The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fic - By Mike Ashley Page 0,199

other course open to a doctor.

Rutledge thanked Briggs, and turned the bonnet of his motorcar towards London.

The street where the hospital stood was not far from St Paul’s Cathedral. Two adjoining houses had been combined to form a single dwelling, and the main door was guarded by an orderly with great moustaches. Rutledge showed his identification, and was admitted. Reception was a narrow room with a long desk against one wall. Another orderly sat there with a book in front of him. He looked up as Rutledge entered.

“Sir?” he said, rising to stop Rutledge’s advance. “Are you looking for someone?”

“Yes. A man by the name of Barnes. He was in the war, has a wooden foot. I expect he’s a patient here.”

“Barnes?” The orderly frowned. “We don’t have a patient named Barnes. There’s a Doctor Barnes. Surgeon. He lost his foot in the Near East.”

Surprised, Rutledge said, “Is he Australian?”

“He is indeed.”

“I’d like to speak to him, if I may.”

The orderly consulted his book. “He’s just finished surgery, I believe. He should be in his office shortly.”

Rutledge was shown to a door where a middle-aged nursing sister escorted him the rest of the way, to an office behind a barred door.

“We must be careful with our patients,” she said. “Some of them are very confused about where they are and why they are here. It’s sad, really,” she went on. “They’re so young, most of them.”

“What sort of surgery does Dr Barnes do?” he asked as she showed him into the drab little room.

“Today he was removing a bullet pressing on the brain of one of the men in our charge. Very delicate. But it had to be done, if he’s to have any hope of living a normal life. The question is, will he ever live a normal life, given his confusion.”

She sounded tired and dispirited. He thanked her, and sat down in the chair in front of the desk, prepared to wait.

When Dr Barnes finally entered the office, he wasn’t what Rutledge had anticipated. Young, fair, intense, he seemed to fill the room with his presence.

Rutledge rose.

“What brings Scotland Yard to Mercy Hospital?” he asked, going around the desk and taking the chair behind it.

“I’m afraid I’ve come to give you bad news. Your uncle is dead.”

The tired face changed. “Sir John? What happened? He was healthy enough when I saw him last.”

“Someone came into the house when Mrs Gravely was in Mumford and killed him.”

The shock was real. “Dear God!”

“It appears you’ll be inheriting Trafalgar sooner than you expected.”

Dr Barnes made an impatient gesture. “He was kind enough to leave it to me. I don’t think he wanted it, come to that. But he could have said no. Still, I have no time now to restore it. Or even think of restoring it.” He made a face. “Nor the money, for that matter. I’m needed here, anyway. For the time being. Well, to be honest, for some time to come.”

“You went to call on Sir John in December. And you were in the house in Dartmouth then – or soon after that. You broke in.”

The smile was genuine, amused. “Hardly breaking in. But I had no key. And it was to be mine. I decided it would do no harm. How on earth did you know? Did someone see me? Or the smoke from the fire in the kitchen?”

“Marks in the dust,” Rutledge said. “Of a foot that dragged, and a cane.”

“Ah. Have you found who killed Sir John? I hope you have. He was a good man.”

“We have no leads at present,” Rutledge said with regret. He hesitated, then added, “The last thing your uncle said, as far as anyone knows, was one word. ‘Trafalgar’. It seemed likely that he was referring to the house. Why should that have been on his mind as he lay dying?”

Dr Barnes got to his feet and turned, looking out the high window. There was nothing to be seen from it, except for the wall of the house next door, some four feet away. “You think I must have killed the old man, don’t you?” He turned. “I can probably supply witnesses to swear I was here – nearly round the clock, for the past month or more. But that isn’t what matters. I didn’t harm him. I told you, it would do me no good if I had killed him twice over. There isn’t time to do anything about the house or the land.”

“If he’d changed his mind and