The Black Ascot

by Charles Todd

  “He never came to trial. Still, the inquest was satisfied that he had committed murder. But would a trial have agreed with that decision?”

  Gibson sighed. “I’ll leave it to you to decide, sir. By the time the sensation ran its course, I was beyond caring. But I will say this. Either he was a clever bastard—begging your pardon, sir—and got away with murder, or he was a scapegoat. And we’re never likely to know which.”

  When the dusty boxes were brought up to his office, Rutledge looked at them and swore under his breath. He was wishing he’d never met Wade, much less reported what Wade had told him. In the end, he took the boxes home with him, and ruined an otherwise quiet evening going through them. With a glass of whisky at his elbow, Rutledge began with the statements relating to the crash of the motorcar.

  The initial report on the crash had described it as an accident. A heavy summer shower the night before had left the ruts in the road slippery, the Constable in the village closest to the scene had reported. His statement read in part, I determined the driver had lost control, and before he could halt the vehicle, he’d hit the trees.

  Mrs. Fletcher-Munro was died of her injuries shortly after the crash. Her husband—second husband, as the file noted in parentheses—lived but was in critical condition for some weeks.

  It was not until the motorcar had been towed back to the firm that had sold it to Harold Fletcher-Munro and maintained it for him, that a mechanic with the firm noticed that there was damage to the brakes that didn’t appear to be related to the crash itself. This information was reported to the Yard, which sent Inspector Hawkins to take charge of the inquiry. The earlier conclusion that the crash was an accident was reclassified as a murder inquiry when it was shown that the brakes had very likely been tampered with.

  When it was possible for Hawkins to interview Fletcher-Munro, he was given the name of Alan Barrington. According to the statement, Barrington had once threatened Fletcher-Munro over financial dealings that had bankrupted Mark Thorne, resulting in his suicide. Among those Fletcher-Munro had advised on investments was said to have been the late King, Edward VII, and Fletcher-Munro denied deliberately giving Thorne poor advice. “The damage to my reputation would have been catastrophic,” he was quoted as saying. “Why should I take such a step? Mark was a friend.”

  Those who knew something about his dealings agreed, but Barrington was adamant. He claimed that the reasons were more personal than professional.

  Mark Thorne had been Mrs. Fletcher-Munro’s first husband . . .

  When this was brought up, Fletcher-Munro told Hawkins that the fact she had married him proved he’d had nothing to do with the bankruptcy or the suicide that followed it.

  Mrs. Fletcher-Munro was dead and unable to confirm or deny what she’d believed.

  Rutledge got up and walked to the window, lifting the curtain to look out at the night. The rain that had been falling all day was now hinting at sleet.

  Hamish said, “Ye’re no’ interested in the inquiry.”

  Rutledge let the curtain drop back into place. Ignoring Hamish sometimes worked, but for the most part it was Hamish who had the last word.

  The voice in his head had followed him from France, from the trenches and the war. Rutledge knew very well that Corporal Hamish MacLeod was dead—he’d fired the bullet that had ended the man’s life. After the war, he’d found and stood over Hamish’s grave in the Flanders mud. Yet he couldn’t silence the soft Scots voice that lived in his own mind. To try would be tantamount to firing his revolver a second time. He’d learned, simply, to endure.

  He went back to his chair, picked up his glass, looked at the amber liquid swirling in the lamplight, and put it down again.

  Forgetting didn’t come in a glass. He’d learned that in Warwickshire, his first inquiry after returning to the Yard. He’d seen then what shell shock could come to, if a man wasn’t on his guard.

  With a sigh he sat down and took up the file.

  A hundred pages later, he hadn’t learned much more than he had at eleven o’clock. The clock on the mantelpiece now showed two in the morning.

  He’d been writing the pertinent facts in his notebook, but so far there were too few to be useful.

  According to the reports, Hawkins had looked at the file in Mark Thorne’s suicide and discovered that Alan Barrington had repeatedly accused Fletcher-Munro of causing Thorne’s ruin and subsequent death. This was a serious indication of bad blood between the two men. With other witness statements pointing to tampering with the brakes and showing that Barrington had sought out Fletcher-Munro’s motorcar at the race course, Hawkins had concluded that there was enough evidence to hold an inquest. Barrington had denied any part in the crash, claiming that he’d changed his mind about leaving a message in the motorcar for Mrs. Fletcher-Munro. He wasn’t believed. Everyone was convinced he’d directly caused the crash that had resulted in the death of Blanche Richmond Thorne Fletcher-Munro and life-threatening injuries to her husband.

  Particularly damning was the statement of a driver of another motorcar, who had seen Barrington “hanging about” in the vicinity of the Fletcher-Munro vehicle for over an hour.

  “Acting suspicious, he was,” the man told the inquest. “I couldn’t see him all the time, you understand, but he was there, all right, and then he left in a hurry.”

  The driver had put Barrington there early on in the day’s program, long before most of the race-goers would be considering leaving and at a time when most of the other drivers had gone to watch the first races. He clearly hadn’t expected to be seen.

  The inquest had adjourned in the afternoon, but Barrington had failed to appear the next day when testimony was resumed, nor was he there when the inquest’s verdict had been brought in.

  When the Yard went to the Barrington house in London, to take him into custody, he had left. Nor was he at any other of his properties. The newspapers reported that knowing he’d very likely be found guilty, Barrington had begun preparations for his escape. The search, which went on for weeks, never found Barrington nor any clue as to where he’d gone. It was as if he’d vanished.

  Soon afterward, rumors of his suicide had begun to circulate in the press.

  For four years, bodies washed up by the sea, victims in fire-destroyed houses, even unidentified bones found anywhere in the country, had been thoroughly examined to determine if they could be Barrington’s. And the newspapers covered every one.

  The war put an end to that. Barrington was old news compared to what was happening in Europe.

  Rutledge turned out the lamp and went to bed. Hamish was waiting for him there.

  He fought to keep his mind on Barrington, but Hamish wasn’t having it, bringing up instead the Christmas party at the Gordon house.

  In the end Rutledge dressed again and went out in the cold rain, walking until the first gray prelude of dawn sent him back to his flat.

  Yesterday’s post was still lying on the table where he’d dropped it before taking off his coat. He hadn’t even thought to glance through it. Picking it up now, he scanned the envelopes and stopped at one in his sister’s handwriting.

  Opening it, he stared at the brief note. It was an invitation to come and dine on Thursday.

  We stopped to call on you when we arrived in London, and I’ve so much to tell you! I’m counting on Melinda too, if the roads aren’t too awful. One of her friends from the Foreign Office has offered to fetch her if need be. And I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve invited Kate Gordon as well. She hasn’t replied, but I know you like her, and Bess isn’t in London just now. That will make up our numbers quite nicely.

  Rutledge swore. Of all the women Frances knew in London, how had she come up with Kate’s name?

  He read the line again. She hasn’t replied, but I know you like her . . .

  Mrs. Gordon, Kate’s mother, would see to it that she didn’t accept. She had already made it clear to him at the Christmas party that Kate could aim higher than an Inspector at Scotland
Yard.

  It was too painfully true to refute. Kate could set her sights on any man she liked, and whoever he was, he would consider himself fortunate.

  And how had Frances come to the conclusion that he liked Kate?

  Hamish said, “Ye ken, she only said like, no’ anything more.”

  Yet it had come too near to the mark for comfort. Now that she was happily married herself, was Frances playing at matchmaking for her brother?

  Exasperated, he sat down and wrote a brief reply, explaining that he expected to be out of London most of the next fortnight. Leaving that for the post, he changed and went to the Yard.

  Useless or not in finding Barrington’s present whereabouts, the inquiry into the Fletcher-Munro motorcar crash had suddenly become important, not for its own sake but for giving him an excuse to be out of London once more. And for an unspecified period of time.

  “A fortnight,” Hamish reminded him.

  A fortnight would do very well.

  Gibson, just walking toward his own desk, greeted him as Rutledge came up the stairs.

  “Anything of use in the files, sir?”

  “I’d have preferred hearing details from Hawkins,” he said as they walked on together.

  “Aye, well, too late for that.”

  Hawkins had been killed in France in 1915.

  “It seems thorough enough.”

  “Hawkins was a good man. You were also here when he was, sir.”

  “By that time he was a Chief Inspector. I don’t think he ever mentioned Barrington.”

  “I expect not. It galled him, not to bring the man in. He blamed himself for not posting a Constable to see that Barrington didn’t leave the house.”

  Rutledge turned to look at Gibson. “The results of the inquest were that certain?”

  “Inspector Hawkins looked at every possible angle, sir. To give him credit, he didn’t accept what Fletcher-Munro told him in the interview. He did his own search for whoever had damaged that motorcar.”

  Rutledge repeated his question. “The outcome of the inquest wasn’t in doubt?”

  “According to Hawkins, no. Every other possible avenue had come to nothing.”

  Rutledge spent the morning clearing the reports waiting on his desk, then left.

  The last box of the file on Barrington contained what Hawkins had learned about the man in the course of the inquiry.

  It was surprisingly thin.

  And that intrigued Rutledge.

  He read the file through for a second time, trying to put his finger on what was missing.

  And it was any sense of what really was the essence of the man. There were all the pertinent dates in his life, his birth, his parentage, his years at Oxford, how he used the money he’d inherited, even his estates located on a map.

  The facts. Apparently, Hawkins had never got inside Barrington’s head—or his skin.

  Why hadn’t he? Because he couldn’t? Or because Barrington was clever enough to shut him out?

  4

  The next morning was a Sunday.

  Rutledge stopped by the Yard and left a message for Gibson, informing him that he would be away from London for several days. That done, he set out for Alan Barrington’s family seat. It was not far from Worcester, in a village of neat cottages and shops. He’d spent the night in the Cotswolds, but the hands of his watch showed six in the evening by the time he finally reached his destination. A cold wind chased itself along the narrow High Street, swirling in the doorways of shops and houses alike, as he slowed for the only person he’d seen on the village street—a man muffled to the ears beneath a hat clamped on his head by one gloved hand.

  He was grateful to find an inn here, although it was a small one attached to a pub with a faded sign of an oak tree out front. It was creaking loudly as it swung with the wind. He could just make out the name, The Melton Oak.

  When he walked into the inn, the woman who answered the summons of the little bell on the desk at Reception regarded him with suspicion.

  “How may I help you, sir?”

  “It’s too late to drive much farther tonight,” he said pleasantly, smiling at her. “I was hoping you might have a room for the evening.”

  She considered him, and he could almost tell what she was thinking: a tall, well-dressed man with dark hair and dark eyes. A gentleman, then, and hardly likely to be a threat to anyone. The valise on the floor at his feet was of good leather and had initials stamped on one side in gold.

  “Where have you come from?” she asked, still hesitating.

  “London,” he replied. “By way of Oxford.”

  “A long journey, that.”

  “And a tiring one. Do you have a room available?”

  “Yes. Although I’m afraid the kitchen is closed for the evening.” She opened a drawer and took out a key. “This way.” She nodded toward the stairs, climbing up into the shadows cast by the single small lamp on the desk. When she reached the first floor, she stopped to light a second lamp at the top of the stairs. “There is another guest in Number One,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ve put you in Number Five.”

  As far as Rutledge could tell, there were only six rooms on the floor. One, Three, and Five appeared to face the street. The even numbers faced the rear of the inn.

  When the woman opened the door to Five, he could see that he’d been right. A pair of windows looked down on his motorcar.

  “A quiet village,” he commented, crossing to the windows as she found and lit the lamp beside the bed.

  “We prefer it that way,” she told him firmly, and held out his key.

  “Yes, I’ll have no trouble sleeping. Is the pub open?”

  “Closed. The weather’s kept the regulars at home.”

  “Breakfast?”

  “From seven to nine. There’s a small dining room just off Reception.”

  He took the key. “Thank you.”

  She left him then, closing the door softly behind her. He listened as her footsteps disappeared down the passage, then set his valise in the cupboard while he waited for her to return to whatever part of the inn she’d come from. And then he went down the stairs as quietly as he could and let himself out again into the cold wind, making certain that the door was off the latch and he could get back in.

  Melton Rush was small, the sort of village that was often found strung along the road leading to a large country house, providing staff, laborers, and provender. Which would mean that villagers were all too aware of how much they owed the manor house. Judging by the woman he’d just met at the inn, he wasn’t likely to convince any of them to talk to him.

  Built of stone the color of warm honey, Melton Rush lay at the foot of a long sloping hill, spotted with sheep, while a stream meandered lazily through the meadows to the east. The Rush? There were a number of shops, small houses and cottages, and the stone church that lay down a short lane ending at the gates of the estate. The church was small but of elegant proportions. It appeared to be the family church as well as the village’s.

  The gates, tall and equally elegant, led up a graveled drive to the roofs Rutledge could see in the distance, just rising above the bare trees. They stood open. A stone plaque on the gates read melton hall.

  He walked in the churchyard for a time, careful in the dark not to trip over stones hidden in the winter-dry grass, then strolled up the drive toward the house.

  He was barely halfway there when a man with a broken shotgun over his arm stepped out of the heavy shadows of a stand of rhododendron and said firmly, “Who are you?”

  He was tall, broad shouldered, and graying, with a military-style mustache.

  And from what Rutledge could see of his face, he wasn’t Barrington.

  “I’m staying the night at the inn—the Oak Tree, is it? And I came out for a bit of air, after a long drive,” Rutledge replied. “The gates were open, I saw no harm in walking a short distance up the drive.” He gestured to the rhododendron. “Must be quite lovely here in the spring.”
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  “You’ve walked that short distance. Good evening to you, sir.”

  The other man’s face was grim. He shifted the shotgun slightly in the crook of his arm.

  “He’s no’ one to quarrel with,” Hamish said softly.

  “Good evening to you,” Rutledge returned, and agreeing with Hamish, he started back down the lane. The Yard had no official business here. Not yet.

  The other man hadn’t moved by the time Rutledge had reached the gates and passed through them. But when he glanced back from the end of Church Lane, he saw that the gates had been closed—and presumably locked.

  Back at the inn, he had no difficulty opening the door, although he would have wagered it too had been locked, to keep him out. When he’d reached his room and stepped inside, he stopped short.

  It had been searched. Very carefully. But he’d been trained to observe, and the cupboard door was slightly ajar, and the coverlet on the bed wasn’t as smooth as it had been when he was shown the room. Someone had set his valise there while trying to open it. Fortunately the key was in his pocket.

  He was standing there, frowning, when someone tapped on the doorframe behind him.

  He turned to find a woman standing there. And not the woman who had taken him to his room. She was wearing a severely cut blue walking dress, her dark red hair pulled back tightly into a bun. Her blue eyes were sharp, and she was angry.

  “Did you follow me here?”

  “I beg your pardon?” It was the last thing he’d anticipated.

  “Oh, you heard me. You’d barely arrived, and off you went exploring. I know what you were up to. Which paper, tell me that?”

  “Paper?” he asked, beginning to understand.

  “London? You’re better dressed than most of the men I know there. Are you writing a book? Is that what you’re doing?”

  Rutledge smiled. “Actually, I’m just passing through, Miss—?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know who I am,” she cut in. “They sent you to see what we were planning.”