The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“The brother was a convict?” Rutledge asked, surprised. Even Sergeant Gibson had failed to uncover that information.

“Yes. He gave the police a false name. His father went to Dartmoor and staged his son’s death. To spare the then Lady Middleton. So Sir John told us in December.”

“Then the son couldn’t have returned to kill the father.”

“The fall in the bathroom? He was drunk. He stayed drunk much of the time.”

“Was Sir John quite certain this was his brother-in-law’s son?”

“Yes, he had the proper credentials. It’s quite in order.”

And the son had gone to Dartmouth and slept in the house that would be his. Had he then decided to hasten that day? Or had he been given permission to begin repairs on the house?

Mr Briggs didn’t know. “I was told to make the necessary changes to Sir John’s will. I was not privy to any other arrangements between the two.”

The house would require hundreds — thousands — of pounds to make it habitable again, let alone to restore it. The young Barnes, with his wooden foot, had been there and seen what was needed.

Had he come back, when he realized that the bequest was an empty promise and that the house would fall down around his ears, long before Sir John died a natural death?

“Where can I find this young Barnes?”

“I was given an address in London. I was told that he could be reached through it.”

Briggs fiddled with the papers in front of him, found the one he wanted, and told Rutledge what he needed to know. “I expect it is a residence rather than a hotel,” he added.

But Rutledge recognized the address. It was a small hospital where the mentally disturbed from the war were committed when there was no 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.”