The Black Ascot

by Charles Todd

  “Name’s Bradley. Nate Bradley. The farm is ours, now. Has been since ’14. Frank Bradley had a daughter, not a son. I’m a third cousin. I married Felicity.”

  Rapidly reassessing, his mind going back over his notes, Rutledge said, “The police report concerning the accident states that Bradley was the first on the scene, and the boy was sent to find the police and the doctor.”

  They were cutting through a small orchard, coming to a hedge that separated it from the house. He could see the roofline now.

  “You must speak to Felicity. It was probably one of the farm lads. She might remember.” He glanced at Rutledge, grinning wryly. “I didn’t think much of Felicity when we were growing up. She was rather dictatorial. “My farm this, and my farm that, making me feel like a right outsider. I avoided her as much as I could. Then in 1912, an uncle died, and I didn’t recognize her at the funeral. I don’t have to tell you the rest. We were married just before her father fell ill. He walked her down the aisle, and three months later, his heart began to go. But he held his first grandchild before he died. We’ve been grateful for that.”

  They had reached the kitchen door to the three-story house, and Bradley stopped to clean his boots on a scraper shaped like a scythe. Rutledge prudently did the same.

  Opening the door, Bradley led the way down a short passage and into the large, warm kitchen.

  A woman with fair hair and blue eyes turned from the skirt she was pressing and said, “It can’t be eleven already?”

  “I’ve brought someone to see you. Mr. Rutledge, my wife, Felicity Bradley.”

  She turned, her hand going quickly to a strand of hair that had fallen across her forehead. “In the kitchen, Nate?” she demanded, looking at the cut of Rutledge’s London clothes.

  “I didn’t think you’d mind,” he replied sheepishly as she set the iron on the cooker and smoothed her apron.

  “Mr. Rutledge,” she said, making the best of it. “You wished to see me? Sit down, if you don’t mind the kitchen, and I’ll put the kettle on.”

  He gave her his best smile. “I’ve been in many kitchens, Mrs. Bradley. And come to no harm.”

  She smiled in return, and Nate looked from her to their visitor, uncertain why his wife had suddenly relaxed.

  “I’ve come about something that happened ten years ago.” He gave her a brief summary of his reasons for calling, then added, “But your husband tells me your parents didn’t have a son.”

  Pausing as she measured tea for the pot into a silver bowl, she said, “It was their only sorrow. But I remember the crash. My father never really got over finding the dying woman. He told us—my mother and I—that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and he found it hard to accept that nothing could be done for her.”

  “He sent someone for the police and the doctor. The report says, his son. Was it someone who worked on the farm?”

  “Oh, I see what you’re asking me.” She went back to spooning the loose leaves into the bowl, then busied herself finding the cups and saucers. “You want to know who the lad was.”

  He watched her. She was debating something with herself, he could see it in the frown, the concentration on what her hands were doing, her eyes looking anywhere but at him, as if afraid of what he might read there.

  Rutledge said gently, “I must know, Mrs. Bradley. It can do no harm. Not ten years later. Almost eleven, now.”

  Her hands stopped, one of them holding a cup, the other a saucer, as if she wasn’t sure whether they went together or not. And then she resolutely set them down and looked up.

  “It was his nephew. Freddy. His sister’s boy.”

  Alfred . . . Freddy.

  Without being invited, he pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down.

  Her gaze went to the window, as if it was easier to tell him that way. “He’d spent the summer here. His mother had a miscarriage, and she was slow recovering. They sent us Freddy, and I must say, he loved the farm. Always helping, always wanting to learn. I don’t think his mother liked the cheerful letters he wrote. At any rate, she never let him come and stay again. He’d had nightmares about the crash for the rest of that summer—she might have got it out of him when he returned home and had one. She never said. My father didn’t want him to have to testify at the inquest and stir it all up again. And so he lied. I know it was wrong of him, but Freddy was so young and so disturbed by what he’d seen. Papa thought it best to say he’d come upon the crash and sent someone for help. It didn’t change anything, did it? It wouldn’t bring the poor woman back.” She brought her gaze back to him. “Well, it’s water over the dam, now. My father’s gone, you can’t punish him for what he did.”

  Rutledge flinched as the teakettle whistled, sharply breaking the silence.

  “It would depend,” he said slowly, “on just what the boy saw.”

  “My father asked him. It was obvious that something had happened and the motorcar veered off the road. There wasn’t another vehicle. Nor anything wrong on the road.”

  “We don’t know that. Because he was never officially questioned.”

  She finally turned and lifted the kettle off the cooker, and the rising note of the whistle stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

  “It would have been cruel.”

  “What happened to Freddy after that?” Although he already knew.

  “He went home in September. The third, I think it was. Or the fourth. He’d made Papa promise he could come back the next summer, but his parents sent him away to school instead. He was in the war. As soon as he turned seventeen, he enlisted with other lads from the school. They all went to training together. Then he was wounded, and sent back to England for care. He’d wanted to be a solicitor by that time, not a farmer. He writes sometimes. Empty letters, really. No heart in them. I saw him once in London, just before he was sent to France. I’ve not seen him since.” There was a note of sadness in her voice as she rinsed out the teapot and dropped the leaves into it before adding more hot water.

  “His parents?”

  “They’re still alive. I hear from them on birthdays and Boxing Day.” She glanced at her husband. “Duty notes, polite, the sort of thing one might send a stranger. My mother was hurt when they didn’t come to my wedding. Or allow Freddy to come. Or for Papa’s funeral. I always thought she was afraid we’d lure Freddy away from her and he’d become a farmer like Papa. My mother told me once that it was because her sister had had three miscarriages and was afraid she’d lose the only child she had. I don’t know. I liked Freddy. So did my parents. And he was happy here.”

  “Did you know that he was blind? From the war wound?”

  She stared at him. “Freddy? I thought—we were told it was a head wound, and he was fully recovered.” She poured his cup, handed it to him, and offered him the milk.

  “Was she ashamed of his blindness? It’s not as if he had to beg door to door.”

  “I don’t know.”

  As soon as he’d finished his tea, he took his leave. Felicity Bradley went with him to the kitchen door. “If you see Freddy—if you must interview him after all this time—will you tell him that we remember him so well, and he’s got a home here, with us?”

  He promised, and Nate walked him back to the barn and his motorcar.

  “Does it really matter—ten years on—what Freddy saw?”

  “It could. I won’t know until I ask him to tell me.”

  “A shame, really. To bring it all up again.” He shook his head.

  “A man was charged in the woman’s murder.”

  Bradley stopped short. “Are you sure of that? But you must be. You wouldn’t be here. But surely there was an inquest. The one where Felicity’s father gave testimony.”

  “The suspect escaped and has never been caught.”

  “Frank never told me that. He never spoke of the crash. The only reason I knew about it at all was Felicity telling me at her father’s funeral. She said he’d carried that memory to his grave.”


  And the guilt of his own lie? Had Bradley known more than he’d told his wife or his daughter?

  “The newspapers covered it for weeks.”

  “That may be. But we don’t get the London papers here. What’s the point in them? My days are long enough, I don’t need the worries of the world added to them.”

  They were walking through the dormant orchard, the long grasses pulling at Rutledge’s trouser legs.

  “What will happen now?” Bradley asked.

  “Nothing. To you or your wife. We’ll have to question Freddy.”

  “He may not remember. Eleven years ago? Probably best for everybody if he can’t remember.”

  “A murderer probably agrees with you.”

  After a moment, Bradley nodded. “There’s that.”

  He watched Rutledge drive away from the barn, his face sad. Rutledge saw him turn away, then walk back toward the house.

  He’d had only two hours of sleep, but Rutledge drove on to Kent. His mind was wide awake, picking through the fragments of new information, trying to connect them with the old bits. And failing dismally. There were too many lies, everyone connected with Blanche Thorne’s murder keeping secrets, twisting the truth to suit—what end?

  What did this circle of people have to hide?

  But he knew one secret, at least—why Jonathan Strange had cultivated the friendship of Alfred Morrow. Well, not precisely why, he told himself, in the sense of how Strange intended to use whatever young Freddy Morrow had seen on the Ascot road. But why the man might matter to someone who was a friend—or even foe—of Alan Barrington.

  He reached Melinda’s house in the darkness before dawn, intending to sleep in his motorcar rather than wake the household. But he had hardly reached the top of the drive when the door opened and Shanta was there to welcome him.

  He discovered later that she’d brought morning tea to his room, but he’d been deeply asleep and never heard her knock.

  Melinda was there at breakfast, looking him over with a worried eye. “You look terrible, Ian. You’re driving yourself too hard.”

  He waited until they’d been served before saying, “There’s news.”

  And she listened patiently while he told her what he’d learned about Freddy.

  “The police never questioned the boy?” she asked at the end of his recital.

  “No. Bradley kept him out of it. And the police had no reason to doubt that Freddy was Bradley’s son and had been sent to fetch the police and a doctor to keep him away from the carnage. Only Bradley and Freddy knew he’d been first on the scene until Bradley was dying. Even then, he didn’t tell his daughter or her husband the whole story. I guessed at much of it because of what’s happened since.”

  “But how will you make Alfred remember? If he hasn’t said anything all these years—if he hasn’t asked to speak to the police—if he isn’t aware that he has such information?”

  “There are ways.” Rutledge reached for another slice of toast.

  “Why didn’t Strange try to find out?”

  “Either he didn’t want to know what Morrow saw, or he was hoping Morrow didn’t remember. If the man wasn’t a threat, he didn’t have to be dealt with.”

  “Cold-blooded but true.” She cocked her head to one side and regarded him. “There’s another possibility, you know. That Strange doesn’t know where Barrington is. And therefore he doesn’t—or can’t—do anything until he finds the man. He’s biding his time. Either to help—or to hinder.”

  “I’ve considered that. But Lorraine Belmont feels he’s a threat to Barrington.” He took a deep breath. “Time to find out where I stand.” He pushed back his chair and rose, smiling at her. “Thank you. For all you’ve done.”

  “I’ve done very little. Go on, speak to him. And tell me what you discover.”

  Rutledge climbed the stairs with no clear idea of what he was going to say. When he knocked and was admitted to the room, the nurse held a basin of water in one hand, a towel and razor in the other.

  “Is he awake?” he asked in a low voice, unable to tell whether the man lying on the pillows was asleep or still exhausted.

  “We’re awake and asking questions,” the Sister said. “I’m Sister Marvin. You must be Mr. Rutledge. Would you care to sit with the patient while I go down for my breakfast? I’ll bring his back with me.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  The shades had been raised, and what sunlight there was gave the pale green wallpaper a luminous quality. Sprigs of white flowers decorated it, and the coverlet was white with green trim. Rutledge sat down in the chair the Sister had used to shave her patient.

  “Hallo,” he said quietly. “My turn to visit. You’ve met Melinda—Mrs. Crawford. She’s a soldier’s daughter and widow, and has led an interesting life. You might ask her about India. My name is Rutledge. I’m a family friend. We’re trying to make your convalescence as comfortable as possible. Matron at the hospital in Dover thought it best that you have a nurse until you’re stronger. Less work for the Billingsleys.”

  “I—don’t remember much.” His voice was thick, as if his mouth was dry. Rutledge poured water from the carafe on the bedside table and held it to Morrow’s lips. He sipped, careful not to choke. “I’m not sure I recall the journey here.”

  “Not surprising. I wouldn’t worry too much about it. The police want to catch whoever it was that knocked you about, it’s their duty. But you’re safe enough until you’re on your feet again.”

  “I can barely think that far ahead.” He shifted a little in the bed, wincing as something hurt him. “It’s odd. I can’t smell the sea.”

  “No?” Rutledge continued in the same quiet, reassuring voice. “Meanwhile, I have something to tell you. I’ve just seen your cousin Felicity. She and her husband sent their love.”

  Alfred Morrow showed the first signs of interest. “Felicity? How is she? It’s been—it’s been a very long time.”

  “Going on six years, I should think. You know her father died before the war?”

  “Yes. Mother—she had a migraine, and we couldn’t go to the service.”

  “Your uncle was very fond of you. He never forgot the summer you spent there with him.”

  “Nor I.” His voice was quiet, his gaze turned toward the window.

  Rutledge rose. “I hear Sister Marvin coming up the stairs. I ought to open the door for her. I’ll come to visit again, shall I?” Not waiting for an answer, he went to the door, nodded to the Sister, and stepped out.

  It was nearly three in the afternoon when he tapped at the door again. Alfred Morrow was propped up against his pillows, dark circles under his eyes still.

  “Who’s there?” he asked, and Rutledge identified himself.

  “I have it on good authority that there’s poppy seed cake for tea.”

  Morrow smiled a little. “I don’t have much appetite.”

  “Have you thought of going back to your uncle’s farm and staying with Felicity and her husband for a bit? I think they’d like that.”

  “It wouldn’t be the same without her father there.”

  “You never know. It would give them pleasure.”

  “I can’t see,” Morrow retorted. “It would be different.”

  “There’s that.” Rutledge let the conversation lapse.

  After a time Morrow said, “I couldn’t bear having to be led around now. I had the run of the farm when I was there. I’d never known anything like it. There were kittens in the back of the barn, a goat named Henry. I had my own pony. I’d have done anything for my uncle. I thought he was wonderful.”

  “You lied for him.”

  There was silence from the bed. Morrow’s eyes were closed. “I never lied to him,” he said finally.

  “That’s true. But you lied for him. He didn’t want the police to know the truth. To protect you, he asked you to lie. And you did. It was only the start of that summer. And already you didn’t want to be sent home. You wanted to stay. So you agreed to the lie.
”

  “It did no one any harm,” Morrow protested. “It didn’t change anything. The woman was dead. It was finished.”

  “Not quite. A man was charged with her murder.”

  Again silence from the bed. “You’re lying to me.”

  “No. I can show you files from the police inquiry. Cuttings from newspaper accounts at the time. Your uncle gave evidence at the inquest. As truthfully as he could. But he hadn’t been there, had he? He didn’t know the whole of it.”

  “He never asked me what I’d seen.”

  “He couldn’t ask. He didn’t want you to remember, to think it mattered.”

  “He would never have done anything like that.”

  “He didn’t want to see you taken away either. Your father would have come straightaway if you’d been dragged into an inquest into murder.”

  “Murder?”

  “That’s what the police called it. The inquest found that a man should be bound over and tried for murder.”

  “Was he?”

  “He would have been, if he hadn’t disappeared.”

  Morrow relaxed. “Well, then. No harm done.”

  “Are you sure of that? What did you really see, Morrow?”

  “Who are you?” he demanded then. When Rutledge didn’t answer, he asked, “Are you the man the inquest found guilty?”

  “No. I don’t know where he is. But that was ten—almost eleven—years ago. Wherever he is, he’s had to hide. Not much of a life.”

  “Better than hanging.” He was angry now.

  “He probably felt the same way when he chose to disappear.”

  “Where’s Billingsley? I don’t want to talk about this any longer.”

  “It was a conspiracy. You and your uncle played God with another man’s life, because you were young, and neither of you wanted the summer to end abruptly, almost before it had begun. You were the son he’d never had, and he was the father you’d rather have had. And so the truth was never told.” Rutledge stood up, pushing his chair back so that Morrow could hear it scraping against the floor. “Think about it. Rather selfish, wasn’t it?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He crossed the room to the door, went out, and shut it behind him.