The Black Ascot

by Charles Todd

  Rutledge had made a note of her comment, but at the time it hadn’t seemed to have anything to do with Barrington’s whereabouts.

  Now it did.

  Where had Barrington gone as a child? A place that no one would think of, but he himself would remember clearly, because it was intensely personal, intensely happy or sad. Where people wouldn’t recall a little boy on holiday, or expect to see that child again as a grown man, hunted by the police. A place where Clive Maitland might be safe . . .

  The steward, Livingston, hadn’t met Barrington until Oxford. He wouldn’t have known. And while Strange was the family solicitor now, his cousin had handled the affairs of Barrington’s father. He’d have no reason to remember where his cousin’s client had once taken his family on holiday, or a day’s outing, or to visit a friend, now long dead.

  But Clive Maitland would remember.

  11

  Rutledge was closer to Oxford than to London. He turned around, and on the chance that Strange’s firm was on the telephone, he found one in Oxford and put through the call.

  He was in luck. Strange’s clerk answered, and after several minutes, Strange came to the telephone.

  “Rutledge? What are you doing in Oxford?”

  “Actually, I’m on the road, and this was the nearest telephone.” Not quite the truth, but it would do in the circumstances. “I’ve decided to have a look at the house in Melton Rush. Could you tell them I’m coming, and to give me access to whatever might seem reasonable?” He was careful not to use Barrington’s name over the open line.

  Strange’s voice took on an even warier note. “What are you looking for? The police all but tore the place apart searching it for evidence. Twice. Surely the results must be in the Yard files. I can’t imagine that Inspector Hawkins wasn’t thorough. It was an important investigation.”

  “It was,” he agreed, “and I have Hawkins’s notes and the file. But he was looking to find evidence of guilt and later on, of your client’s whereabouts. If I’m to be as thorough, I need to go over the same ground, but with a different eye.”

  “It’s a wild-goose chase, Rutledge. I don’t see the point.”

  “Of course I could ask the Yard to request a warrant to search. The problem with that is, if the newspapers get wind of it, and stir up renewed interest in your client, you know as well as I do that the hunt will begin again, and there will be sightings on every street corner. It will only hamper finishing my review in a timely fashion, and I don’t think you want that any more than I do.”

  “That smacks of blackmail,” Strange said, trying to suppress the anger he was feeling from reaching the man on the other end of the line. But Rutledge, acutely aware of what he was doing, heard it in the tenseness of the solicitor’s voice. “And I don’t care for that.”

  “I’m sorry if you see it that way. But I think you know that I’m right. Best to keep this quiet as long as possible.” And not arouse any suspicion in Barrington’s mind that he’d been spotted. For Rutledge, that was the salient point.

  Strange took a deep breath. “You haven’t had to live with the repercussions of this matter since the day it began. He was a friend as well as a client, and he was a private man. I’ve tried to respect that. And until I have proof of death, I’ll go on respecting that.”

  “Understood.”

  “I’ll make the necessary arrangements. But this isn’t carte blanche, Rutledge. Do you hear me? You’ll confine yourself to information pertinent to your inquiry. Nothing more.”

  “Is there more to be discovered?”

  “Damn it, man, you know precisely what I’m saying. How would you like your own life to be under scrutiny, every detail and nuance of it brought out for others to poke through and comment on, whether they had a right to know these things or not?”

  It was far too close to home. While Rutledge was fighting to control his own voice, Strange went on without waiting for an answer.

  “I will remind you that whatever my client is charged with or suspected of, there has been no trial. No trial, Rutledge. He hasn’t had his day in court, and so he is still innocent in the eyes of the law. The inquest found probable cause to try him, but it did not convict him.”

  “He ran.”

  “So would I have done, I expect, if I had no way to prove I hadn’t done something so vile.”

  “Point taken.”

  After a moment, Strange said, “Then I’ll make the necessary arrangements.” Without waiting for a reply, he cut the connection.

  Satisfied—and yet unsettled—Rutledge went back to his motorcar. This was the first time that Strange had so vigorously defended his client’s innocence. And there had been something in that defense that rang true. Out of friendship for the man, as he’d said, or was it based on something else. Knowledge . . .

  He spent the night in a village not far from Melton Rush, and the next morning early, presented himself at the gates to the estate. They were closed. And locked with a chain.

  So much for Livingston cooperating with the Yard.

  He went back to the motorcar and began using the horn, standing by the driver’s door and waiting with noticeable impatience.

  Hamish said, “You could ha’ asked yon Constable to come and cut the chain.”

  “I should have. On the other hand, Livingston has made this personal rather than professional. I’ll return the courtesy.”

  After several minutes, one of the outside staff came down the drive, frowning with irritation. He was around fifty, wearing dark brown corduroy trousers and a heavy coat, a flat cap on graying hair. Rutledge realized he was the man who had been sent to bring the Constable to the house when Miss Mills had been arrested. “The estate is closed to visitors,” the man said gruffly. “Go away.”

  Rutledge walked forward. “Scotland Yard. Open these gates. Now.” He presented his identification.

  It was clear that Livingston hadn’t told the staff about Rutledge’s impending arrival. The man stared, then cleared his throat. “I’ll speak to someone at the house.”

  “No. The steward knows I’m expected. You’ll open this gate now. Or I’ll have you both taken up for obstructing the police in the course of their inquiries.” His tone of voice brooked no argument.

  The man hesitated, torn between the threat and Livingston’s instructions.

  The Yard won.

  He came forward, fumbled with the chain, then took out a key and opened the lock. Drawing the chain through the bars of the gates, he put it over his shoulder, then began to swing the gates wide.

  Rutledge waited until he could clear them with the motorcar, nodded to the man, and got in. Driving through, he headed up the winding drive to the front of the house. There he got out and went to the door, lifting the brass knocker and bringing it down against the plate several times.

  A housemaid opened the door, looked up at him, but before she could speak, he said, “Mr. Livingston, please.”

  “If you will wait, I’ll see if Mr. Livingston is available.”

  “Thank you, but he’s expecting me. Where will I find him?” Rutledge smiled, moved past her, and walked into a wide hall.

  He wasn’t sure what he had expected to find here, given Barrington’s wealth. The Georgian interior matched the Georgian exterior. Pale green walls trimmed in white, with niches holding white vases of varying shapes, surrounded a graceful oval staircase rising elegantly to the first floor. Nothing appeared to have been altered since the days of the Prince Regent.

  The maid moved quickly to shut the door and then led him through a second door that opened into a small drawing room that was lavender and white, with windows looking out on the drive, where his motorcar stood.

  “Your name, sir?”

  “Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard.”

  She left him there to admire the paintings on the wall and the carpet on the polished wood floor. The hearth was ornate white marble with lavender tile in the surround.

  There was nothing that he’d seen thus f
ar that showed the heavier, darker furnishings and decor of Victoria’s reign had ever existed, and he found that interesting. As a rule every generation who took over a family house—whether a grand one such as this or a villa in the middle-class streets of cities—found themselves filling the attics with the old appointments and bringing in the new and popular styles.

  Had this been a personal preference of the Barringtons? Or hadn’t they cared? Or was it a matter of lack of interest in changing anything?

  He was still considering this when the door opened and Livingston stepped in.

  His face registered surprise—and distaste. “I’ve seen you before. In the drive. Trespassing.”

  “Not trespassing, no. At that time I was merely curious.”

  The steward’s tone was challenging. “Then why are you here now in your official capacity? Strange sent word you wanted to conduct a more thorough search than Hawkins had done. In my view that’s as unnecessary as it is intrusive. Unless of course you believe we’re concealing Mr. Barrington in a linen cupboard?”

  “Actually, I’m only interested in getting to know Barrington a little better. Starting with you. You were his steward before his disappearance. What sort of man was he?”

  Livingston looked around. “This isn’t the place to talk about him. I have a room, an office. This way.” He turned and didn’t wait for Rutledge to follow.

  The room near the rear of the house was large and bright, with wood paneling and several shelves filled with ledgers and books on farming and estate management. Very different from the confection of the small drawing room. Several large leather chairs, well used, stood by the hearth, and a serviceable desk with straight-back chairs in front of it took up the space nearest the door.

  Hamish said, “Is it for show?”

  Rutledge didn’t answer him. Without waiting for an invitation, he took one of the comfortable chairs. There was no fire in the grate, although it was ready laid.

  Livingston took a long match from the jar on the mantelpiece and held it in the tinder until it caught. Satisfied, he tossed the match into the blaze. “I was out all morning at one of the tenant farms.” Whether it was an apology for the cold room or an explanation for the locked gate, it was hard to say.

  “Barrington?” Rutledge reminded him.

  Frowning, Livingston stood with his back to the blaze. “For a man with as much money as he had, he was an ordinary sort. No airs. Pass him on the street, and you’d never guess. I liked him before I knew who he was. I think that’s what he liked about me. I was happy to work for him. I loved the land, I was happier here than in London, shut up in four walls with windows looking out at the building next door, sunlight creeping in once a day. My father wanted me to go into banking. I think I disappointed him.”

  “You describe your employer in the past tense. Is he dead?”

  Livingston flushed. “Did I? I expect that’s because I haven’t seen him in ten years. I tend to think of him in the past. Not as dead, but as someone I knew then.”

  “Why did you stay on in the house, after he’d gone?”

  Livingston shrugged. “I’ve told you. I liked the land. I’ve improved some acreage, changed some of the practices. Found ways to do things better. We have some of the new tractors to plow. Makes up for the men we lost in the war.”

  “Where is Barrington now?”

  He sighed. “God knows.”

  “Did you meet him in London two nights ago?”

  There was shock in his face, and it reached his eyes. Watching him, Rutledge couldn’t be sure whether the shock was the news that Barrington was alive and back in England—or that Rutledge knew that Barrington and his steward had met there. “He was in London?” Livingston said finally. “Strange said nothing—are you sure of that?”

  Covering his tracks, Rutledge said, “I thought that was why you’d come down to the city. I thought perhaps it was to meet Barrington.”

  “Well, you’re wrong. I went to see Strange about some of the tenant houses. They need repairs, and for that amount of money, I must have the firm’s approval.”

  But Strange had said that Livingston had come about the journalist Miss Mills.

  “Nothing else?”

  Livingston busied himself adding more coal to the fire. “I don’t make a habit of traveling back and forth to London. I have the authority to spend what I require, up to a certain amount. After that, I apply to Strange for the sums.” He sat down. “You didn’t come here just to find out what I remembered about Alan. Strange said you wished to search the house again. I can’t imagine why. After Barrington disappeared, the Yard did everything but take this house and the others apart piece by piece, and they found nothing.”

  “So Strange told me. No, I’m more interested in the man. If he killed Blanche Fletcher-Munro, I doubt there’s any evidence here in Melton Rush that would help prove either way whether he committed that crime or not. For a start, I’d like to see his study. Family portraits. Any photographs he might have taken or been given over the years. I want to know how his mind works.”

  “How do you expect that to help you?”

  “It will tell me whether or not this review of a ten-year-old crime is worth my time. And if Barrington killed himself, rather than go through a public trial. Everyone is so certain he fled England before he could be taken into custody. My view is that he preferred not to face his trial. Leaving it to the world to decide whether he was a killer—or an innocent man.”

  He could see that Livingston was perplexed. He hadn’t expected that answer.

  “You think he’s dead.” It was a statement. “A suicide, like Thorne.”

  “Don’t you? You’ve lived in this house or another of his properties and seen to them for a decade. Do you think Alan Barrington, having all this, would be willing to live in a prison for the rest of his life? Or have it put down in the family archives that he was hanged for murder?”

  “I think he would prefer to take his own life,” Livingston replied quietly.

  “What will you do, if the Kenya branch of the family decides to come back to England and take up their inheritance?”

  “Find another position, I expect, assuming they will wish to hire their own man.” Taking a deep breath, Livingston said, “I’ve known that could happen at any time these past ten years. We’ve corresponded a few times, Ellis and I. But I don’t think that the family really want to come back to England. They receive an allowance, they have done since Alan inherited and Ellis became the next heir. But their lives appear to be fairly well settled in Kenya.”

  “Were you in love with Blanche Richmond, when the four of you were up at Oxford?”

  Livingston’s face flushed a dark red. “That’s none of your damned business.” He stood up abruptly, and his voice was curt. “Now, what is it you’ve come all the way from London to see? The sooner I satisfy your curiosity in that direction, the sooner you’ll be gone.”

  Rutledge rose. “Let’s begin with the family portraits.”

  He wasn’t really interested in them, but he let Livingston show him the paintings hung in several parts of the house. Mostly men in dark clothes, looking down at him with the satisfaction of knowing their worth in life. Among them a smattering of scarlet uniforms, and one solemn figure in clerical robes. The women were elegant, sometimes haughty. But the Barringtons, apparently prolific in the earlier generations, had come down to one child. The portrait of Alan’s mother showed a lovely, frail woman who had fair hair that was nearly silver, and a slimness that spoke of illness.

  “She shouldn’t have had a child,” Livingston said, looking up at her likeness. “Alan told me the doctors had warned her. But she was determined to give his father an heir. She never fully recovered her health. Alan told me he remembered her as someone always swathed in shawls, smiling and holding out her arms to him when he came into a room, smelling of lavender and medicines. Her husband—over there—was a man with a good head for business. He loved his wife, and never remarried.�
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  “You know a good deal about the family.”

  “If there weren’t guests, sometimes I’d come up for dinner, and Alan talked about many things. I’d met him when we were at Oxford, of course, and we were friends there. But when I accepted the position as his steward, I refused to trade on that. Just as well. When I first came here, the housekeeper of the day was determined to keep me in my place. After Alan left, and she could no longer accuse me of seeking favors, she also talked about the past. The butler moved on, but she stayed and must have found it rather lonely. The present housekeeper is a stickler for the proprieties. The only reason she tolerates me in the house is that she knows I can let her go.”

  From the humor in his voice, it was impossible to judge whether he was bitter about being kept in his place, as he’d put it, or if he truly found it amusing.

  Hamish said, “Ye ken, he calls him Alan. No’ Mr. Barrington.”

  It was, indeed, an easy familiarity.

  “Do you live here in the house?” Rutledge asked as Livingston took him into the library where Barrington’s desk stood.

  “Not until about two years after Alan had gone. I had my own house in the village. But it was easier to keep an eye on the estate if I lived here. And so I took one of the guest rooms upstairs.”

  Rutledge was scanning the titles in the glass-fronted shelves. “He had an odd taste in literature.”

  “Many of the books belonged to his mother. She loved myths and legends. She was a romantic, I think. There’s a fine collection of Tennyson, the Arthurian cycle, and there’s the Brothers Grimm, and French stories and poems. Translations of epics, including Beowulf. Stories about Greek gods. Alan said she used to read them to him in the evening after tea.” He pulled out his watch and looked at it. Pointing to a long chest with drawers that stood under the windows, he added, “I think most of the photographs are there. I have to meet with one of the tenants. If you need anything, you can ring.” He nodded toward the bell pull. “Someone will bring you a tray with your lunch. The dining room, as you saw when we passed it, is closed. I usually take my meals in one of the sitting rooms.”