The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fic - By Mike Ashley Page 0,200

left it to you, one might wonder if he’d have been equally as easily persuaded to leave it to someone else.”

“But to whom?” Barnes asked. “Who did I have to fear?”

“I don’t know,” Rutledge said. “But that one word ‘Trafalgar’ is damning.”

Barnes sat down again. “There must be some other meaning.”

“Yes. But what?”

Barnes shrugged. “My family wasn’t the only one with a connection to the battle. Surely.”

“Sir John had no connection to it. There was only the house in Dartmouth.”

“There was the war. He made enemies there, very likely. I heard tales of what he did at HQ. He tried to bring reason to the decisions being made.”

And Sir John had been writing his memoirs. It was possible.

Hamish said, “The blows. He couldna’ ha’ been thinking clearly.”

“Yet,” Rutledge replied silently, “yet he remembered the old dog.”

Thanking Barnes for his time, he rose, saying, “I must have my men question the staff here. There will be statements to sign.”

“Yes, to be sure. I have nothing to hide.” As Rutledge reached the door, Barnes said, “I’d like to come to the services. Will you see that someone lets me know, when the arrangements are made?”

“Mr Briggs will see that you’re kept informed.”

As he was leaving, the heavy door to the stairs swung open, and a sister came out, carrying a tray of medicines. For an instant he heard the screams of someone in a ward above, and he knew what that meant. A living nightmare, the curse of shell-shock.

The screams were cut off as the door swung shut. Shuddering, he went through the other door and was in Reception once more, where he could breathe again.

Outside in the street, he walked for half an hour before returning to where he’d left his motorcar. It had been necessary to exorcise the memories those screams had reawakened.

“Do you believe yon doctor?” Hamish asked as Rutledge turned the crank.

“He’ll have dozens of witnesses to prove that he was here at the hospital. So, yes, I believe he had nothing to do with killing Sir John.” He got into the motorcar. “But that isn’t to say that he didn’t hire someone to do the deed for him.” He considered the screams he’d heard. Was there a patient in the hospital whose fragile mental state might make him a perfect murderer? Who could be set in motion by a clever killer, chosen because he could be depended upon to do as he was told to do?

It was far-fetched. But, at the moment, Rutledge was running out of options.

Hamish said, “It comes back to yon dog, ye ken. Why was he put out in the cold?”

Would a damaged mind think to rid himself of the dog? Why had it been necessary? Simba was too old to attack and do any real damage. Although, Rutledge thought as he pulled into traffic, anyone with a dog bite in Mumford, or even as far away as Cambridge, would need treatment. And that would lead to discovery and questions by the police. Even Doctor Barnes would find it hard to explain how one of his patients could have been bitten.

Turning the motorcar around, he drove towards Cambridge. It was late when he arrived, but Mrs Gravely was still awake, a light on in the kitchen, and he lifted the knocker, letting it fall gently rather than imperatively. She opened the door tentatively, then smiled when she recognized him.

“I’m that glad of company,” she said. “I don’t quite know what to do with myself. There’s no one to cook or clean for. The police tell me to leave everything be, and the doctor tells me poor Sir John’s body hasn’t been released, and, until it is, I can’t begin the baking for the funeral. No one knows when there’ll be an inquest.” She gestured to the furnishings as Rutledge stepped into the house. “I haven’t been told what I’m supposed to do with all Sir John’s things. No surprise I haven’t been sleeping of nights.”

He wondered how she would react when the will was read, and she learned that the cottage was hers. Would she be pleased – or would the memory of Sir John’s body lying in the study haunt her every time she walked into the room?

He let her make a cup of tea for him, and then said, “The man who came here in December, the one with the wooden foot, is actually the son of the first Lady Middleton’s brother.”

“My good Lord,” she said fervently. “I’d have never guessed.”