The Black Ascot

by Charles Todd

  She was angry. “Why did you let that awful woman write what she did? Oh, I saw the article. Scotland Yard and its secret pursuit. She couldn’t have written that drivel if you hadn’t told her something to arouse her suspicions. What are you playing at? I could shoot you here and now and put an end to this search. Tell me why I shouldn’t. No one would think to look for your body here. Or in the Belmont crypt.”

  “I had nothing to do with that article. I was as surprised as you were when I read it. She’s trying to make a name for herself. And she ended with a challenge to the Yard. I don’t think she even realized what she was setting in motion.”

  “Everyone will believe what she wrote.”

  “Why would that matter to you?” He carefully reached into his pocket and took out the coin, sending it spinning brightly through the air to land in the middle of the coverlet on the bed.

  Her gaze followed it, in spite of herself. Then she shut her eyes for an instant before saying, “And what is that?”

  “You know very well. Who has been in Denmark, Miss Belmont? Was it Alan Barrington?”

  “My father. He went there to buy a first edition Christian Andersen. With notes by the author. It’s quite valuable.”

  “You told me he was in Oxford.”

  “That’s where he heard news of the book coming on the market.” She was good, he had to give her that. Quick-witted and steady.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  She shrugged a little. “I don’t care whether you believe me or not. You can ask him, when he’s at home again.”

  “Will he lie for you?”

  “He’ll tell the truth,” she countered.

  “Was it Barrington who sent him word about this book coming to market?”

  “How could he have known of it? He’s either dead or in America or Africa, or for all I know, in India.”

  “He was here. In this tree house. And recently.”

  She smiled. “And you can prove this? I should like to know how.”

  “Do Jonathan Strange or Arnold Livingston know that Barrington is back in England?”

  The smile disappeared. “How should I know?”

  “I was in Sandwich until yesterday. Strange was there as well. After he left, I followed him, and I saw Livingston meet Strange at the railway station in Rochester. They returned to London together. I can’t quite see what the two of them have in common. Except Alan Barrington.”

  She looked down at the revolver in her hand, then slowly lowered the hammer. “They hate him. I think they’d kill him if they could find him.”

  Caught completely off guard, he stared at her. “Are you quite serious?”

  Her gaze met his. “They believe he killed Blanche. Of course I’m serious.” She turned and sat down in the nearest chair. “That scurrilous article will drive them to hunt for him.”

  “His solicitor and his steward? Who did kill Blanche Thorne? Was it you?”

  “I could have done. When Mark married her. I think she liked his adoration. Until it palled, and she made his life a misery. I could have killed her for that too. But it wouldn’t have given me Mark, would it?” She took a deep breath. “Why did you speak to that bloody woman and stir up all this attention? You said you were looking into the inquiry, you didn’t tell me you were actively hunting Alan.”

  “How did you come to know him?”

  “And read about myself in her next article?”

  “No. Not for her nor for the Yard. I found you—but I don’t know why you’re connected to Barrington. I’m merely curious.”

  She must have believed him, because after a moment, she said, “His mother and my father thought we might make a match of it. His mother brought Alan here often. But Alan’s father put a stop to these visits when I was five. He wasn’t about to have his only son marry a Catholic. My father and Alan’s mother quietly kept in touch—I suppose they were still hoping there was a future for us. But I’d fallen in love with Mark. Ironic, that. Alan wanted to marry Blanche, and I wanted to marry Mark. Instead they married each other, and now they’re both dead. None of us found any happiness.”

  “Barrington was a very good match. Blanche liked him enough to keep a photograph of him in her desk. Why did she choose Mark?”

  “There was something—he could be so charming, you see. And yet there was a darker side to him. It was intriguing.” She hesitated, then added thoughtfully, “I have sometimes felt that this darker side led him to suicide. The gallant gesture, the noble deed.” She took a deep breath. “Either that, or he was murdered.”

  “Did Alan kill him?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Did he kill Blanche, after she married a second time, not to him but to Fletcher-Munro?”

  “He never liked Fletcher-Munro.” The rain was letting up. He could hear her clearly as she shrugged a little and said quietly, “I don’t know. I didn’t really care to know.”

  “Yet you let him come here and stay in this tree house.”

  “Did I?” she retorted. “Show me proof of that.”

  “You wouldn’t be so incensed over that newspaper article if you didn’t know very well that Alan Barrington was alive—and in England.”

  She rose, then said, “I’m going back to the house. You can stay here or leave, I don’t really care what you do.”

  Turning her back on him, she walked out the door, leaving it standing wide. He waited until he was sure she was not outside waiting, the revolver pointed at him as he blew out the lamp and stood for an instant framed in the doorway.

  He had a feeling she was a very good shot.

  Driving back to London, Rutledge debated what Lorraine Belmont had told him.

  She was a master at manipulating a conversation. He’d learned that already. But was she also telling the truth?

  But she’d seemed to confirm what he’d already considered.

  After ten years of running Alan Barrington’s affairs, did the shoe fit so well that the solicitor and the steward decided they would benefit more without him? If no one knew whether he was dead or alive, if there had been no petition to the courts to have Barrington declared dead, a quiet little murder might be in order.

  Then he would never come back to interfere with their management of the estates. And the heir now living in Africa would never really be sure he might appear one day and dispute his own claim. It would in many ways limit his power to make decisions if he was a cautious man to begin with.

  What were Strange and Livingston doing in Sandwich and Dover?

  Hamish said, “If it’s true, what the woman said, does Barrington know his danger at their hands?”

  It would explain Clive Maitland, for one thing. An identity neither his friends nor his enemies knew about . . .

  Rutledge’s Scotland Yard identification was in his pocket. No formal announcement of his enforced leave had been made—the Yard was too busy trying to ignore their man’s attempt at suicide to make too much of his absence.

  At the next crossroads, Rutledge turned east, toward Sandwich, and drove through the night. He considered stopping in at Melinda Crawford’s house as he crossed into Kent, but decided against it. It was midday when he stopped at an inn in a village between Canterbury and the coast. He’d nearly driven into a ditch twice, and knew that the third time he might not see it in time. And he slept heavily, too tired to think or dream.

  Early the next morning, he set out for Sandwich, and arrived as the clouds behind him caught up with him, sweeping the narrow streets with waves of wind-driven rain that sent people hurrying for shelter, their black umbrellas nearly useless.

  Rutledge left his motorcar in front of the house on Delft Street and walked up to the door. The shoulders of his coat were all but soaked through when Billingsley finally opened it and asked his business.

  “Mr. Billingsley, I believe? Scotland Yard. I’d like to speak to you, if I may.”

  Billingsley stared at him. But there was something in his gaze that told Rutledge he was
ex-Army and not easily caught off his guard. He was also too well trained to give more than a cursory glance at the half-healed groove on Rutledge’s forehead, although Rutledge would have been willing to wager Billingsley realized what had caused it.

  For an instant Rutledge expected the man to close the door in his face, but in the end he stepped aside and let Rutledge, dripping now, move inside. Shutting the door against the storm, he said, “I think, sir, if you have no objection, you’d be more comfortable in the kitchen and out of that coat.”

  Rutledge could just hear what he thought was a carpet sweeper overhead in one of the first-floor rooms. He followed the man down the passage beside the staircase and through a door that led to the kitchen passage.

  “If you’ll give me your coat, sir, I’ll spread it near the cooker to dry a little.”

  Rutledge handed it to him, and as Billingsley set about spreading it out, he said, “You’ll have some identification, sir?”

  Rutledge passed it to him and watched him look at it closely. Strange would hear about this visit. But that didn’t matter now.

  Giving it back, Billingsley said, “What is it you wish to speak to me about?”

  “Three nights ago, you had a guest in this house. I’d like to know his name and his business here in Sandwich.”

  “Our guest, sir? Has he done anything wrong? I’m not aware of it.” Billingsley moved away from Rutledge to stand near the back windows—windows Rutledge had stood outside and looked through.

  “I won’t be able to answer that until I know his name,” Rutledge countered.

  He was prepared for the man to refuse to give him that information. But after the briefest hesitation, Billingsley said blandly, “It’s Morrow, sir. Alfred Morrow. He’s a frequent guest. He lost his sight in the war, and he comes here sometimes to get away from his parents. They appear to think that his wounds have left him helpless, and he finds that insupportable. The Strange family have given him leave to stay as often as he likes.”

  Rutledge remembered then. Who’s there? Is it you, Billingsley? As the guest had stood at the open door appearing to stare out into the night.

  And yet he’d lit a candle to climb the stairs and find his way to his room . . .

  Force of habit? Or did Morrow have some vision?

  It was a setback. If true . . .

  “Where is Morrow now?”

  “I presume he’s at home, sir. He left the next morning.” Billingsley cleared his throat. “He’d been here nearly a fortnight.”

  “Who else comes to stay in this house?”

  “Friends of the Strange family. Relatives. Mrs. Porter, who is Mrs. Strange’s sister, is often here. She dotes on Miss Julia’s daughter. Sometimes clients of the jewelry shop who have known the senior Mr. Strange for many years come to stay while he makes a piece they’ve commissioned. We are told when to expect a guest and how many will be at dinner, that sort of thing.” He considered Rutledge. “What is this in aid of, sir?”

  “Does Alan Barrington ever come to stay?”

  He caught the recognition of the name before Billingsley could suppress it. It was there in the very slight movement of his shoulders and the sharpening of his gaze.

  “Not for many years, sir. Not since he was accused of murder.”

  “Somehow I find that hard to believe.” Rutledge pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sat down, making a show of taking out his notebook and studying a page. “Where did The Saucy Belle sail to, three nights ago?”

  “She took Mr. Morrow to Dover. His family lives on the Canterbury road. A motorcar meets him at the port and conveys him to his parents’ home.”

  “Tell me how to find the Morrow house.”

  “Surely you don’t intend to question Mr. Morrow?” Billingsley was shocked. “He’s a guest of this house. It wouldn’t be fitting for you to draw him into whatever it is you’re looking for. He has nothing to do with the Barrington business.”

  “I won’t know until I’ve spoken to him.”

  “Inspector—”

  “His direction, if you please. Or I can stop in at the jeweler’s shop and question Mr. Strange.”

  Billingsley stood there, clearly torn. But in the end, he said, “It’s a small village. Strung out along the road. The house is down a side lane, beyond the church. According to Mr. Morrow. I’ve never been there.”

  “The village?”

  “I believe he called it Wendover.”

  “Thank you.” Rutledge wrote the name in his notebook and rose.

  Billingsley handed him his coat and hat. Neither had had a chance to dry. Rutledge shrugged into the coat and said, “This is a confidential matter, Billingsley. I’d not discuss our conversation with anyone until the Yard has completed its inquiry.”

  “I shall have to report your interest in Mr. Morrow to Mr. Strange. It’s my duty, sir.”

  “At your peril,” Rutledge replied and walked out of the kitchen.

  Mrs. Billingsley was just coming down the staircase, wearing a clean apron and her hair covered in a kerchief. She was carrying the carpet sweeper in one hand and a pail in the other.

  Stopping short halfway down, she stared at Rutledge as he came into view, then looked quickly at her husband. Something passed between them, and she stayed where she was, without speaking, until Rutledge was out the door, striding through the rain to his motorcar.

  17

  He found the village of Wendover easily enough. It was just as Billingsley had described it, strung out along the old coastal road. The church was down Church Lane, only the tower visible, as Rutledge turned right into it. Beyond the Rectory was a tall white house with a front garden enclosed by a black wrought-iron fence, the tops of the posts shaped like fleur-de-lis. A gate led into the path to the black door, with a brass knocker that was also a fleur-de-lis.

  Rutledge lifted it and let it fall.

  The door opened almost at once, as if someone was expecting the summons. A man of perhaps fifty, his face haggard, his eyes red, said, “What have you—” And stopped short. “I’m so sorry—I thought—how can I help you?”

  “My name is Rutledge. I’ve come to speak to Mr. Alfred Morrow.”

  The man’s face drained of what little color it had. “My son,” he said. “I—I don’t believe I know you, sir.”

  “Is your son at home?” He spoke more sharply than he’d intended. As a policeman he’d been to too many houses where shock and disbelief vied with intense fear. Here was trouble, and it was fresh and painful.

  The man turned to look back over his shoulder, then said, lowering his voice, “He—I’m afraid he’s not here. There’s—” He stopped, then went on. “He’s—not here,” he repeated.

  “What’s happened?” Rutledge asked. “It’s urgent that you tell me now if I am to help.”

  Something in his voice reached Morrow’s father, and he answered, “We don’t—that’s to say, he hasn’t come home. The motorcar went to meet him as usual. But he never—the chauffeur waited. We don’t know precisely—”

  Rutledge said, “He’s missing? Have the police been notified?”

  “Yes. Rollins—our driver—had the presence of mind to speak to them straightaway. Then he came here to inform us. We’ve been—expecting to hear from the Dover police.”

  “I’ll need to speak to him—”

  “You don’t understand—it wasn’t his fault he was delayed meeting the confounded boat. He’s taken it quite hard. There was a cart—some freak accident.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I must go. My wife is—upset.” And he swung the door shut, no longer interested in Rutledge or what he might want with his son or even do for him.

  Rutledge drove on to Dover, taking the old roads, those the chauffeur must have taken on his way to collect Morrow. Some ten miles from the port, at a crossroads, he spotted a pile of rotting cabbages by the side of the road, and the deep rut where a broken cart wheel was still half-buried. He stopped to look at them, wondering if this had been the accident
that had held up Rollins. If so, that account was true, he thought. Turning back to the nearest village, he spoke to several people, asking about the cart. But no one seemed to know anything about it, or about the farmer who might have been taking cabbages to market.

  He gave up trying, intent on reaching Dover. Driving down into the town, he went directly to the police station nearest the harbor. He found it in some turmoil, men coming and going, a Sergeant listening to one man, then turning to speak to the next in line. An Inspector, standing by a table where a map was spread out, was studying reports and matching them to points on the map.

  Making his way through the busy room, he approached the Inspector, and said as the man glanced up, impatient at the interruption, “I’ve come from the Morrow family. They’re desperate for news. What can you tell me?”

  The impatient frown deepened. “And you are?” he demanded.

  “I represent them. They are too distraught to travel.”

  The Inspector seemed to take that to mean Rutledge was the family solicitor, for he said, “There’s no news. We haven’t found Morrow. Or his body. The driver said he was blind. How blind?”

  “I don’t know. I shouldn’t think he could find his way. I haven’t been told why he was in Dover. Do you know?”

  “According to the driver, he’d been visiting friends. They had a small boat. It usually dropped him at the port where the motorcar waits for him.” He pointed to a circle drawn on his map. “But the chauffeur was late, a cart overturned on the road, he said, and there was no sign of Morrow when he got here. He waited for some time, then came here to report Morrow missing. Trouble is, we don’t know if the boat was late. Or even set out for Dover. Coast Guard hasn’t reported any vessels in distress, but something could sink out there and who would know until the debris starts washing in? And the family doesn’t appear to know where in hell Morrow spent his fortnight. I find that odd, for starters.”

  “I can answer that. He was a guest of the Strange family in Sandwich. They have a house on Delft Street where he was free to come and go whenever he felt like getting away. It was their boat as well. She left her mooring the morning he was to return to Dover. You might send someone to Sandwich to interview them and find out if she’s returned to harbor.”