by Charles Todd
Rutledge picked it up, and this time looked at it at once.
It was a printed invitation to Evensong on Wednesday next at one of the Wren churches in the City.
Rutledge kept the appointment.
The choir was singing as he walked through the door, the organ notes soaring above them, filling the church with beauty.
Those who had come for Evensong were seated in the choir. He didn’t go there, but stood for a moment letting the music fill him.
And then he walked as quietly as he could down the side aisle, toward the single chapel there.
A man was standing before the altar, staring up at the stained-glass window above him. He swung around when he heard Rutledge approach.
Rutledge recognized him. Even in the dimly lit chapel. Older, his face showing the deeply incised lines of a man who had lived alone with ghosts too long. His hair was already threaded with gray. But there was no doubt whatsoever that this was Alan Barrington.
He started forward, as if to hold out his hand to Rutledge, then stopped as if he wasn’t certain the gesture would be acceptable.
“Hallo,” he said simply. “Are you Rutledge?”
And the two men stood there for a moment, the music swirling between them.
Rutledge nodded.
Barrington said, “I owe you more than I can ever repay.”
“You owe a man by the name of Wade, who told me a story I only half-believed.”
“I will find him then. If you’ll tell me where to look.” There was a faint accent to his voice, as if he’d lived a very long time in another culture. “It feels quite strange to walk through the streets without fear of being recognized.”
“It must do. Why did you come back? It was a terrible risk.”
“England is my home. After a while I needed to come, and then after that first time, I couldn’t stop myself from needing another visit, and another.”
“You went to Blanche’s grave and spoke to an older woman sunning herself by the church door.”
The smile was sudden and genuine. “Yes, I did. She was kind, and I was hungry for kindness that day.”
“How many people knew you were still alive?”
“Only one. I couldn’t put anyone else in jeopardy. Strange tried to contact me over and over again. I don’t think he and Livingston ever stopped working on my behalf, but I couldn’t put them at risk. Not after Mark’s death.”
“Miss Belmont.”
“Yes, Lorraine. No one knew about her, and so I couldn’t do her any harm. She doesn’t care for you, by the way, but I think that’s because you see through her.”
“The most Machiavellian woman I have ever met.” It wasn’t true, but close enough.
Barrington laughed quietly. “I’ll tell her that.”
“But there’s Maitland to consider. You hurt his family.”
The laughter in his eyes vanished. “I had no choice.” He listened to the music for a moment, then said, “When I first met Clive—that was in Nice, the summer after I came down from Oxford, when I did a European tour to get over losing Blanche to Mark—Clive had no memory of his past. He died there in 1909, and the hotel contacted me about arrangements, since there was no one else to ask. I took over his identity later, when I desperately needed one. You can imagine my shock when his father appeared one day. An old man, suffering from the results of his stroke, sure he’d found his long-lost son. I couldn’t go back to England with him, Rutledge. I’d have been unmasked as soon as I reached the village. If he couldn’t see, others could. I have never felt so helpless. And so ashamed. I’m not ready to say good-bye to Clive. I owe him too much.”
“Why did you go to the field where the motorcars were waiting, at Black Ascot? Didn’t you see the other driver watching you? His evidence as well as that of the mechanic who examined the Fletcher-Munro brake were enough to hold you over for trial.”
“I never touched the brake. The mechanic was Fletcher-Munro’s man, he’d have told any lie he was asked to tell. He visited Fletcher-Munro five times while he was in hospital, using the excuse of bringing whatever the patient needed from his home. I didn’t see the other driver at all. I’m not even sure he was there. Strange was convinced the man was looking to see his name in the newspapers. He was killed in a drunken brawl two years later. The truth died with him.”
“Then why were you there? If not to meddle with the brake?”
Barrington looked away. “I was going to leave a message for Blanche. I realized that was cowardly. I went back to the races and found her talking to a woman. Fletcher-Munro wasn’t there. I interrupted them and took Blanche aside, found a corner—” His words stopped. Clearing his throat, he went on harshly, as if to shield his feelings. “I wasn’t able to link Fletcher-Munro to Mark’s death, but I could show her proof that Mark had been ruined deliberately. It took me months of hard work and a great deal of money spent in the right quarters, but I’d found it. And I told her. And it caused her death, didn’t it? I knew as soon as I heard she was dead that she must have confronted him in the motorcar, she hadn’t waited until they were at home.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police first? If you had proof?”
He sighed. “I did. I was told it didn’t matter—Thorne was dead by his own hand, and there was no point in reopening the inquiry unless I could also show Fletcher-Munro killed him. But there’s evidence that Mark was there before me, trying to find proof that he’d been purposely given bad financial advice. And I believe Fletcher-Munro had to stop him before he did find it.”
“Given his reputation—adviser to King Edward and all that—why would Fletcher-Munro want to ruin Mark? If it got out, his other clients would stop trusting him.”
“He never liked Mark, God knows why. Everyone else did. But he cultivated him. I realized too late that it was Blanche he was after. The only way to reach her was to rid himself of Mark, and he did that in two steps: ruining him, then letting the world think Mark had killed himself rather than face his own folly in investing. For all I know, Mark went to Beachy Head to consider what to do next, and Fletcher-Munro followed him there.”
“Couldn’t you have stayed, and brought all this out in your trial?”
“To what end? Blanche was dead. She couldn’t testify to what I’d said to her. Fletcher-Munro was in hospital, badly crippled, and he had the world’s sympathy. The evidence against me was good enough to try me, and no barrister in his right mind would hinge a trial on proof that one of my victims had ruined a friend. It would only serve to strengthen my motive for killing my enemy and his wife.”
Given the newspaper coverage of the inquest, Rutledge had to agree. To bring in that evidence, without the testimony of young Freddy Morrow or Blanche herself to support it by describing how the crash had happened, would be tantamount to handing the Crown a conviction. And Barrington would surely hang.
“Did Strange know you’d found proof of what Fletcher-Munro had done?”
“No. I wanted to tell Blanche first. After the crash, I saw no point. But I still have it, locked away at one of my houses.” He looked toward the bright candlelight in the choir, then said, “I must go. I still find it hard to believe I’m safe.” He hesitated. “Would it complicate the upcoming inquest if I asked you to join me for dinner?”
“Not if we’re discreet. I have my motorcar outside. I know of a house in Kent where we could dine very well, and no one would be the wiser. The owner is a friend. She will make Miss Belmont appear to be an apprentice in the study of Machiavelli. But you won’t realize it until after you’ve left.”
“I should like that very much.”
They didn’t leave the church together.
As Rutledge walked back up the aisle, the music replaced by Responses, he ran a finger across the line on his forehead.
In different ways, Fletcher-Munro had taken a good many things from a good many people, himself included. Blanche, of course. Mark Thorne. Frances. Alfred Morrow. Barrington.
Lives. Pea
ce of mind. Friendships. The future.
He closed the church door behind him, and walked on to the motorcar.
Still, he could hear the organ again, and the choir voices soaring. He wasn’t certain whether it was real or in his head, that music.
He was too busy damning Fletcher-Munro to the darkest corners of Hell.
Getting into the motorcar, he sat there, waiting for the man he’d once hunted.
Acknowledgments
There are always so many people who are godparents to a book. We love and cherish every one of you, and you know that.
But we want to take this opportunity to thank Jane at Delamain House for her hospitality and a lovely, lovely summer’s day with her last July. We asked if we might use Delamain in a Rutledge book. Not only is it beautiful and historic and lived in, but it was also a hospital in the Great War. We saw the photographs taken then—our inspiration for Clive Maitland. She graciously agreed! Jane Warden, a cousin of the household, isn’t our Jane, but I think our Jane will like her immensely. We do. It was just that the name seemed to fit her so well.
If you are in the Lake District, find time to visit the house. It has one of our favorite rooms—you might enjoy guessing which one. And there’s the jam as well. You can’t leave without some jam to take home. Wonderful doesn’t touch it! Don’t miss the gardens either. They’re family gardens, not trimmed and manicured and perfect but full of life and beauty and quiet corners. The sort of gardens we love too.
Sometimes you meet the nicest people while doing research, and Jane’s staff was as welcoming as she was. We are so very grateful we had a chance to go to Delamain House. And in the autumn, we could send Rutledge there to enjoy it too.
About the Author
CHARLES TODD is the author of the Bess Crawford mysteries, the Inspector Ian Rutledge mysteries, and two stand-alone novels. A mother-and-son writing team, they live on the East Coast.
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Also by Charles Todd
The Ian Rutledge Mysteries
A Test of Wills
Wings of Fire
Search the Dark
Legacy of the Dead
Watchers of Time
A Fearsome Doubt
A Cold Treachery
A Long Shadow
A False Mirror
A Pale Horse
A Matter of Justice
The Red Door
A Lonely Death
The Confession
Proof of Guilt
Hunting Shadows
A Fine Summer’s Day
No Shred of Evidence
Racing the Devil
The Gate Keeper
The Bess Crawford Mysteries
A Duty to the Dead
An Impartial Witness
A Bitter Truth
An Unmarked Grave
A Question of Honor
An Unwilling Accomplice
A Pattern of Lies
The Shattered Tree
A Casualty of War
A Forgotten Place
Other Fiction
The Murder Stone
The Walnut Tree
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
the black ascot. Copyright © 2019 by Charles Todd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
first edition
Cover photographs © tomazl/iStock/Getty Images (horse); © blackboard1965/Shutterstock (sky); © Mataray8821/Shutterstock (leaves); © ailin1/Shutterstock (trees)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Digital Edition FEBRUARY 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-267877-5
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-267874-4
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