side of the passage.
“Keep him quiet,” Rutledge ordered her in a whisper and put out the other lamp, plunging them into darkness. She had already gone to the dog, taking him by his collar, he could hear her speaking softly to him. Rutledge joined her, and together they stepped into the passage.
He closed the door to the library as softly as he could.
She reached out, fumbling for his arm.
“This way. The gun room is this way,” she whispered softly.
Bruce was pulling against her grip, still growling deep in his throat, and Rutledge reached for his collar. “Good boy. This way.”
And she walked down the pitch-black passage as if it were noon and the doors were opened to all the rooms, letting in the light.
He brought the dog with them as she guided him. Opening doors and shutting them with ease. He had shifted his hand to her shoulder, so that both of her hands were free.
And he had a sudden vivid memory of the war, and gassed men, their eyes bound against the pain and the light, stumbling along in a grim line, each man’s hand on the shoulder of the soldier in front of him, trusting in someone ahead to lead all of them to safety and medical care.
He shuddered, remembering, saying to Hamish next to him, “Poor devils.”
He hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud.
He felt her turn slightly. “What?”
Hoping his voice didn’t betray him, he said, “Speaking to the dog.”
He felt her nod, then move on.
Rutledge had always had a good sense of direction, and he’d searched nearly every room in the house, but the twists and turns of passages in pitch-darkness worried him. He needed to know where he was, which direction the danger was coming from.
He was about to ask how much farther they must go, when in the distance both of them heard the muffled sound of breaking glass.
Bruce jerked against the grip of Rutledge’s hand on his collar, growling again as he tried to turn back the way they’d come.
There was no more pretense. Franklin was no longer playing at ghosts and hiding his real motives. This time he would kill anyone in his way.
Lady Benton hesitated at the sound, then opened a door. “Wait here.”
He could hear her striking a match and lighting a lamp. But she kept the wick low.
And he stepped into the gun room. It was hardly that, closer to an estate office, although in a case were the shotgun and a hunting rifle. On a stand were the dueling pistols in a velvet-lined case. Two revolvers had been in a third case. One was missing.
“That one is in my room.”
He opened the case and took out the remaining revolver as she handed him a box of cartridges. As he loaded it, he put the rest of the box into his pocket. “Take this. And then we need to hide the long guns.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” She had been digging in a drawer, found what she wanted there—a torch—and then unlocked the long case and took out the shotgun and rifle, handling them gently. “There’s a blanket or two in that small chest. For sleeping rough.”
Rutledge found them and took them out. When they had wrapped the weapons, he asked, “Where should we take them?”
“I know just the place.” She turned out the lamp, closed the door behind him, and led the way down a set of back stairs. The torch swung back and forth as they walked, and then steadied as he saw large sinks just ahead of him, racks for stretching curtains, and ironing boards. “When my husband was a little boy, there were full-time washerwomen, and this room was filled with steam from heating water, and smelled of lavender soap. He said.” She pointed to the larger sink, and he set the longer guns inside, then reached into one of the baskets on the floor for several sheets, piling them on top of the weapons.