Rutledge said, “Do you want me to search?”

  “No—no. But I expect you ought to stay until the guests leave. Just to be certain all of them do.” She sighed. “I must admit, this is getting on my nerves. And I’m not usually timid or easily frightened.”

  “I don’t believe you saw a ghost. What you saw was real enough. I’m nearly certain that the second man was an accomplice, who got up and walked away.”

  “But who is doing this, and why?”

  They were in the hall, speaking softly because their voices echoed. “We need to be a bit more private,” he suggested, but she shook her head.

  “They’re due to leave in another twenty minutes.”

  He began to say something when Mrs. Hailey came out of the state rooms and reported, “All the candles are out. I went back through, to make certain of that. They did enjoy going through, I can tell you. I heard some of the comments, and so did Elizabeth and Sara. I told them to go into the kitchen and put the kettle on.”

  “Yes, that was well done. Ah—I think I hear movement.”

  She turned, waiting, and a few minutes later, the first of the guests began to appear at the top of the steps, smiling and talking, clearly pleased with their evening.

  Lady Benton turned toward the main door. Mrs. Hailey was already pushing it open.

  “You’d better stay. The butler?” she said to Rutledge, and then to Mrs. Hailey, “Will you begin to see to the locks?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  And then the guests were saying good night to Lady Benton, profusely thanking her for a marvelous evening, commenting on the beauty of the rooms by candlelight, and slowly making their way out the door.

  As the rest of the party came up the stairs and began to leave, Rutledge examined them more closely. The men were mostly in their fifties, he thought, two of them probably ex-officers, their backs ramrod straight. Even so, none of them as agile as the man he’d been chasing.

  From the stairs, the woman who had been serving signaled Lady Benton that they were all accounted for, and then she went back down to clear away.

  Several of the women glanced sideways at Rutledge as he stood behind and to the right of Lady Benton, as if wondering who he might be. He kept an appropriately formal expression pinned to his face, all the while wishing they would hurry out the door.

  And then they were gone, in a flurry of goodbyes and final words of thanks. He stepped forward and swung the heavy door shut as soon as they had reached the drive and the motorcars waiting for them.

  Setting the locks and putting the bar in place, he said, “We need to talk.”

  “Not until everyone has gone. If you’ll help Cynthia clear away the trays from downstairs? We can leave the rest until morning. We don’t have a tour scheduled for tomorrow.”

  As she left for the kitchen, he did as he was asked, carrying up the heavy trays of food and the used dishes. Cynthia, grateful for the help, was chatting about the guests. “Sir Anthony knew the late Lord Benton,” she was saying. “They had gone to school together, and he was remembering coming here for a weekend as a boy. I think that’s why he asked to bring his houseguests over.”

  He listened with half an ear, trying to finish here and move on to the kitchen.

  When they got there, the tea was ready, and the staff helped themselves to the remaining sandwiches and little cakes.

  Excusing himself, he went out the back passage and quietly tested all the doors. Mrs. Hailey had been thorough, and they were locked. By the time he came back to the kitchen, the staff was beginning to leave. Lady Benton or Mrs. Hailey let them out the stable yard door, and then Mrs. Hailey herself left, in a hurry to reach Walmer before dark.

  Lady Benton came back to the wreckage that was the kitchen, and shook her head. “I couldn’t ask them to stay any longer. Do you mind if I wash these dishes and the silver? They are our third best, but I don’t care to leave food on them.”

  Mrs. Hailey had cleared them and put them into soak. Rutledge was given a cloth and asked to dry as Lady Benton washed. She looked up once, smiling. “I’ve had any number of distinguished guests in this house, but never has Scotland Yard dried my dishes. What is it you want to tell me?”

  “I don’t know what is happening, at least not yet. But it’s possible that a man who was known to have committed three murders and very likely two more, might have been a member of the squadron posted here.”

  She stopped what she was doing. “How could that be? I met most of the young men who served here. Some of them were rough around the edges, but I can’t think of one of them who might have done such things. And how, pray, did he come to be in the Royal Air Force? Did they not look into the backgrounds of the men they trained?”

  “He was very likely using another name. And we were desperate for men, out there. Even if his credentials were stolen, when someone examined them, they would appear to be in order. There would be no reason to question their authenticity. As long as the photograph, if there was one, appeared to match the face, the credentials were accepted. God knows, their likenesses were poor enough at the best of times.”

  “No, I don’t believe anyone I met was a murderer.”

  “Did you meet all of them?”

  “Yes. Not right away, but eventually. Well, they had access to the grounds here, I had to be careful myself.” She finished the plate she was washing and passed it to him. “Do you have a name? Any name?”

  “Franklin. Miles Franklin.”

  She said the name over to herself silently. “I can tell you he didn’t use that name. But there were at least three men with the initials M F.”

  “He wouldn’t have had a choice in his new name. It would have had to match the orders he was carrying. Otherwise, he would arouse suspicion. The trouble is, we have no idea who those orders were actually written for. And the man who took them over was very careful to show that he was capable of carrying them out. No one had any reason to doubt him.”

  “But all the men left. Why would he come back?”

  “As far as I know, he went to France shortly after war’s end—as soon as he was demobbed—before the airfield was taken down. He’s probably been there ever since. Now he’s come back to England, and we think he might have come here.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s the difficulty. We’ve no idea. Possibly because he can’t continue to use the false name he had assumed in France. Or even more likely, because he wants to change it, and there is something that prevents it. And he’s focused on this house.”

  “But I couldn’t have known him, could I? I’m fairly certain Eric didn’t.”

  Rutledge took a deep breath as he dried the last cup and set it aside.

  It was a leap. Still, he asked, “Could Captain Nelson have discovered the truth, and that was why he had to die?”

  “How could the Captain have known the truth? Besides, he’d have warned me.”

  “He might have believed you would be safer, if you didn’t know. Until he had alerted the authorities and steps could be taken.”

  She hung up the cloth she’d been using to wash up, and took the tea towel from him to hang that up as well.

  “Why would this man have killed Patricia?”

  “Perhaps because she saw him and recognized him. And he didn’t know just how much the Captain had told everyone in the house.”

  “That’s rather awful to think about.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why was he in this house? If he believes I might also recognize him?”

  After a moment he said, “Could he be searching for something? Not money, not something to take away and sell. For something that he believes would incriminate him.”

  “Now you’ve frightened me.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s what I believe. And you need to know.”

  There had been something on her mind. He’d sensed it since Margaret Hailey had left them alone in the kitchen. But he had waited. In her own good time, he thought.

  Now, after a pause, she said, looking out the window at the shadows in the garden. “He pushed me on the stairs to the undercroft. Didn’t he? Why didn’t he kill me then, and be done with it?”

  “I don’t know,” he told her truthfully. “Perhaps because you are friends with the Chief Constable. Or perhaps because he misjudged his push, and you survived after all.”

  Hamish, speaking up in the lamp-lit kitchen, the pots and pans overhead catching the light now and then, the glasses and cups and saucers lined up like soldiers on the deal table, said, “Because he doesna’ know if he will find what he’s after. The house will be shut, and he canna’ come and go sae freely.”

  Rutledge found himself agreeing, but he didn’t share it with Lady Benton.

  She was saying, “Do you think he’s in the house now? That he came back while we were in the great hall?”

  “There’s no way of knowing. But I think not. We’re aware now that he has been inside at least once.” But to himself he added, He’ll wait and catch us unprepared.

  Hamish said something, reminding him.

  Rutledge said, “There’s a favor I’d like to ask.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  But it clearly wasn’t what she was expecting as he answered her. “There’s a young woman—her name is Liz—who waits table in The Salt Cellar. She’s treated rather roughly by the barmaids and some of the patrons. She applied for work, of any kind, at the hotel, but was turned away. Too many people associate her with the pub. I’d like to see her out of that situation.”

  “How did you come to know this young woman?” She was frowning.

  “I had looked for Nelson’s grave. And she came along. It appears she knew him, and he’d been kind to her.”

  There was a flicker of something in Lady Benton’s eyes. “I don’t see how? Was she telling the truth?”

  “Yes. He came to The Salt Cellar a number of times, apparently, not wishing to meet anyone from the airfield. I gather it was off-limits to the ranks. He walked her home, when she had to stay late.”

  He could read her face, now. She was jealous of the time Liz had spent talking to Nelson. The Captain had been given special privileges at the Hall. He didn’t consort with prostitutes, and then call on her the next morning . . .

  “He felt sorry for her. And did what he could, inside the bounds of propriety. There is no way out of what will eventually become a very different life for Liz. In the end, she’ll have to survive, and do whatever she’s told.”

  “What would you like me to do?”

  “The hotel is better than The Salt Cellar. Or somewhere she will be treated decently. She has very little training.”

  “The women who worked there had a—a reputation, and the medical officer warned the men about possible syphilis. All right. I’ll put in a good word for her at the hotel. Or rather ask Margaret if she would. It might seem less like patronage, if Margaret handles the details.”

  “Thank you.”

  But her heart wasn’t in it. He could see that, in her choice of letting Margaret deal with Liz. Still, she would keep her word, he thought.

  She took a deep breath, then said, “It’s late. If you don’t mind, I’ll see you out now.” And with a wry smile, she went on, “Perhaps I should find a dog.”

  “Lock yourself in your bedroom. Is there anything you might like in the night? A Thermos of tea, more sandwiches? We can collect them now.”

  “No,” she said calmly. “I refuse to be a prisoner in my own house. But my husband has always kept a revolver in the estate room. I shall carry that with me if I must come downstairs in the night.”

  “Do you know how to use it?” he asked, alarmed.

  “Yes, Eric taught me how before he went to France. He teased me, begging me not to shoot him by mistake, when he had his next leave. But he never came home . . .”

  Her voice caught, and she turned to lead the way out of the kitchen.

  Rutledge, following her, remembered the word on the scroll across the closed gates. A place of weeping.

  For the woman walking ahead of him, the lamp held steady in her hand, it had been just that.

  After Lady Benton had locked the door behind him, Rutledge went around the house and tested each door himself. Then he retrieved his motorcar.

  By the time he’d reached the junction where the lane stopped at the main road, he turned toward The Monk’s Choice rather than toward Walmer.

  Tonight it had what must for the pub be a goodly crowd.

  Newbold was busy behind the bar, and the level of noise indicated that most of those present were enjoying themselves. They wore the usual clothing of men who worked on farms or in the salt beds. Boots with their corduroy trousers stuffed into the top, a heavy shirt and—for the benefit of the pub—a jacket over it. The ages ranged from twenty to sixty, Rutledge decided.

  The noisy laughter and chatter began to fade as more and more men became aware of the differently dressed stranger joining them. They stared, reserving judgment.

  Newbold’s face flushed with anger, but he said, almost civilly, “What can I get for you?”

  Rutledge ordered the first half of a local brew he’d seen on a poster along the road.

  Newbold served him. Rutledge, paying for it, said, “Any strangers here of late? Other than me?”

  “Not here.” His voice was as cold as his expression.

  “The airmen sometimes stopped in, I think.”

  “Most didn’t.”

  “Get to know any of them well? Anyone in particular?”

  “If you’re asking if the Captain came in, the answer is no.”

  “What about Gerry Dunn?”

  The man behind the bar shifted his weight. “I had nothing to do with the Dunn lad. He was never welcomed here.”

  “Why not?”

  “His mother lived near my mother for a time. After my father died. She was temperance as well.”

  Rutledge set down his glass. “I understand you have rooms upstairs. I’m thinking of moving closer to the Abbey. Shorter drive. I’d like to see what you have available.”

  The man was polishing the counter with a damp cloth, rubbing at a spot that only he could see.

  “I’ve taken over the best one myself. The shed out back leaks,” he said after a moment.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m seldom in my room.”

  One of the patrons nearest the bar looked up and said, “Show it to him. The sooner done, the sooner gone.”

  Cornered, Newbold said, “There’s no one to take over the bar.”

  “I’ll be happy to have a look on my own.” Rutledge started toward the stairs, and Newbold hesitated, began to follow him, then thought better of it.

  Rutledge took the steps two at a time and found himself in a narrow, dark hall with three doors facing him. He opened the one to his left, saw that it was occupied, clothes hung over the bedposts and flung across chairs, the windows grimy and the cheap coverlet on the bed stained and worn in places. The odors of sweat and stale beer filled the air.

  He shut that door, discovered that the one in the middle was a shallow closet with shelves that were once intended for extra towels and bed linens but now held extra stock for the bar.

  Moving on to the third door, he found a smaller room, stuffy with disuse, an underlying odor here of cigarette smoke. Otherwise, the bed against the inside wall was made, there was dust on the small washstand between the windows, the pitcher and bowl completely dry.

  He turned to go, then noticed that the coverlet was long, the side he could see nearly touching the floor.

  Rutledge dropped to one knee and lifted it. There was dust under the bed as well, and he was about to rise when he realized that there was something pushed far to the back wall, close to the front leg on that side.

  It looked very much like a battered valise. He was about to reach for it when Newbold called from the stairs, “What are you about, up there? Doesn’t take this long to look at a spare room.”

  He rose and walked to the stairs. “Admiring the view,” he said, coming down. “I’ll take the smaller room.”

  “It’s already spoken for. Norm, here, he’s had words with his wife, and wants to take it until she’s calmed down.”

  Norm stood behind him, grinning. “A regular scold, my Dora is.” That brought a laugh from the rest of the men watching the exchange.

  Rutledge had the feeling that Dora was not, and the others knew it.

  “Very well.” He’d paid for his half, and started toward the door.

  A large man sitting by the bar rose. “You’ll have a game of darts, then, before you go.”

  The laughter had faded, there was now an odd tension in the room, waiting for his answer.

  Hamish said, “’Ware . . .”

  Rutledge sighed. He had no desire to fight his way out of the pub. “Why not?” he said, walking across the room, his gaze on the man who’d challenged him. “Loser buys the next round, agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  The man joined him in front of the dartboard, as Rutledge picked up the darts. He fumbled with them, dropped one, and quickly retrieved it, seemingly embarrassed. There was a low rumble of laughter behind him.

  Handing them to the large man, he said, “Why don’t you throw first?”

  It was unexpected, but the man nodded, threw the darts with practiced ease, then turned and grinned.

  “Better that,” he said.

  Rutledge stood there for several seconds, as if uncertain. When he looked around the room, he could see that every man was leaning forward, eager to watch how his first throw might go.

  Then he turned, lifted his arm, and threw the first dart. It hit the wall instead of the pitted elm board. There was a roar of laughter behind him.

  The large man walked over and picked it up, bringing it back to Rutledge. “Point is, you want to hit the board.”

  Rutledge took the three darts, set his foot, and this time threw them in quick succession.

  They hit the outer rings, doubling the large man’s score.

  There was silence in the room for an instant. Then shouts of laughter at the large man’s expense. His face turned a dark red, more anger than embarrassment for being taken as a fool. Then, thinking better of whatever was on his mind, he had the grace to laugh with the others.