The Black Ascot

by Charles Todd

“He was stiff-necked. Saw himself as well above the rest of us. I don’t think she ever saw that side of him, but we did in the village.” She leaned forward, dropping her voice. “It was said he’d commissioned a marble statue of her for their house in London. And he wanted to bring it here and set it up in the church, to stand beside her tomb. Like those grand tombs of the old days.” Shaking her head, she said, “You’ve not visited our church, but I ask you? How would that have looked? Mind you, I’d have liked to see that statue, but only the Vicar was shown the photograph by her husband’s solicitor. He didn’t even confer with the church wardens. He said there was not a suitable place for it. The church doesn’t run to chapels and the like.”

  “What became of the statue?” Rutledge asked, curious now.

  “I’m told it was placed in a London cemetery, one of the grand ones. A memorial, like, since she wasn’t buried there. That was later, after he’d been sent home from hospital. Perhaps that was the best place for it after all.” She added, “Perhaps he found comfort visiting it there, because he’s never come to her grave here.”

  “You say he’s never been back?”

  “Not unless he came in the dark of night,” she said, grinning. “Everybody in St. Mary’s would have heard of it. Still, that first year, on the anniversary of her death, there were flowers laid on the grave. My mother thought perhaps it was what Blanche’s mother had arranged. It was the kind of thing she would think of.”

  “Or her husband had sent them.”

  She shook her head. “Not him. It wasn’t something a man like him would think of. More a loving touch.”

  The apple tart finished and the teapot empty, he had no excuse to linger.

  He left the motorcar on the street and walked up to the church.

  It was small, as the woman in the dining room had said, but quite beautiful, the stonework and the glass in the traceried windows, even the decorations of the tower, all by a master hand. He had no trouble finding the Richmond graves in the churchyard. Blanche lay beside her parents, and on her elegant stone she was described as the beloved daughter of Alexander and Elizabeth Richmond.

  No mention of either of her husbands.

  Beneath the inscription were the dates of her birth and her death.

  Fourteen days ago, she would have celebrated her thirty-sixth birthday.

  As he turned toward the church, intending to step inside, he saw that the white-haired woman who’d been sitting in the sun on a stone bench just by the church door was still there. She’d watched as he searched for the graves and then stood in front of the Richmond stones for some time.

  She rose to wait for him, collecting the ebony cane at her side. “You were looking at the Richmond graves?” the woman asked. “She was a lovely girl. Such a shock it was when the news came.” She shook her head. “Our Princess Pat, you know.”

  Princess Patricia was Queen Victoria’s very pretty and very popular granddaughter. She’d lived in India and in Canada with her soldier father, Prince Arthur of Connaught. After much speculation about which European prince she might marry, she’d chosen a commoner, a Naval officer, in 1919.

  “You’re dressed like a Londoner,” the woman continued. “Did you perhaps know her?”

  “No.” He didn’t want to explain to her about the Yard. “But a friend did. I came to pay my respects.”

  “She was married here, in this church. A beautiful wedding. That was the first marriage of course. The next time, she chose London. We were disappointed, I can tell you. We’d hoped the house would be full of guests and children again. But they never lived here.”

  “Her mother and father lie beside her there. Who lives in the house now?”

  She pursed her lips in displeasure. “A jumped-up banker from London. He knows as much about country living as a London cabbie.” She looked back at the church, squinting a little. “There are no Richmonds here now, sad to say. All of them gone.”

  “She had money of her own, I understand. Was that from her parents’ deaths?”

  “No, no. An aunt died when Blanche was eleven and left her a fortune. It was held in trust until she was eighteen. Then she could draw on it as she pleased.”

  There were few secrets in villages this size . . .

  “I’ll leave you to visit the church,” she said, and started toward the gate in the churchyard wall.

  Rutledge said, “I’ll come back later. Instead, may I walk with you? I’d like to hear more about the family.” Pleased, she chatted on as he matched his pace to hers. Much of what she told him he’d already learned from the woman in the inn’s dining room, but he bent his head attentively and listened with courtesy.

  They paused at the gate, finishing their conversation, then she said, “I expect you’ll want to see the interior. And I go this way. Good day to you, sir.”

  “It was a pleasure talking with you,” he replied.

  The woman smiled. “That’s what the other man told me. He was kind too. I lost my grandson in the war, and I miss him. Broke my heart.” She sighed and was about to turn away when Rutledge stopped her.

  “Someone else came to pay his respects to the Richmonds?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  He chose his next question carefully. “Do many people come to visit their graves?”

  “Curiosity seekers mostly, that summer after the motorcar crash,” she said with contempt. “A nine days’ wonder, with the inquest and all. They cared nothing about Blanche Richmond, not really. And now here she’s had two visitors in a fortnight. Come to see her.”

  “I wonder if I know him. Could you describe him?”

  “Not as tall as you, but tall enough. Dark, but older than you, a touch of gray in his hair. Well dressed. And kind. He asked me about her too, and told me he’d known her before her marriage.”

  “Where was he from? Did he say?”

  “I didn’t ask. He walked with a limp—war injury, he said—and had a cane very like mine. But he’d been traveling and this was the first opportunity he’d had to come to St. Mary’s in a very long time.”

  Rutledge took out his notebook and the torn photograph. “Is this the same man, do you think? He’s been out of the country for some time. I didn’t know he’d come back to England.”

  She peered at the photograph. “I really can’t say. He’s awfully young here, isn’t he? This man. It might be him. My eyesight isn’t what it was. I’m sorry.”

  Rutledge put away the photograph and asked, “Have you seen him here before?”

  She shook her head. “And I’m here most every day. The sun is warm by the church, because of all that stone. And the walk does me good.” Then she added, “He had far to go, he said, and so he begged my forgiveness for having to leave when he’d have enjoyed talking to me a little longer. Such a nice man he was. I don’t know why, but I had the feeling that he’d cared for her. Our Blanche. Now I must get out of this wind.”

  With a nod she walked on, a lonely woman with memories.

  He watched her round the corner of the churchyard and disappear from his view.

  Was the other man Alan Barrington? She hadn’t recognized him from the photograph.

  It could be taken as proof that he was alive and back in England.

  Or the recent visitor might have been anyone who had known Blanche. Or even known Mark Thorne.

  He started back to the inn, then stopped short.

  Mark Thorne hadn’t been buried here in St. Mary’s churchyard with his wife’s family.

  Where was he buried?

  Inspector Johnson’s file had described the finding of the body and described the injuries it had sustained in the water, and that it was released to the widow after the inquest.

  Surely Blanche Thorne had brought her husband here, to where she’d been married and where her parents lived. It was what a grieving widow did, expecting in the course of time to be buried beside him.

  But she hadn’t.

  He went back to the churchyard and searched it meticulousl
y for well over an hour.

  There was no grave here for Mark Thorne. A suicide.

  Driving down to London, Rutledge considered what he’d learned so far.

  He couldn’t fault Inspector Hawkins in 1910. The inquiry had centered around the motorcar crash, and Barrington hadn’t gone missing. There appeared no need to look into the past.

  Hamish said, “Ye canna’ be sure the man at St. Mary’s was Barrington.”

  “That’s true. But who else could it be? Fletcher-Munro is housebound, and I can’t think that Strange would come here.”

  “It would ha’ been her birthday.”

  “Yes. But why this particular birthday? The woman hadn’t seen him there before.”

  “It could ha’ been anither reason to come.”

  “He was back in England for the first time in years. And that points to Barrington.”

  He stopped at the Yard to ask Sergeant Gibson if he knew where Mark Thorne was buried. But the Sergeant was away from his desk and not expected before the end of the day.

  It was already six o’clock.

  Rutledge had to wait until morning to go to Somerset House where births and deaths were registered.

  And there he found Mark Howard Edward Thorne, named for his father and both his paternal and maternal grandparents. Born in a village near Chichester, Sussex.

  He’d repacked his valise before leaving for Somerset House, but he wouldn’t require it to travel to Sussex. It was raining hard when he reached the village, and he stopped in a small shop for a cup of tea until the worst had passed, then went up the street to the churchyard.

  Rivulets of rainwater ran down the sloping path from the church door, and there were puddles everywhere. Avoiding them as best he could, he began to search the graves. He’d been there nearly twenty minutes when the church door opened with a squeal and a woman stepped out, putting up her umbrella. She didn’t notice him at first, walking down the path toward the gate. Then she saw him and called, “Are you looking for a particular grave?”

  He stopped and crossed to the path where she was standing. She smiled.

  “You look too young to be searching for ancestors, and just right for the war. We have a number of soldiers buried here, and their comrades often come to visit with them.”

  She was tall and fair, with a pretty scarf at the neck of her coat, and a very practical rain hat on her head.

  “Actually, I was hoping to speak to the Rector.”

  “Well, I’m rather afraid you’re out of luck. He’s at Guildford, in a meeting.”

  “The sexton, then?”

  She frowned, the warmth in her smile turning cold. “Are you with a newspaper?”

  “No. That isn’t what brought me here.”

  “Then may I ask, what did?”

  Rutledge considered his answer, and decided on the truth. “I’m from Scotland Yard. I was reviewing a case—it’s common enough when there’s been no arrest or trial—and I realized there was no mention in the files of where a man was buried.”

  “And you assumed he’d been brought here?”

  “Yes. I did wonder if he’d been buried in London.” He could hear music, an organ beginning to play, coming from the church behind her. “His wife lived there.”

  At the mention of his wife, the woman fiddled with her umbrella, as if she was afraid of losing it, although there was no wind to speak of. “And he was not in London? Why then should he be here?”

  “It’s where he was born.”

  Smiling slightly, she said, “Many men are not buried where they were born. You must search in a place where they have lived.”

  “He was a suicide. I expect no one really wanted his body.”

  “And you haven’t found him?” she asked.

  “No.”

  He waited. There had been anger in her face when he’d mentioned the word suicide. And pain. He expected her to go on, for there was something in the way she simply stood there that left the impression she was judging him. He took a chance and said quietly, “There’s the tea shop in the village. Or the inn must have a dining room. Somewhere we could talk more comfortably. I’m not convinced Mark Thorne took his own life. I think it’s possible he was murdered. But I have no idea why. Do you?”

  He’d caught her off guard. For an instant he read no in her eyes. They were hazel, predominantly green mixed with flecks of brown and gold.

  Then she said, “I don’t know you. I don’t know this man.”

  “I believe you do. My name is Rutledge. Inspector Rutledge. For my sins, I’ve been asked to review the death of Blanche Richmond.” He deliberately used her maiden name. “And I began to see that I couldn’t really understand what happened to her without knowing what had happened to Mark Thorne. I’ve been to Beachy Head. Not recently, but I know it, and I know the subtle danger there to anyone who is troubled.”

  She was staring now. And just as quickly as she had made up her mind to say no, she changed it in his favor.

  “Let me see your identification.”

  He took it out of his pocket, handed it to her, and took it back when she nodded.

  “I don’t care very much for public places. But I can take you to where Mark Thorne is buried.”

  She started walking down the path toward the churchyard gate. “It’s some distance, I’m afraid.”

  “I have a motorcar. Just there.” He pointed to where it stood close by the tea shop.

  Again she hesitated. And then she nodded. “This lull in the rain won’t last. We’ll be drenched by the time we arrive. So, yes. I’ll take you up on your offer.”

  She was silent until she was seated in the motorcar and he’d turned the crank. Then she said, “Drive to the church, and take the first left.”

  “I don’t know your name,” he said as he did as he was instructed.

  “Lorraine Belmont.”

  Rutledge followed the next directions to a pair of tall gates standing open and leading up a long drive to a house he could just see in the distance through the bare limbs of the handsome trees that made up a park.

  On the gateposts were a matching pair of stone stag heads.

  As he turned up the drive, she said, “In the spring, there are carpets of bluebells under the trees. I look forward to that every year.”

  “You live here?”

  “My father does.” As if she was wary of letting him know where she lived. And yet she’d volunteered to help him.

  Beyond the park the house came into view. It was old, large, and in rather poor condition, and she said, watching his face, “It’s lack of money. When my father inherited the house, death duties were rather awful. We’ve sold anything valuable, but the poor house needs more than they bring in. We only live in part of it now. I don’t know what will happen when my father dies. I expect I shall have to move into one of the cottages in the village.”

  It was as if she was defending the house, as if seeing it through his eyes hurt, and she had to explain why it looked as it did. Not its fault . . . nor hers.

  They stopped in front of the stone portico leading to a beautifully made door, heavy and studded with iron in the fashion of the Elizabethan house that had once been equally beautiful.

  She turned the heavy ring and led the way inside. They were in a short entry that led directly into a cavernous great hall. The walls, where usually an array of weapons formed patterns—rosettes of muskets or daggers or swords or pistols, interspersed with shields—showed pale shapes where the finest examples of these had once hung. The square spaces, Rutledge thought as they walked on, must represent the best of the portraits. Or the portraits, he amended, by the most famous painters.

  He could understand her grief for the house now. She had watched her world disappear one buyer at a time, or perhaps these treasures had been consigned to Sotheby’s as a lot.

  She carried on through arches on the left, into a large reception room, and from there, into a smaller room where there was a fire on the hearth. He expected her to s
top here, but she only asked him to leave his coat and hat on one of the upright chairs.

  As he did, she found a torch in the drawer of a reading table, and went back to the grand hall. An inconspicuous door, half hidden in the shadows, led upward in a tight spiral of wooden steps. There was no light here, and her torch guided both of them, although he thought she could have found her way without it. The steps opened into a short passage. It was cold and drafty.

  “We haven’t used the bedrooms on this floor since my grandfather’s day,” she said, as she opened a door into a large linen cupboard and stopped. “Our family has always been Catholic. We were never popular at court after Henry divorced Katharine of Aragon, and our fortunes declined over the centuries. But we refused to conform, and the chapel here is still consecrated.”

  She walked into the closet. Shelves ranged around three sides, filled with bed linens, quilts, and bedcovers. Following her, Rutledge could smell a mixture of lavender and mustiness. Her face distorted in the light of her torch, Miss Belmont smiled a little. “I don’t think any of these have been used since then either. Once upon a time, a maidservant slept in here, in the event someone took ill in the night.” She was fumbling with something under one of the lower shelves.

  A click, and the back of the closet swung wide into darkness. “The chamber pots were kept in here. Empty of course, just for show.” Her light defined a narrow space. “Up there,” she went on, pointing above their heads, “is our rather ordinary priest hole. It has a rope ladder that could be pulled up out of sight.” She reached up above her head and there was another click. A section of the wall in front of her opened. Light flooded the tiny space, and Rutledge realized there were windows beyond.

  A few steps more and they were standing on a balcony overlooking a narrow room, at the end of which was a plain altar with heavy silver candlesticks on an embroidered cloth. Silk? He couldn’t be sure. Above the altar hung a large silver crucifix. Below the balcony, there were half a dozen benches ranged on either side of the aisle. A wooden railing set off two carved chairs. There were threadbare tapestries on the walls, to keep out drafts. The only windows were high up.

  Two portraits faced each other on the nave walls. One was a portrait of Queen Mary Tudor, and opposite her, King Charles the First.