The Black Ascot

by Charles Todd

  Rutledge tried to judge what was behind those piercing blue eyes. Was the man telling him the truth? Or what he thought Scotland Yard wanted to hear?

  Hamish spoke then. “It’s partly true.”

  Rutledge tended to agree with him. To Fletcher-Munro he said, “With no disrespect intended, if Barrington had been such a rock of support throughout her ordeal, why didn’t Blanche marry him instead of you?”

  He’d expected the question to anger Fletcher-Munro, but he replied with self-deprecation, “I don’t know. I’m being honest about it. After a while I told myself that Barrington had been Mark’s friend, and Blanche couldn’t see him in any other light.”

  “Did he propose to her?”

  “If he did, she never spoke of it to me.”

  Hamish said, “He’s had ten years to convince himsel’. And the police.”

  “If Barrington was such a great friend of Thorne’s, why would he tamper with your motorcar, when it was likely that your wife would be killed as well, if there was a bad crash?”

  “I think he miscalculated. For one thing, the motorcar was kept in the mews, out of his reach. For another, I believe he expected the accident to occur later, when I was driving alone. And instead, it was Blanche who died. I told the doctors that I wanted to die as well. But the body is sometimes stronger than the will.”

  “Where is Barrington now?”

  “Dead and in hell, I hope,” the man across from him said angrily. “If I hadn’t been in hospital for weeks, myself, I’d have found him and killed him with my bare hands. Now if you’ll excuse me, these questions have tired me. Please leave.”

  Rutledge had one more to ask. “If Mark Thorne didn’t commit suicide, if he was actually murdered, who do you think might have had a reason to kill him?”

  He’d expected to catch Fletcher-Munro off guard. Instead he answered thoughtfully. “The man whose reputation was about to be ruined when Mark accused him of fraud? Barrington, perhaps? Or even Strange, Mark’s solicitor. He’d have married Blanche himself if Mark hadn’t appeared on the scene. For that matter I had a motive as well. I loved her. And Mark stood in my way.”

  “Tell me about her. Your wife.”

  Fletcher-Munro took a deep breath, and it was clear to Rutledge that he was looking inward. “I don’t know how to describe her to you. I’ve met women who were more beautiful. She was intelligent—witty—socially adept. So are many other women. There was something—the way she looked at you, the way she laughed. It set my heart racing the first time I saw her. And I had no idea why.”

  “Who knew her best? Her parents? Close friends?”

  “I expect it was her friend Jane Warden. She lives in Westmorland, near Ullswater as I recall. When Blanche was young and her mother was ill with consumption, Blanche went to stay with Jane. It became a second home to her.” He reached for the bell on the table beside his chair. “Now I really must ask you to leave.”

  Rutledge rose. “Thank you. I’m sorry to have tired you. But you know the circumstances of your wife’s death better than most, and therefore you were the most logical place to begin.”

  “I don’t remember anything about the crash itself, you see. We were driving, talking, I heard her laugh—and then I woke up in Casualty with a doctor looming over me and lifting an eyelid. I couldn’t have told you to save my soul how I’d got there. The next thing I remember was being told she was dead. That was days later. The worst of it is, they told me she survived the crash. And I wasn’t able to comfort her as she died.”

  According to the reports, when the Fletcher-Munro motorcar had crashed, a farmer from the nearest village heard it, and reached the wreckage first. He’d sent his son to find the Constable, who arrived on the scene ten minutes later.

  The farmer was deceased when in the spring of 1914 the Yard had reviewed the case. But the Constable was still alive.

  Rutledge drove to Hambildon, only to discover that Grant had retired at the end of the war and was now living in a cottage just down the lane from the police station where he’d served.

  Constable Grant was sitting by his window smoking a pipe when Rutledge pulled up in front of the well-kept cottage and got out.

  He opened the door before Rutledge could knock, and said, “Looking for me?”

  Rutledge smiled at the graying man wearing dark trousers and a crisp white shirt. It was as if he was prepared to resume his former profession at a moment’s notice.

  “Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard.”

  Grant’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll be here about the car crash I expect. Have they ever found that man? Barrington, his name was?” He moved aside to let Rutledge step into the cottage, then closed the door against the wind.

  “No, there’s been no confirmed sighting. How did you guess I’d come about the crash?”

  Smiling, Grant gestured to a chair. “That’s the only matter that would bring Scotland Yard calling on me. A bit of whisky to keep out the cold?”

  Rutledge thanked him, and Grant went to a small table against the back wall of the room. A decanter and glasses were standing on a tray, ready to hand. Rutledge took his, tasted it, and nodded. “It does that very well.”

  Joining Rutledge by the fire with his own glass, Grant said, “I can remember it like yesterday. Not that we weren’t accustomed to the occasional difficulty, after the races at Ascot. Men drink as much when they lose as when they win. But it happened on a fairly straight stretch of road. The woman—Mrs. Fletcher-Munro, as I came to know later—was still in the motorcar, and she was still breathing, although in bad shape. I tried to stop the bleeding, but it was no use. I left her long enough to have a look at the man. He’d been thrown from the motorcar by the force of the impact. Head injury, and something wrong with his leg on one side. It wasn’t quite as it should be. But he was stable and unconscious, and I went back to Mrs. Fletcher-Munro, leaving the farmer to see to her husband. The doctor arrived too late to help her, worst luck, but he got her husband to his surgery, and then moved him again to hospital in London. I learned later that Mrs. Fletcher-Munro had died of the wound in her leg, which I hadn’t seen ’til they moved her. I’d been concerned about the one in her chest, which was nasty enough. Mr. Fletcher-Munro had damage to one side of his body. They weren’t certain if he’d walk again. He was unconscious for days. I was present when Inspector Hawkins arrived to question him. But he had no memory of the crash. By that time, of course, we’d removed the motorcar from the road, and it was Mr. Fletcher-Munro who asked that it be taken to the place where he’d bought it, to be examined properly. It was the mechanic there who discovered the damage to the brake. It fell to Inspector Hawkins’s lot to break the news about the poor man’s wife’s death, and at the same time he had to inform him that the crash hadn’t been an accident. He took it hard and was in something of a state, which worried the doctor. But when he’d been stabilized, he looked straight at Inspector Hawkins and told him, ‘Find that bastard, Barrington. He’s behind this.’ I heard him say it. Quite shocking, as you can imagine.”

  “Do you think he knew what he was saying? If he was still that ill?”

  Grant shook his head. “Impossible to tell. According to the doctor, he was still on heavy doses of morphine for his pain. Still, he repeated the accusation as he lost consciousness again. I stayed with him for several hours, in the event he came to his senses and was more coherent. It was two days before he spoke again, and that was to ask for his wife. Evidently he didn’t remember being told she was dead.”

  “What do you think happened that day on the road?”

  “The road was dry, straight along that stretch. But it had rained in the night, and it might have been slippery in spots. No evidence of another motorcar or carriage being involved.” Grant shook his head. “I couldn’t understand why the brakes failed just there. But Inspector Hawkins believed it was likely a fox or badger started across in front of them. Mr. Fletcher-Munro can’t tell us.”

  “There was the driver who gave
evidence at the inquest—the one who claimed to have seen Barrington at the Fletcher-Munro motorcar during the races. Could Barrington have done something to the brakes then?”

  Grant hesitated. “I suppose he could have done. But I was never quite comfortable with that other driver’s statement. He liked the attention a little too much, in my book. But the Inspector believed him. He said he’d seen reluctant witnesses lie more often than the keen ones.”

  “Did Barrington deny he’d been near the motorcar that day?”

  “On the contrary, he claimed he was debating leaving a message for Mrs. Fletcher-Munro. But in the end, he left. Frankly, it seemed an unlikely excuse.”

  “Did Mrs. Fletcher-Munro speak before she died?”

  Frowning, Grant said, “Not clearly. I expect she was asking for her husband, but there was no way I could bring him to her. I tried to put her mind at ease by telling her he’d been hurt but he was alive. From the look of him, I expected him to die as well, but I did what I could to make her passing peaceful.”

  “And was it?”

  “Until the end, when she cried out.” There was something in his face that alerted Rutledge.

  “Something you didn’t tell Inspector Hawkins? Or Fletcher-Munro?”

  “It was odd. Her first husband’s name, I learned afterward, was Mark. I couldn’t be sure, but I’d have sworn she said Forgive me, Mark.” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t think Mr. Fletcher-Munro ought to be told that his wife’s last thought was of her first husband. Of course it’s possible that he was the love of her life, so to speak. But that man in hospital might have wanted to believe she loved him best.”

  It had been a kindness.

  But for Rutledge it had ramifications too.

  6

  The temperature was just above freezing when he reached Ullswater, Cumberland.

  The summer visitors had gone, and the autumn walkers as well. Inns were shuttered, shops and pubs closed for the season. Over the lake, the sky was a gunmetal gray, as if only looking for an excuse to begin to snow.

  Rutledge remembered the passes very differently on his last inquiry here, roads almost impassable in a blizzard, and a terrible crime waiting at the end of his journey. A woman too, but that had been short-lived, more a reflection of his loneliness and hers. But he had liked her well enough. They had parted friends, although they knew it was good-bye instead.

  With a last glance at the dark, restless waters of the lake, he turned toward the house he was seeking.

  He found it shortly before the sun had set. It had been a long journey here from London, and it had given him time to wonder if this had been a necessary journey after all. He was still unsure as he made his way up the drive to the handsome house at the end of it.

  Hamish had questioned his decision from the start, and he was prepared to admit that the voice in his head had been right.

  Rutledge had sent a telegram from Lancaster, announcing his arrival on a matter of some urgency: he was seeking information about a clinic there during the Great War. He’d made no mention of either Blanche Fletcher-Munro or murder, much less Scotland Yard. It had been the only excuse he could think of for an uninvited visit.

  Miss Warden’s reply had sent him not to her home but to the house of friends.

  He was greeted at the door by a housekeeper.

  The family, he was informed, were presently in Carlisle, at the christening of a cousin’s baby.

  “But they bade me welcome you in their stead. Their cousin, Jane Warden, is here and will help you in any way she can. And a room has been made available for you.”

  All the better, he thought. It was Jane Warden he’d come to speak to.

  He thanked the housekeeper and followed her up a flight of stairs to the bedrooms.

  The family had put him in a blue room that overlooked the lovely gardens, and he was pleased. False pretenses or no, he had been accepted.

  He found out why when he went down to tea. A tall, graceful woman with fair hair and a welcoming smile greeted him as the housekeeper showed him into a small but comfortable room where the family must have gathered often. The tea tray was already there on a table drawn up to the fire on the hearth, and two chairs were set close to it. She had just risen from one of them.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Rutledge. I’m so sorry, I don’t know your rank. But we are happy to have you return to the house. I wasn’t always posted here—I served in several clinics. Wherever I was needed. And so I didn’t know all our wounded.” She gestured to the other chair, and he sat down.

  “Captain Rutledge,” he said. “Were you one of the nurses?”

  “Alas, no. But I was a willing pair of hands, and helped in any way I could. Writing letters, reading, overseeing the kitchens, even keeping the convalescents from boredom by inventing games they could safely play.”

  He felt uneasy, having met her, for playing this particular game. And so he said, “I have a confession to make. I’ve actually come to see you, Miss Warden.”

  She stared at him, not easily ruffled but clearly concerned.

  “I can’t imagine anyone driving all the way from Lancaster to Dalemain House just to call on me. May I ask why you didn’t say as much in your telegram?”

  “My name is Rutledge, and I was an officer in the war. But I’m presently an Inspector at Scotland Yard, Miss Warden. And it was impossible to explain in a telegram that anyone might read just why I’ve come from London to speak to you.”

  Her expression changed, was suddenly cold. “It’s about Blanche, isn’t it? She’s the only connection I know of with the Yard. I was never interviewed at the time of her death. Why are you here now? All these years later?”

  “I was asked to review the file on the motorcar crash and the subsequent search for Alan Barrington. In the hope that a fresh look by someone who wasn’t at the Yard at the time, might shed some light on where Alan Barrington might be.”

  “He is most certainly not here.”

  “I never believed he was here. But I need to understand Blanche Fletcher-Munro. And sometimes a woman’s view is clearer than that of men who obviously loved her a great deal.”

  She studied his face, and he had the sudden feeling that she was on the brink of showing him the door rather than talking to him.

  “What men?” she asked finally. “To whom have you spoken?”

  “Not her first husband, of course, nor Alan Barrington. I have spoken to the solicitor, Strange, and to Fletcher-Munro. And it didn’t require an Inspector from the Yard to see that she was loved. But jealousy alone doesn’t explain why Alan Barrington should wish to kill her. Killing her husband, yes, I can understand that in a way—Barrington believed Fletcher-Munro had purposely ruined Mark Thorne and driven him to suicide. For instance, did he hold it against her that she’d married the man responsible for Thorne’s death?”

  She reached for the teapot and began to pour two cups. Rutledge thought she was using that simple act to give herself time to consider whether or not to answer. But it was a sign that she’d decided against tossing him out the door.

  “Sugar? Milk?” He nodded and she handed him his cup.

  “Blanche was my dearest friend. She came here in the summers, to visit. That’s to say, to Ullswater, where I live above the lake in my parents’ house. She also spent some time with us when she was young, and her mother was so ill. I recall quite vividly how happy she was when Mark proposed. She wrote me the loveliest letter, and then she came to stay for several days, asking my help in planning her wedding. That was in 1906. I was engaged too, that summer. And so we were happily occupied with gowns and how to decorate the church, and what to serve at the wedding supper.”

  He had just done that with his sister. She must have seen something of that in his face, because she smiled a little.

  “Women do make such a fuss over weddings. Men never seem to understand how wonderful it is, when one is unbearably happy.” The smile faded. “Later that summer, my fiancé was drowned in Wastwat
er. A cramp. But I had had the pleasure of planning too, and I was grateful for that. It was painful at the time, but later it was a memory I cherished.”

  “I’m sorry.” He hesitated, then added, “And were you in Blanche’s wedding party?”

  “Sadly no. I was in mourning, you see.” She drew a deep breath. “And so when Mark died, and there was talk of ruin and suicide, she came to stay with me again. She wanted to get away from the glances and whispers of London. When she went back, and began to mention Harold Fletcher-Munro so often in her letters, I must admit that I was concerned. Apparently, he was advising her on some matters relating to Mark’s affairs, which I thought should be her solicitor’s duty. Early in 1910 they were married. I must tell you I was shocked. It was so—sudden. Unexpected. Or perhaps I was judging by my own emotions. I couldn’t even conceive of marrying someone else after Robin’s death. I still can’t.”

  “Did you ask her why she had chosen to marry again?”

  “Actually, yes, I went to London. She was in the process of selling the house where she’d lived with Mark, but she was still living there, and so I stayed with her. She told me she had come to have feelings for Harold. Not what she’d felt for Mark—she told me that was a once-in-a-lifetime love, and she never expected to feel that way ever again. It was odd how she put it. I didn’t know what to say.”

  “How did she explain it?” Rutledge had finished his tea and set the cup aside.

  “She said, ‘I don’t ever again want to care that much for another human being. I don’t want to hurt like that ever again. I can be comfortable with Harold, and get on with living. I can’t bear to be a widow for the rest of my life, and people whispering behind their hands about Mark’s death. As Mrs. Fletcher-Munro, I’ll be safe from all that.’”