The Black Ascot
Page 29
Morrow didn’t try to stop him.
Melinda looked up when Rutledge came into the morning room where she was writing letters. “Ah. You’ve asked him. What did he say?”
“I left him to think about what he’d done.”
“Was that the best direction to take?”
“He saw something. He has to be willing to tell someone. Otherwise he’ll never speak of it.”
“His uncle is dead. It won’t harm him to tell the truth.”
“It might spoil his memory of that summer.”
“There’s that.” She went back to the letter she was writing, finished it, and capped her fountain pen. “What if he never speaks up? You can’t make him, you know.”
Rutledge was wandering about the room, picking up a delicate ivory fan, putting it down again, pausing at the window to look out at the winter-dreary gardens where rain was pelting down. He hadn’t noticed until now that it had begun to rain. Frowning, he said, “What if he tells me something that condemns Alan Barrington? I’m no closer to finding the man. Or proving that he’s in England. If what that woman wrote has put the wind up, he’ll leave England as soon as he can.”
It was the first time he’d admitted to her how important it was to him to bring in Barrington.
After a moment, she said practically, “What if he’s tired of running?”
“Hanging isn’t a very appealing alternative.”
“If he is, he’ll make a mistake sooner or later. Trust the wrong person, perhaps. Or be careless because he’s tired and not thinking as cleverly.”
“I don’t have sooner or later.”
“No.” She waited, then said, “I’ve not asked you, Ian. What happened that day?”
“I can’t remember. That’s the worst of it. I don’t even know why I might have wanted to kill myself.”
Unless he’d seen Hamish . . .
The possibility came to him with such sharpness that he drew in a breath.
He’d always promised himself that he would end it if he ever saw Hamish.
“What is it, my dear? What have you remembered?” she asked, against her better judgment, against all her care for him.
“Nothing. That’s the trouble,” he managed to say.
“Well, give it time.” She rose from the delicate French desk. “I must speak to Shanta about dinner. I’ll be back directly.”
And she left him, giving him the space he needed.
Rutledge woke with a start, his room still night-dark, reacting before he was fully awake to the hand on his shoulder. His reflexes were as fast as they’d been in the trenches, and he had a wrist, twisting it before he remembered where he was.
Shanta, Melinda’s Indian housekeeper, said, “I have seen men catch a cobra that swiftly.” But he could see her rubbing her wrist.
“I’m sorry—” he began, but she interrupted him.
“No harm done. Mr. Morrow has sent for you.”
He was already sitting up. “What time is it?”
“It has gone three.”
“I’ll dress—”
But she was already handing him his robe. “The Memsahib says, sooner rather than later.”
He shoved his bare feet into slippers, pulled on the robe, ran a hand through his dark hair, and followed her to the stairs.
The nurse, Sister Marvin, was waiting outside Morrow’s door.
She said, whispering, “He was restless last evening when I put out the light. I heard him calling to me just now, and when I went in, he was trying to find the door and instead was caught up in the draperies at the window. I’m so sorry—he insisted I find you.”
“Thank you. I’ll take it from here. Go back to bed.”
Shanta had already disappeared down the passage, but Sister Marvin asked, “Are you sure? He’s rather distraught.”
“I’ll call if I need you.” He had his hand on the door and was opening it before he finished speaking. On the threshold he said, “Rutledge. You wanted to see me?” Then stepped into the room and shut the door on Sister Marvin.
“This isn’t Sandwich, is it?” Morrow asked. There was a shaded night lamp on the tall chest between the windows, and Rutledge could see him, sitting on the bed, one hand pressed to his side. He went on, anger deepening his voice. “I smell lavender. Sandalwood. The woman who brought up my dinner tray wasn’t Mrs. Billingsley. Her shoes are different. Soft, not hard soles. I could hear them in the passage. And the door isn’t where it should be. I may be blind, but I’m not stupid. I’ve stayed in several rooms in Delft Street, and I always know where the windows are, and how to find the door. There are three windows in this room. There would be a wall where the third one is. Who the hell are you? And where am I?”
“You’re safe. My name is Rutledge. Inspector Rutledge. Scotland Yard. We were worried about what happened to you in Dover. We thought it best to bring you here—we’re still in Kent, but west of the Medway. You’ve met Mrs. Crawford. I’ve known her for a very long time and would trust her with my life. And so I trusted her with yours.”
“You weren’t asking me questions about Dover. You were asking me about something that happened years ago.” He grimaced, as if talking and breathing hurt him.
“That’s true. To give you the most honest answer possible, we were afraid that what happened in Dover had to do with what you might have seen as a boy.”
“That’s far-fetched.”
“Is it?” Rutledge turned to the chair by the mahogany wardrobe and sat down. “You’ve known the Strange family for some time, I think. Since the war?”
“Yes. I needed his services as solicitor, and we became friends. He took me to Sandwich with him. I didn’t want to go home, for reasons that are none of your business, and so I agreed. I went back several times, and then Jonathan handed me a key and told me I could come and go as I pleased. There was always a place for me. I took him up on it.”
“Did you ever tell him about staying on your uncle’s farm near Ascot?”
Morrow had been facing the sound of his voice. Now he turned toward where he thought the double windows were. “Does it matter?”
Hamish spoke then, the soft Scots voice loud in the room. “Aye, he has.”
“It was a summer that was important to you.”
Morrow cleared his throat. “I didn’t tell him all of it. Just about how much I’d enjoyed those weeks on the farm.”
But Strange was no fool. He’d guessed the truth, or enough of it to know how important cultivating Morrow might be, given who his uncle was, and where that farm was.
“I think you’d better tell me the rest.”
“No.”
“I remind you, I’m a Scotland Yard Inspector. If I believe you are withholding vital evidence in a serious crime, I have the authority to arrest you.”
Morrow laughed without humor. “So much for bringing me here to protect me while I recover.” And then he began, slowly at first, then gaining momentum as if he could see that day again clearly in his mind’s eye. “I never told him about sitting on the stone wall there by the road and watching the motorcars and carriages go by. The ladies all in black. Feathers dancing as they bounced over the ruts, and the laughter. One woman waved a black handkerchief bound in silver lace, and smiled at me. A man tossed a few coins toward me. Someone sounded the motorcar’s horn. I’d never seen anything like it in Kent. Better than any parade. There must have been twenty—perhaps even thirty—motors and carriages while I was sitting there. That’s why I went back twice during the day. But they were at the races, weren’t they?”
And all Jonathan Strange, solicitor, had to do was find out who Alfred Morrow’s uncle was. For Freddy had been there at the same time as Black Ascot, on the road where it had happened. Strange must have known the facts in the case by heart, he must have recognized the farmer’s name. It was an off chance—but Strange had pursued it because he was Barrington’s solicitor.
“Did he ever ask you about the motorcar crash later in the day?”
“Why should he have done? I never spoke to anyone about it. Not even my parents.”
But Strange would have guessed that the nephew staying with the Bradley family that June day must have been the “son” mentioned in the police reports. Had he ever gone to the farm to speak to Bradley? But of course Bradley was dead by that time . . .
“But you went back to the road again.”
“My aunt told me to wait until the afternoon, but I went back again sooner than that. I couldn’t stay away. It was the most exciting spectacle I’d ever seen.”
“And so you saw the crash.”
The man on the bed was silent, staring into a past where he could still see. “No, I don’t want to talk about it. Don’t ask me any more.”
Rutledge said nothing, waiting.
Morrow went on, “My uncle didn’t know. But I saw her. I saw the blood, I could smell it in the warmth of the motorcar. And she was looking at me. And I ran, Rutledge. I ran. Do you think I want to remember that?”
20
Rutledge said, “You’ve never told anyone?”
“No. I couldn’t bear to.”
In the silence that followed, Rutledge listened to the sounds of the fire in the hearth as he watched Morrow struggle with his memories. And his conscience.
After a time Rutledge said, “There’s a doctor in London. He told me once that if I talked about what I didn’t want to remember, it would lose its power over me.”
“Did it?” Morrow asked, turning in Rutledge’s direction.
“I don’t know. But once I faced it, I found I could live with it.”
“Oh, God, I wish that was true.”
“I’m the only one here.”
The silence returned, and lengthened. He thought if he’d lost Morrow now, that he would never speak about the crash.
And then, so softly Rutledge had to strain to hear him, Morrow spoke.
“I could hear my uncle shouting for me. Aunt Sally must have told him where I was, there by the road. That was just as the motorcar came into view, and I didn’t answer him. I wanted to watch it pass by. When it was closer, I could see that the man and woman inside were quarreling. She was turned his way. He was driving. I could see his face, angry, mouth twisted, shouting at her. It wasn’t what I’d seen before, watching the people, and I was frightened. But before I could jump down from the wall where they wouldn’t see me, he threw his arm out and struck her across the chest. Her face seemed to drain of color—she was all in black, you see, and she looked different. She reached out with both hands, caught him unprepared, and took the wheel. The motorcar was veering wildly, almost on me, and I was sure they were going to crash into me. And then I saw him throw her against the far door, just as the motorcar picked up speed. I’m not sure what happened next. I saw his face look out at me, so angry it was a dark red, and in the next instant, the motorcar was careening back across the road, bearing down on the trees there, her side hitting them with such force that the driver’s door flew open and the man tumbled out. She screamed only once. I scrambled over the wall, ran to the motorcar. And then I ran back and climbed over it, I was desperate to get away. I must have been screaming too, because suddenly my uncle was there, turning me away, telling me I didn’t see anything, there was nothing to see. And he sent me running for the police and the doctor.”
“The police didn’t ask you any questions?”
“I told the Constable I’d been sent to fetch them and the doctor, and all they asked about was the crash, how many people in the motorcar, whether anyone was hurt. And I kept saying, I don’t know, I didn’t see anything, but they must hurry. They carried me back as far as the farm gate and set me down before driving on at speed.”
“Did you ever learn who was in the motorcar that afternoon?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t want to know. Aunt Sally asked me what I’d seen, and I told her, nothing. She asked me why I was so frightened, and I told her I’d heard the sound of the crash, and someone screaming. She didn’t ask me anything more, just told me that everything would be all right. People survived motorcar crashes every day of the week. And I held on to that when the nightmares began.”
“They never told you that the woman died?”
“I never asked. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want her to die. But I heard her scream, you see. I didn’t hear a scream like that again until I was in France. And I knew then that she must have died. Either at the scene or in hospital.”
“You’ve just told me that the man in the motorcar deliberately rammed her side of the vehicle into the trees. Didn’t it occur to you that this was wrong? That you needed to speak up and tell what you saw?”
“It didn’t. I’d never seen a man strike a woman, or heard anyone scream in pain. I wasn’t even sure what had been done—why the motorcar went into those trees. I wasn’t able to judge. And my uncle told me that all was well, I needn’t dwell on the crash. I wanted to believe him. I did believe him.”
“And your parents never knew about any of this.”
“How could they have known? It’s a distance from Ascot racecourse to Wendover. They live in the past, I’m still their darling little boy. I’ve been to war, I’ve dealt with my blindness, and I’m still treated as if I’m a schoolboy.”
But sitting there on the bed, his dark hair tousled from sleep, he looked very young. Only the dark line of stubble from his beard and the broad, well-muscled shoulders belied the attractive boyish face.
“I’ve done what you ask. I want to go to Sandwich, where I know my way around the house.” He sounded tired, drained.
“There’s a problem. The man who was accused of killing the woman in the motorcar is Jonathan Strange’s client. He still handles Barrington’s affairs.”
Frowning, Morrow looked toward Rutledge. “You mentioned this man earlier. Was he the driver of the motorcar?”
Rutledge realized how little Morrow knew—and the fact that he himself had been so focused on Alan Barrington that he hadn’t taken the next step.
Barrington hadn’t been driving the motorcar carrying Blanche Fletcher-Munro.
He said more sharply than he’d intended, “You’re sure the man who was driving deliberately ran the motorcar into those trees?”
“I watched it gain speed, swerve across the road, and hit them full force. He didn’t try to avoid them or stop. He never braked, he—Great God, he killed her, didn’t he? Barrington?”
But the man in the motorcar was Fletcher-Munro.
Was that why Strange had never asked Morrow what he’d seen—but all the while had kept the only witness close?
Rutledge drew breath to tell Alfred Morrow the truth—and stopped.
“I’m sorry, Morrow. You’re in no shape to look after yourself. As soon as Sister Marvin tells Matron that you can manage on your own, I’ll drive you to Sandwich. This is a medical issue and out of my hands.”
Morrow argued for another half an hour, but his exertions trying to find his way around the room had taken a toll. “You’ve tricked me,” he said at last, angry and short of breath. “You’ve lied from the start.”
Rutledge stood up. “I could have let you die,” he said shortly. “Mrs. Crawford has nothing to do with the driver of that motorcar, nor with the Strange family, nor with Sandwich. Nor with the Yard. But she has friends in high places and I would remind you that you’re a guest in her house. Behave accordingly while you’re here. She deserves courtesy.”
Morrow was staring at him. “What do you mean, you could have let me die?”
“Just that. Someone has tried to kill you. If I’d left you in hospital in Dover, he might have tried again. Think about that.”
He turned and walked out of the room. But down the passage he waited for several minutes. Just to be certain Morrow hadn’t thought he was strong enough to try to find his way downstairs a
nd out the door.
But as he suspected, Alfred Morrow always took the easier way. As if he had a right to it . . .
He owed Melinda Crawford the truth, and so Rutledge waited until she came down for her breakfast with him before he left the house.
When he’d given her his account of the predawn conversation with Morrow, she said, “Ian. You’ve seen Fletcher-Munro yourself. He’s quite incapable of trying to harm Alfred Morrow. Even if he’d managed to find the little boy who watched him wreck his motorcar that terrible afternoon. He was too badly hurt in that crash himself.”
Rutledge had considered that very question while waiting for dawn and the stirring of the servants in the house.
“There’s that. I know. He may have killed his wife. He might even have murdered Thorne there on Beachy Head. I don’t think that would prevent him from hiring someone to see to Morrow for him. That done, the killer could have taken the next ferry to France, safely out of our reach.”
“Yes, all right. Let’s assume you’re right. But first you must find proof other than a small boy’s memory that Fletcher-Munro deliberately caused that crash in order to kill his wife. That in the course of their quarrel he didn’t simply lose control of the motorcar. Because if he didn’t kill Blanche, there’s no reason for him to search for and then attack Morrow.”
He smiled wryly. “You are too clever by half.”
“Yes, I know,” she retorted, returning the smile.
He remembered something. The lavish tomb that Fletcher-Munro had wanted to create for his late wife. Was that a salve to a guilty conscience? Or was it only what it appeared to be, the grief of a man who’d lost the woman he loved? Even, perhaps, a little of both . . .
Half an hour later, Rutledge was on the road to London.
Wasting no time, Rutledge found the Constable who had evening duty on the street where Fletcher-Munro lived. He found him by the simple expedient of waiting on the corner where the street turned away from the river until the man came by in the course of his rounds.
Getting out of his motorcar, Rutledge nodded to him. “Good evening, Constable. Scotland Yard.”