Mrs. Hailey shook her head vehemently. “Leave it. I’ll sleep better. There’s already the broken window in my parlor.”
“We’ll have that mended tomorrow,” Lady Benton promised.
But Mrs. Hailey wasn’t comforted, and went on to Rutledge, “I thought you meant it—about the boat. But I worried that he’d take one of us with him.” She was still wearing her nightgown and robe, her feet thrust into a pair of blue slippers that matched the color of the robe. Her hair was still down her back. He watched as she reached up to push several strands out of her face. Her fingers were trembling. Very different from the brisk woman who helped run the Abbey.
“It’s finished,” he told her gently. “You don’t have anything more to worry about.”
Lady Benton glanced at Rutledge, but said nothing. The cooker had come to life, and the kettle was warming. She turned to her friend. “Margaret. Is there any whisky? I think we could all do with a little.”
“In the cupboard, I think. In the dining room.”
Rutledge went to find it, bringing the decanter back to the kitchen in time to hear Mrs. Hailey say, “When that shot was fired, I thought it was him. I thought he’d decided to kill one of us.”
“I was afraid he’d shot at the dog.” Lady Benton dropped down on one knee beside the dog, on the floor by her feet. Hiding her face against the long hair on Bruce’s head, so that Rutledge couldn’t see the toll the night had taken of her. “Such a brave boy,” she said softly, smoothing the large ears. Rising, she took a deep breath. “What did Dr. Wister say?”
“He hasn’t changed his opinion. Franklin will live, if there’s no infection. I’ve got to retrieve the motorcar. He can’t walk to the police station. It was bad enough, carrying him to the surgery.”
“I have no sympathy,” Lady Benton said. “He showed none to Patricia.” She bit her lip. “Roger had that photograph. Those papers. Do you—is there any real proof to show that that man killed him? To stop Roger from turning him in? Is there enough evidence to charge for that too? I’d like to see it happen.”
“It’s very likely he did. And then there’s Gerry Dunn, who probably discovered how he’d managed it. Even if we can’t prove it beyond a reasonable doubt, Franklin will most assuredly hang. There is a long list of people who died at his hand.”
“Then I wish you hadn’t missed, when you fired.” It was clear she meant it.
“I didn’t miss,” he told her.
Lady Benton asked to stay a little longer with Mrs. Hailey, and Rutledge went back to the surgery. Hamilton and Brown were still there. Franklin was awake, but lying silent on the table with his eyes closed as Dr. Wister worked with his wounds.
“I gave him something for the pain,” he said as Rutledge walked to the table. “If you’ve come to ask when he can be moved, I’d say this evening.”
“Fair enough. There’s paperwork to be done.” And one task remaining.
Another Constable arrived just then, and Hamilton said, “You’ll stay in my place. I must see this money back to where it came from. Rutledge, are you coming with me?”
Rutledge said, “I must still find the mare. And make certain the manager of the Home Farm and his family are safe.”
He went out with Hamilton, who said, “At least he’ll stand his trial. It’s a good thing you weren’t a better shot, or he’d be dead.”
Rutledge said nothing, and let him go while he walked back to where he had left the motorcar.
He could feel the fatigue setting in as he drove out of Walmer and turned to the road leading to the Abbey. As he passed it, he braced himself for what he might find at the Home Farm.
As he pulled into the yard and got out, Henry appeared from the barn. “Was it you who rode that mare so hard?”
Rutledge let out a sigh of relief.
“No. Is she back home?”
“She was standing in the yard when I woke up this morning. And I can’t find Blackburn. I had to milk the cows myself, and there’s the milking shed to be washed down, the stable to be mucked out—”
Rutledge stopped him. “I’m afraid Blackburn won’t be coming back.”
“Won’t be— Why the hell not?”
“He’s been taken up for the murder of Mrs. Lowell.”
For once, Henry was at a loss for words. “Are you mad?” he managed at last. “He didn’t even know her. And he wasn’t one to go running off to the pub, out all hours of the night. Said he was saving his wages, to marry a lass in Yorkshire. Why would he want to harm poor Mrs. Lowell? I ask you!”
“He did know her. He was at the airfield during the war. He was called Reed, then. Albert Reed.”
Henry frowned. “Did you say Reed?”
“Yes. His name is actually Franklin. Miles Franklin. I need to search his quarters. And anywhere else he might have hidden something of hers.”
“Wait, now. Mrs. Lowell stopped in to ask if she might speak to a Mr. Reed. My son Josh told her there wasn’t anyone here by that name. She was puzzled, then said she must have misunderstood, she thought he might work here. Josh remembered that, when we heard she was dead. He said he was sorry he couldn’t have helped her find the man she was looking for.”
“Was Blackburn here when your son mentioned Reed?”
“He didn’t like taking his meals with us. We made up a tray to carry out to the barn. But he could well have heard her himself, when she asked. Josh said they were working in the shed, where he was repairing a beam.”
“When did she come and ask for Reed?”
“I expect it was a Monday morning. It was the Wednesday when we heard the news.”
She had remembered Reed . . . Had gone to the Home Farm to ask why Blackburn was using a different name.
And Franklin, living there as Blackburn, had known then she had to die.
“I need to search his room,” Rutledge reminded the farmer. But when he found nothing of interest there, except for a handful of French sous, they moved on to the rest of the barn.
An hour later, Rutledge and Henry found the suitcase that had been under the bed in the smaller upstairs room at The Monk’s Choice. It was in an old well on the property that they discovered Mrs. Lowell’s bicycle.
It took another hour to drag that inch by inch to the top of the well. Rutledge had no difficulty recognizing it, though the front fender was crumpled and the basket broken. The blue ribbon was still there.
On his way back to the Abbey, he stopped in at The Monk’s Choice. He didn’t bother to knock. He pushed the door open so hard it banged against the wall behind it, and Newbold stepped out of the kitchen, saying, “What the hell—?” He broke off as he saw who had come in.
The expression on his face changed.
In Rutledge’s hand was a worn valise, still dusty around the hinges.
“You lied to me,” Rutledge said, before Newbold had stepped around the bar.
“Is he dead?” His face was drawn now. “Tell me he’s dead!”
“He’ll live to stand trial for murder.”
Newbold seemed to sink into himself. “He’ll try to take me with him.”