The Black Ascot

by Charles Todd

  The house was rather nice, brick with wings and a white portico. Gardens, dormant now, spread out on either side. There were benches set along paths and under the shade of trees, but they were empty in today’s cold wind.

  He was admitted by an orderly who passed him to a Sister, and it was she who took Rutledge to a solarium overlooking a terrace and more gardens beyond. It was chilly there, with no sun to warm the room, but the staff had tried to make it cheerful with potted plants spaced to create smaller areas. He could see only two people sitting there this afternoon, the remnants of tea on a cart at the woman’s elbow.

  Sister Peterson said quietly as she paused on the threshold, “You’re fortunate, Inspector, to have come on a good day for Mr. Johnson. His wife is with him, but I’m sure she won’t mind if you visit for a bit. Try not to upset him, please? He tends to get angry when he can’t cope.”

  “I’ll be careful. Thank you, Sister.”

  Smiling, she led him to the small area in a corner, where a chair was positioned to look out across the grounds through the long windows. A second chair was next to it, and now he had a clearer look at the attractive woman sitting there, holding the hand of a man still in uniform. He sat there, staring out the windows but without appearing to see what was before him.

  Sister Peterson stopped by his chair, nodded to Johnson’s wife, and then said brightly, “You’ve another visitor, Lieutenant Johnson. Mr. Rutledge has come to call.”

  Johnson turned toward her voice. “Indeed,” he answered.

  And Rutledge saw his face for the first time.

  One side was perfectly normal. The other was terribly scarred, his eye opaque and that side of his mouth drawn down. The ear of that side was missing. Rutledge just had time to keep himself from wincing before he was being introduced to Mrs. Johnson. She smiled at him, clearly happy to have a visitor for her husband.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Rutledge. Did you know my husband during the war?”

  “No, I was at the Yard when he was there, although we never worked together.”

  Her brows rose at that, but she said nothing.

  “In the war, were you, Rutledge?” Johnson asked, his good eye focusing on the tall man before him. It wasn’t easy to understand him, the twist in his mouth and something more, which might have been damage to his tongue or vocal cords, made his speech rough and slurred.

  Rutledge found a chair in another small area, and brought it over as he answered, giving his rank and regiment.

  “Scots.” Johnson nodded approvingly. “Good men. The Germans called them the Ladies from Hell. Afraid of them, of course. And the infernal pipes.”

  “Yes, good men, all of them,” Rutledge agreed. “I grew accustomed to the pipes rather quickly. Not much choice in the matter.”

  Johnson chuckled, a ragged noise that grated. “Yes, I’m sure. On the Somme, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ypres. I was recalled to HQ the day the Germans used gas for the first time. Smelled of violets, I was told later. Rather awful, gas.” He glanced at his wife. “Nasty business, that. But we had masks soon enough. Masks for the horses and dogs as well,” he added soothingly. “It was all right after that.”

  It hadn’t been, of course, but Rutledge agreed with him for her sake. They talked about the war for several minutes more, and Rutledge could see the man before him tiring. His chance to ask about Thorne was slipping away.

  “I wonder, do you recall a case at the Yard, 1908? A Mark Thorne, who was thought to have either fallen or jumped over the cliffs at Beachy Head.”

  The good eye moved away from Rutledge’s face. “Beautiful woman, his wife. Blanche was her name as I remember. Killed in a motoring accident later on. That was Inspector Hawkins’s case. He said she was gravely injured. Sad, that.”

  “You were never convinced that Thorne’s death was accidental.”

  Johnson’s gaze moved toward the windows. “Didn’t make sense to me that a man would drive out to the headland in that fog, then get out and walk toward a cliff’s edge he couldn’t have seen in time. What was he doing there, so far from London, in the first place? As far as we could determine, he had neither family nor business dealings in East Sussex.” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Still, I didn’t want the inquest to bring in the verdict they did. The man was dead, his wife was on the verge of breaking down. I pitied her. Sadly, the inquest saw the evidence in the same way I had done.”

  “That was kind of you,” Rutledge responded.

  “He’d lost everything, as it was. And she still had to bury him.”

  “Did she have any family to support her?”

  “I don’t believe so. Barrington was there, and her solicitor, Strange. Odd man, Strange. Odd as his name. And Fletcher-Munro. I didn’t care for him. It was clear to me that he’d been behind Thorne’s ruin and was attempting to make amends. Too smarmy by half, in my view.”

  “He married her later. Blanche Thorne.”

  “Yes, that surprised me when Hawkins told me. I’d have thought—but then I didn’t know the man well enough to sit in judgment.”

  His hands were moving restlessly now, and Mrs. Johnson was frowning.

  “Did you ever consider the possibility that Mark Thorne’s death was neither a suicide nor an accident? That perhaps it had been something more?”

  Mrs. Johnson suppressed a gasp and started to speak, but her husband got there before her.

  He stared at Rutledge as he said, “Why do you want to know?”

  “Alan Barrington’s disappearance was eleven years ago this spring. The Yard is looking to see if there has been any new or pertinent information discovered since then. A review of the facts, if you will. It appears that what happened that June afternoon on the road out of Ascot, could have had its roots in Thorne’s death.”

  “Hawkins is dead.” Johnson’s voice was flat.

  “Yes. I’m aware of that. But his notes are excellent. Yours are as well. Hawkins was a good man—”

  Johnson interrupted. “I was a good Inspector as well. And look at me now.”

  “I’m here,” Rutledge replied quietly, “because hearing your views, points that you didn’t feel you could put in your notes, could give me a lead—”

  Interrupting again, Johnson stirred in his chair. “I was told by Chief Superintendent Bowles that I had no place at the Yard. I’d frighten women and children, he said, and be unable to carry out my duties.”

  “He’s retired. Heart problems. A man from Yorkshire has replaced him. Jameson is his name.”

  “Has he sent you here to ask me to return?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t have a chance to speak to him before I left,” Rutledge said diplomatically, catching the warning glance from Mrs. Johnson. “I shall ask him when I’m back at the Yard.”

  “See that you do,” Johnson retorted.

  “Meanwhile, since I’m here, if you felt there was more to Thorne’s death than met the eye, it would help to know that. Not for my report, I promise you. But for guidance. Whether to ignore the connection with Thorne or to pursue it.”

  Johnson’s chin was dropping to his chest, and he stared down at his hands, one of them still clasped in his wife’s. She was looking directly at Rutledge, her gaze urging him not to go on.

  It was as if her husband had left the conversation, and was sinking deeper into a place where no one could follow him.

  “You’ve been very helpful, Inspector,” Rutledge said, but he got no response from the damaged man in the chair across from him.

  His wife said quietly, “I’m afraid he’s tired. It was a good day.”

  Until now. But she was too polite to add it.

  “I’m sorry,” Rutledge responded. “The trouble is, he’s the only person who can really help me in the matter of Thorne’s death. I have nowhere else to turn.”

  “If it’s only a review, why should the manner of Thorne’s death affect how you search for this man Barrington?”

  “Because it
might explain how Mrs. Thorne—Mrs. Fletcher-Munro—died. Or why.”

  “Surely if Mr. Fletcher-Munro is still alive, he might answer your questions? He was there, in the motorcar, as I recall.”

  He smiled, not wanting to trouble her as well. “I’d like to be sure of my facts before I interview him.”

  Tears welled in her eyes for a moment. “I remember my husband telling me that on any number of occasions. ‘I need to be sure of my facts.’ He loved the Yard. It was more his wife than I was. But I loved him, you see. Now he lives mostly in the war. I don’t know why. It did this to him.”

  “It affected all of us in different ways,” Rutledge answered. “I also carry my war with me still.”

  It was a hard admission for him to make, but the gratitude in her eyes was repayment enough.

  “He won’t tell me very much about his war.”

  “None of us do. It isn’t something to share, you see. What we’ve seen, what we’ve done, ought to stay in France. But it didn’t, it came home in our memories. They aren’t memories we want you to know. You are the world we fought for. Safe and sane and not ugly. Better to keep it that way.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “I thought—I thought he didn’t believe I could help him share it.”

  “Just the reverse.”

  She nodded. Leaning over, she said to her husband, “Darling? Captain Rutledge is about to leave. Will you tell him good-bye?”

  He roused himself a little. “Captain Rutledge. Orders, sir?”

  “All’s quiet tonight, Lieutenant. Get some rest.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Then he frowned. “A Scots officer, are you?”

  “On my way back from a conference at headquarters.”

  Johnson stared at him then, confused. “It’s the wrong sector, sir.”

  “I know. Blame Haig.”

  Johnson chuckled. And Rutledge, smiling at Mrs. Johnson, left his chair and walked away.

  He hadn’t got what he had come for.

  Finding the Sister who had taken him to the solarium, he asked, “How has Lieutenant Johnson’s wound affected his memory? Can it be trusted?”

  “Oh, dear. Mrs. Johnson could help you more than I can. It’s as if a curtain falls across his mind as he tires. Most of the time he thinks he’s still in France. And then suddenly, without rhyme or reason, he’ll talk about something that happened before the war. Very clearly, as if it were only yesterday.”

  “Does he ever talk about his cases while he was at the Yard?”

  “I’ve never heard him speak of them. And no one has mentioned that to me. Mostly it’s to do with his family—his mother sometimes. A house the family once had in Cornwall. I think he spent summers there as a boy. Dogs he’s owned.”

  “You’ve never heard him speak of someone by the name of Thorne?”

  “I don’t believe so. Was he at the Yard with Lieutenant Johnson?”

  “There is a connection with the Yard, yes,” Rutledge answered her.

  “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful. It’s so sad. The men here are able to understand their situation. I sometimes wonder if it wouldn’t be kinder if they had no memories at all, and could be at peace.”

  Hamish said as Rutledge walked through the main door and out to his motorcar, “He didna’ want to answer your question.”

  “Was it that? Or was he tiring? I expect it was a bit of both.”

  “It could matter, ye ken.”

  “I can’t read too much into it. I was amazed that he even remembered Thorne.”

  He bent to turn the crank, then as it caught, got into the motorcar.

  Had Johnson remembered because there was something odd about it? Something that had stayed with him through the haze of his damaged mind?

  Rutledge shook his head, trying to shake off the feeling.

  It was time now to find out more about the victim, the woman Barrington was accused of killing. Blanche Thorne Fletcher-Munro.

  The London house belonging to Fletcher-Munro was a fashionable address on a quiet street of elegant white houses with black doors and shutters, and brass knobs on the delicate black wrought-iron railings on the steps leading down to the pavement. Old money.

  In the inquiry reports, Hawkins had noted that the man came from an old landed family from Northumberland. But in the last century their fortune had been made by Harold Fletcher-Munro’s father through mining and other investments, bringing him into the circle of Edward VII’s friends. The son had doubled his father’s fortune. Single-mindedly, it was said, although he’d inherited his father’s ability to charm and get his own way.

  Rutledge had driven first to the house where Mark Thorne had lived with his wife. It too was in a fashionable square, but not in the same league as Fletcher-Munro’s. It had been sold shortly after Thorne’s death to pay his debts. He wondered if there had been any money left for the widow to live on.

  Pulling up in front of Fletcher-Munro’s door, Rutledge got out and went up the shallow steps to lift the large brass knocker in the shape of an entwined FM.

  A maid answered the summons, and without using his own title, he asked to speak to Fletcher-Munro.

  “Rutledge, sir? I’ll inquire if he’s in.”

  She returned a few minutes later and asked, “Are you from the press, sir?”

  “No.” When she looked as if she wasn’t quite convinced, he added with a smile, “I give you my word.”

  She left him on the doorstep again, and went away for several minutes. When she came back, she said, “Mr. Fletcher-Munro will see you, sir, but briefly.”

  “Thank you.” He followed her into a beautifully appointed drawing room, and found Fletcher-Munro seated in a chair by the hearth, where a fire was burning in the grate. He didn’t rise as his visitor stepped through the doorway.

  Rutledge had schooled his expression, not knowing what condition he might find the man in. He was glad he had. One foot was twisted, and one hand as well. His face was scarred, but unlike Inspector Johnson’s, these gave him a surprisingly dashing look. He must have been almost too handsome before the accident, with perfect features, dark hair, and piercing blue eyes. The scars on his forehead and across his nose had added strength. Or had exposed the strength and determination already there but hidden before by the perfection.

  “Good day, Mr. Rutledge. I don’t recall that we’ve met.”

  “That’s true, sir. I’ve come because it will be eleven years this June since your accident, and Scotland Yard is still unable to bring Alan Barrington to trial. I have been asked to review the file.”

  The man’s face twisted into a grimace. “And I am expected to relive that day, to facilitate your—review.”

  “Regrettably, you’re the only witness.”

  “Alas. If you will be so kind? That photograph on the table by the window.”

  Rutledge crossed the room and picked up the heavy silver frame.

  It was a woman’s photograph. He was struck by it. Blanche Thorne had been fair, with lovely blond hair that framed her face in the style of the day, and blue eyes. Not precisely beautiful, but there was something about her, the dimple in one cheek and the smile that seemed to come from within, warm, almost teasing, that made him understand why three men had been in love with her.

  He brought it to the man in the chair.

  “This is what I’ve lost, Mr. Rutledge. Never mind the damage to my body, it’s something I can cope with.” Fletcher-Munro stared at his wife’s likeness with barely concealed longing. “But they do serve to remind me about that day with every movement I make.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Let’s get this interview over with then.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Perhaps I should ask instead about the death of Mark Thorne. Do you believe it was suicide? Did Mrs. Fletcher-Munro?”

  Surprised by the change in direction, he frowned. “What else could it have been? I can’t think of any other reason why Mark would drive from London to East Sussex. He wasn’t likely to shoot himsel
f in the back garden, was he, where Blanche would find his body.”

  “According to police reports at the time, it was quite foggy on the cliffs that day. As bad as some of the fogs we have here in London. That tells me that Mr. Thorne would have had difficulty in finding his way. He was more likely to drive over the cliff because he couldn’t see where it was, rather than leave the motorcar and go walking toward the sound of the sea.”

  Fletcher-Munro sighed. “I can’t pretend to guess what was in his mind. I tried to ask Blanche about it, but she was too distressed to discuss it. Barrington was at the house when the news came. She had sent for him when Mark didn’t come home. I gather she thought the two were together, and of course he came at once. He hadn’t seen Mark for several days himself. He was there when the police came to speak to Blanche. I’d heard the news that Mark was missing and straightaway went round to see her myself.”

  “Forgive me for being blunt, but according to the police files, Barrington blamed you for ruining Thorne.”

  Fletcher-Munro shrugged. “I put that down to jealousy. Mark made his own decisions about investing. If I’d known in time, I might have prevented some of his losses, but he didn’t confide in me. If I’d been paid a shilling for every wild scheme someone wanted to persuade me to invest in, I’d have doubled my own fortune without risking a penny.”

  Rutledge knew he was right, for the Yard had investigated schemes that had bankrupted honest men who believed the glowing promises of high yields that never materialized. More than a few had lost everything, and a number of them had killed themselves because they couldn’t make good on appalling debts. They’d foolishly scraped together every pound they could beg or borrow to sink into the proposed chance of a lifetime.

  In three instances, however, murder had been done to prevent the man from putting the blame where it belonged, exposing the charlatan.

  “And Mrs. Thorne? As she was at the time. How did she view what had happened?”

  “What do you think?” Fletcher-Munro demanded irritably. “She was bereft. And she still had to bury her husband after the inquest. Many of her friends shunned her because of the circumstances.” He set the photograph on the table at his elbow. “That was the second tragedy. Losing Mark was bad enough, but the way Blanche was treated by her ‘friends’ was sickening. I did what I could. And in the end, I sometimes wondered if she married me because I could stand between her and scandal. No,” he said as Rutledge was about to speak. “I loved her deeply, and so it didn’t matter. Rescuing her was enough.”