A Bitter Truth (15 page)
We ate in silence after that, and it wasn’t until the savory had been brought in that Roger said, “You’re a nurse. Surely you can tell us how George died.”
“I didn’t examine him,” I replied. “I touched his hand, and I knew then that he was beyond my help. That was all I did. It was necessary for Dr. Tilton to pronounce him dead.” I hadn’t seen the blood matting his dark hair, where he’d been struck from behind. The back of his head had been turned away from me, and I’d tried not to muddle any evidence by moving the body.
“Who is the Simon Brandon who came here this afternoon to call on you?”
“A family friend,” I explained once more. “He served in my father’s regiment. He brought the formal dresses I needed for this weekend and has come back to take me to Somerset when I’m free to leave.”
“Yes, and that’s as it should be,” Gran put in. “A young woman oughtn’t to be traveling about the countryside alone. In my day, it simply wasn’t done.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lydia flush with annoyance, knowing full well that the elder Mrs. Ellis was speaking to her.
We left the dining room and went our separate ways. No one seemed to be in the mood for company. I went up to my room to fetch my coat, and on the way down the stairs again, I encountered Inspector Rother. He gave me a cool nod in passing.
I ran Lydia to earth, finally, in the room above the hall.
It was very much like Aladdin’s cave, mostly furnished with silk cushions scattered about the floor on a beautiful old Turkey carpet. Low tables stood here and there. I wondered if the original furnishings had been burned in Matthew Ellis’s angry rampage in denial of his daughter’s death.
Lydia had half started to her feet when I knocked and then opened the door. “Oh,” she said and settled back amongst the cushions.
“You didn’t tell me that you’d been to Hartfield early this morning.”
A guilty flush rose in her cheeks. “How did you know? Did you see me leave? Have you told the police?”
“It was the police who told me. Apparently someone in Hartfield noticed you bicycling in at that ungodly hour. The police are going to ask you about it. And they’ll ask the rest of the family, I’m afraid.”
“Busybody,” she said tartly. “I’m sure it was Dr. Tilton. All right, yes, I went to see Davis. I told him what George had said. I wanted to know what he thought. He’s a man, he ought to know how men think.”
“And?”
“It was his opinion that there must be a child. Otherwise it wouldn’t have been preying on poor George’s mind to the point that he finally spoke, there in the drawing room. And looking back, I’m convinced that Roger was avoiding him. Except when he had to go with George to remove that nonexistent tree. At that point George was probably too mortified to bring up France.”
“This wasn’t a very good idea,” I told her. “If you’d needed advice, there was Henry.”
“Yes, well, Henry is married to Margaret. There’s no one Davis is likely to tell, is there? I nearly got away with it too.”
“That’s not the point,” I said. “You compromised yourself as well as Davis Merrit.”
She shook her head. “It’s George’s fault, when you come right down to it. I do wish I could ask Davis his opinion about this claim of murder. He knew George. Not well, but apparently they’ve met before.” Shivering, she added, “I’ve never met a murderer. I don’t even know what to look for. It can’t be anyone we know. George must have other enemies. Surely.”
I thought it was all too likely to be someone she knew.
Night had fallen, sunset coming in late afternoon at this time of year. Outside the windows it was dark, and I could almost imagine the heath inching toward the house, eating away slowly at this pitiful attempt to keep it at bay.
I went to the windows and stood there, the lamplight at my back. Clouds were racing across the sky, hiding the stars, and there was no light to be seen anywhere. Even in the countryside in Somerset we could see a distant lamp lit in the house down the road from ours, or in another direction, from Simon’s cottage. Here there was no sign of life, no hint of civilization. Only the stark blackness of a wild place.
And then I nearly cried out in alarm, for there was a face in the spill of light from these windows, illuminating the drive just below me. My heart was racing with shock even as I told myself it was another of Inspector Rother’s constables, set to watch the door and prevent our leaving. And then I realized that it was Simon, looking up at me.
He must have seen me at the window before he reached the door.
Turning, I told Lydia that I ought to go, then hurried down the stairs. There was no one in the great hall as I walked through it. Opening the door as quietly as possible, I slipped through.
“I left my horse down the lane,” Simon told me in a low voice that didn’t carry. “I need to speak to you.”
I stepped into a cold wind and shut the door softly behind me. We walked out of the circle of light from the tall windows above the hall and into the darkness. I reached out to take Simon’s arm. The black shapes of the stunted bushes on the heath looked like beasts crouched there, waiting. I was learning to appreciate why Lydia found winter here so very distressful. In the daylight I’d thought I understood. But out here in the night, I knew what fear was and was grateful for the touch of another human being.
Simon didn’t speak until we were well out of hearing. He seemed to be able to see in the dark, something I’d noticed before. We walked toward the lane that led from the track, and something loomed above me, catching me off guard.
It was his horse, snorting as we came within reach, and I put out a hand to touch the soft, warm muzzle. It nuzzled my hand in return, and then blew.
Simon told me, “There have been developments. Rother has brought in constables from all over Sussex to help search. One of his own men, a Constable Bates from Wych Gate, saw a beggar in Hartfield with a gold watch. He was showing it to the ironmonger at the time, like a child with a new toy. The constable stepped in and asked to look at the watch. Opening the case, he saw the name inscribed inside. It was Malcolm Hughes—apparently he was the victim’s late brother.”
“Yes, he was killed in the war.”
“The constable asked who had given this watch to the beggar, and he answered that it was a friend.”
“A friend?” I knew what was coming.
“One Davis Merrit. The police are looking for him. He wasn’t at his house, and no one is certain just where he might have gone—”
“He’s blind,” I said. “He couldn’t have gone far. Not on his own.”
“The train stops nearby,” he reminded me.
“Yes. I know. Do you think they’ll arrest him? Merrit? When they find him?”
“It’s likely. The police hadn’t thought the body had been robbed. The man’s purse hadn’t been taken, for one thing, and there was a signet ring on one finger. It appears now that the watch was removed.”
“Why? I mean, if it’s so easily identified, why take it, then give it to someone who can’t be relied upon to conceal where it came from?”
“A good question. Did Lydia Ellis tell Davis what had transpired last evening? There’s talk that she came into Hartfield very early this morning.”
“About the child? Yes. She told him about that and asked what he thought about it. He rather believed that there must be something to the story. But of course that was before anyone knew of the murder.”
“And Hughes told you where to find this child.”
“Yes, I told you. Apparently he’d seen her at an orphanage run by nuns.”
“Which puts you in danger. Who else knew that he could have confided in you?”
“I’ve tried to keep that to myself, Simon, but bits are leaking out. For instance that I was still in my evening gown this morning. I think Daisy let that slip. And the fact that Lydia was asleep in my room. That could be Gran, but it could also be that Inspector Rother is very good at putting two and two together. Eleanor, Alan Ellis’s widow, seems to be distancing herself from what’s happening. I hardly ever see her or her brother, but they had no reason to kill Lieutenant Hughes, did they? I don’t know what Dr. Tilton or his wife have told the police, nor Janet Smyth and her brother, the rector. And now this business about the watch. I really don’t know what to think any longer.”
“It could have nothing to do with the child. You realize that.”
I was standing next to the mare, warmed by her body, and Simon was between me and the wind sweeping across the flat, featureless heath.
“Then what is it about?” I asked. “I can’t imagine that Roger Ellis, for one, would kill George Hughes just to see Davis Merrit taken up for murder!”
I could glimpse his smile. “Stranger things have happened.”
Shivering, I said, “I’ll be glad when I can leave here. And Lydia wants to return to London—”
Simon’s gloved hand covered my mouth. I heard it then, someone coming up the lane toward the house. I nodded, letting him know I had heard it as well.
He pulled the mare into the deeper darkness of stunted trees, and covered her nose. I followed him, standing close, grateful for my dark coat.
It was a constable, I could see his helmet as he bicycled furiously up toward the house, breathing hard in the cold air, little puffs visible in tempo with the energy he was expending.
He dismounted as he reached the door and lifting the knocker, gave it an almighty
whack
against the plate.
The door opened shortly thereafter, and I heard Daisy’s voice, followed by the constable’s.
She left him there, and very shortly Inspector Rother came to the door.
“What is it?” he asked sharply, his words carrying on the night air.
The constable leaned forward, lowering his voice.
Rother said, “Damn.” Quite clearly. Then he turned on his heel and was gone for a good five minutes. When he returned, it was with his coat, and he was giving orders to the constable to lash his bicycle to the boot of the Inspector’s motorcar.
It was done, and then the two men were driving toward us, the headlamps of their motorcar sweeping the lawns as they turned into the lane.
Simon swore, moving the mare deeper into the trees, turning his face away from the light, and I did the same.
The motorcar came surging down the lane, much too fast, and I heard the constable’s voice earnestly answering questions that Inspector Rother flung at him almost faster than the man could make a sensible reply. And then they were out of hearing, and soon enough out of sight, even the red rear lamp no longer visible.
“I think,” Simon said quietly, “the Inspector has just learned about the pocket watch.”
I thought about that. “But who could have given it to the beggar? We’ve all been here since the police arrived. Except for Roger Ellis. And—me. When I called my father.”
Had the watch been in George’s pocket when he was killed? If so, the only reason for taking it was to incriminate someone.
“The question is, is the beggar telling the truth? Does he even understand what the truth is? Or remember what actually happened?” Simon paced restlessly.
I smiled. “The good Inspector is about to find out.”
Suppressing an answering smile, he said, “Go back inside. The cold is making you giddy. But, Bess. Watch yourself. You have no way of knowing who can be trusted.”
He walked me back to the house, and I was grateful to find that the door had not been locked. I could slip in unnoticed.
Simon waited until I was safely inside before walking away.
I had a sudden desire to see Juliana’s portrait again, and went to the drawing room. I had just put my hand on the knob when I heard voices.
No, one voice. Gran’s. And she must have been speaking to the portrait on the wall.
“ . . . Who is that other child? I wish you could tell me. I wish the dead could speak. If only you’d lived, my darling . . .”
I didn’t catch the next sentences. Gran’s voice had cracked, and I thought she must be crying. And then she said more clearly, “Has he sent you back again? Dear God, I’d like to believe that. Before I die . . .”
I released the handle gingerly, trying not to make a sound, and stepped carefully away from the door. She wouldn’t thank me for eavesdropping.
I went up the stairs to my room and shut the door.
It had been a very long day. I was afraid the next day, Sunday, would be even longer.
I
t was raining again when I awoke and looked toward my window. Raindrops were skittering down the panes, and I could hear them whispering as the wind pushed them against the glass.
The fire had been banked for the night and the room was cold. It was too early for Daisy to make the rounds of rekindling them, and I got up to see to it myself. I soon had it beginning to take hold on the wood log that I added to the grate, and I stood there for a moment longer, rubbing my hands together.
Then I crossed to the window and looked out. It must have been raining for some time, because I could see little puddles in the knot garden where the earth was bare.
It was Sunday, but I doubted that anyone from the family would choose to attend morning service. I was just as glad. We’d be stared at, and people would whisper behind their hands.
To my surprise, when I went down to breakfast an hour later, I discovered that Roger Ellis was indeed intending to go to the early service.
“With the police badgering us at every turn,” he was saying to his grandmother, “we’ve lost sight of the fact that a friend, a guest in our house, is dead. It isn’t our fault that the police are here, and we’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. We’re going to morning service to prove it.”
“You’ll merely fan the fires of curiosity.”
“Every time the police come to Vixen Hill, there’s gossip.”
Eleanor said, “Please, Roger, I don’t think I could face it.”
“You’re excused, then,” he said shortly. “You’re in mourning.”
“If you insist on this foolishness, you must take Lydia with you,” Gran went on. “And your mother. Miss Crawford as well, if she’s willing.”
He grimaced. “Lydia and I have nothing to say to each other.”
“Then pretend. For the sake of the family,” she answered shortly.
“And you? Will you go for the sake of the family?” Roger Ellis asked, a sour note slipping into his voice.
“I’m staying home with dearest Eleanor and her brother. No one will wonder at that.”
Captain Ellis turned to me. “Good morning, Miss Crawford. Are you attending services with us this morning?”
“I shall, if you like.” I could hardly say no, having heard the rest of the discussion. And I could see that it was wise, after all.
“Shall you do what?” his mother asked me as she came into the dining room.
“Attend morning services.”
Her gaze moved on to her son. “Is it a good idea, do you think, Roger?”
“We’ll have to face them down sometime.”
“Yes, that’s true. All right, I’ll come. Where’s Lydia? She should accompany us as well.”
And so it was decided, although still Gran flatly refused to set foot outside the house. We finished our breakfast and went up to change. The rain was coming down all the harder, and our umbrellas made a bobbing black brigade to the motorcars that had been brought around.
Roger looked up as his wife stepped out to join us. I don’t know who had persuaded her to come, but I suspected it was Mrs. Ellis. She was wearing a lovely black hat with a long veil she had pulled down to her chin.
“You’re not to wear that veil,” he told her. “You’ll have people thinking you’re in mourning for Hughes, for God’s sake.”
“What will they think when they see the bruise on my face?” she retorted.
“Yes, well, you didn’t seem to mind that when you went yesterday into Hartfield.”
She stared at him, and then turned to me. “Did you tell him?”
“No,” I said. “I expect it was the police.”
Angry, she flung back her veil.
Mrs. Ellis said, “We’re getting wet through. Lydia, come with me. Miss Crawford, you will ride with Roger, if you don’t mind.”
We were sorted out in no time, and on our way to the church in Wych Gate.
We left the motorcars along the road and joined the rest of the congregation as it moved toward the west doors. Even so, I could see the trees that overhung the grassy dell and the path where George Hughes had been found.
The church was rather full, in spite of the rain, and those who hadn’t yet taken a seat parted to let the Ellis family pass. Some greeted Roger or his mother by name, and others simply stared. Roger kept us moving, shepherding us toward the seats still vacant in front. The choir was singing, but those who could see us were looking at us rather than at the notes on the pages of their hymnals. The organ came to a crescendo, and there was a sudden silence, which caught a few people off guard, their whispers loud behind us.
“ . . . face,” a woman’s voice was saying, and another was commenting, “ . . . the dead man’s nurse.” Someone else, louder than the others, as if he were slightly deaf, remarked, “ . . . police have no idea,” as if answering someone else’s question.
Lydia, her cheeks pink, stared straight ahead while Roger’s lips were set in a straight line. I saw Mrs. Ellis put her gloved hand on her son’s arm, and the tension around his mouth lessened.
The church seemed a more cheerful place this morning than it had the day before, despite the rain. Candles brightened the gloom, and the congregation contributed a little warmth. Still, I couldn’t help remembering walking down the aisle, into the choir, and then back again, while Mrs. Ellis’s footsteps echoed in the organ loft.
The rector, mounting the steps to the pulpit, seemed not to know how to face us. I saw him glance at his sister, and then clear his throat before beginning the service.
All went well until he returned to the pulpit for his morning homily.
It was an unfortunate choice of message. Preparing for the approach of Christmas, the sermon dealt with the expected birth of a special child, and by extension the lives of children who faced the holidays without a father to care for and protect them, either because they were among the dead or still serving at the Front or on the high seas. It was well intended—I was all too aware of the long lists of casualties and the fact that each one represented a family in mourning for a father, a son, a brother, a husband. It would be a bleak Christmas for them, and Mr. Smyth was pointing to the need in his own parish to see that the widows and orphans were remembered with gifts of food and clothing and above all sympathy for their loss.
Ordinarily it would have been received in the spirit in which it was intended.
Instead the words seemed to echo around the stone walls, loud in our ears as we listened. Captain Ellis’s long fingers drummed a tattoo on the knee of his trousers, and Lydia kept her eyes on the stained glass windows in the choir, their colors muted by the cloudy day. Mrs. Ellis was biting her lip to keep herself from fidgeting, and Janet Smyth, the rector’s sister, looked stricken.
It was clear that the rector had not expected the Ellis family to attend morning services, and his prepared remarks and the choice of hymns must have seemed innocuous enough. But he had been there on the evening Lieutenant Hughes had brought up the missing child, and he could not pretend otherwise. “What Child Is This,” sung by the choir, was the final blow.
I looked across to where the doctor and his wife were seated, and I could see that they too were feeling some distress. For themselves or for the rector or for the Ellis family, I didn’t know.
Finally the ordeal was over and we could rise and walk out of the church. And standing at the main gate where the motorcars had been parked, was Inspector Rother, looking like the wrath of God. I found myself thinking that at any moment he would storm the church doors and brand us all as heathen murderers and heretics.
As it was, I was a little ahead of the family and I happened to see him first, just as the rector quickly shook my hand and murmured a few words, as if eager to get his duty over with before someone brought up his sermon. Roger Ellis simply nodded briefly, ignoring the rector’s outstretched hand, which Mrs. Ellis took in her son’s stead and wished Mr. Smyth a good morning. Roger had just retrieved his umbrella from the stand and was about to open it when he saw Inspector Rother.
There was the briefest of hesitations, and then he handed the opened umbrella to his mother, and picked up another to share with his wife. With that, he moved toward the gate, as if nothing had happened. Lydia, huddled under his umbrella, trying not to touch him, stumbled and then recovered her balance. He took her arm and tucked it beneath his, for all the world the loving husband. Lydia glanced at him but had the presence of mind not to pull away. Mrs. Ellis, sharing her umbrella with me, said something under her breath that sounded like a prayer as we neared the gates, her arm tense in mine as she watched to see whether the Inspector was intent on stopping her son.
But Inspector Rother let us pass without a glance. It was clear that he had someone else in mind, and looking back over my shoulder, I saw him stop Janet Smyth as she came out of the church, drawing her to one side, out of hearing of those still leaving the service.
I could also see her face turn pink and the curious stares of her brother and everyone else.
Just beyond them, in my line of sight, was the white marble statue of the kneeling child.
She looked cold and lonely in the winter rain.
R
oger Ellis said as he began to turn the motorcar back toward Vixen Hill, “The fool should have had the decency to change his sermon.”
“I expect he didn’t have another one prepared.”
Ignoring my answer, he said, “And what does Rother want with Janet Smyth? She hardly spoke two words to George that whole evening.”
“Still, she was there—”
“What angers me most,” he went on as he slowed to make his way through a flock of sheep barring the road, “is that he should show his face at St. Mary’s, just as the service was finished. Taunting us, that’s what he was doing. He could always find Janet at the Rectory.”
But I thought Inspector Rother had something on his mind, and he wasn’t the sort of man to stand still when he was on the scent. It made him all the more worrying, even to those of us without a guilty conscience. But why indeed had he come?
I had looked for Simon at St. Mary’s, thinking he would take the chance of speaking to me. But he wasn’t there, and I didn’t know if it was because he didn’t expect us to attend, or if something had come up.
The same something that was on Inspector Rother’s mind?
We had turned into the lane that led to the house, the distances seeming shorter as I grew accustomed to them. Still, if I had been George Hughes, I wouldn’t have wished to walk to the church.
Had he gone of his own volition, to avoid having to face Roger Ellis at breakfast? To see Juliana’s grave? Or had he gone with someone—been asked to meet someone there?
Suddenly, in my mind’s eye, I saw Mrs. Ellis pausing to set the marble kitten back in its proper place by her daughter’s outstretched marble fingers.
Had that lovely bit of stone been the murder weapon that the police—so far as I knew—failed to find? The way the kitten sat on its haunches, it would fit in the hand well, and it was solid enough to knock a victim unconscious, and possibly even kill him.
We had arrived at the door, and Roger Ellis switched off the motor before going to help his mother descend from the other vehicle. I opened my umbrella, preparing to hold it over Mrs. Ellis’s hat. As I did, something white fluttered past my hand, caught first by the wind and then beaten to the ground by the rain.
I stooped and picked it up, mostly my nurse’s sense of tidiness. And then I realized there was writing on it.
Damp as it was, I quickly stuffed it into the glove on my left hand and took Mrs. Ellis’s arm as Daisy held the door wide for us to hurry through.
We went our separate ways to change out of our wet coats, and in my room I carefully removed my gloves, setting them on the chest by the door.
The scrap of wet paper lay in my palm.
A message from Simon? I thought it might well be, but how did he know which umbrella I was using? And where had he been, because I hadn’t seen him?
Unfolding the limp square of paper with care so as not to tear it, I saw that the ink had begun to run from its exposure to the rain.
I couldn’t make out the handwriting, much less the two words.
eet m
Meet me?
When I held it under the bright lamplight, I thought I was probably right about that. The missing
M
and the missing
e
were so faint I had to squint to make them out.
If it wasn’t Simon—then who had sent that message?
Was it for Lydia? And if it was for Lydia, what should I do now? Say nothing? Or take it to her?
The question was answered by a tap at my door, and Lydia walked in.
“I’ve never been so mortified in my entire life,” she said, going to the fire and holding out her hands, as if chilled to the bone. But I thought it wasn’t a chilling from the winter cold. “I should never have let Roger persuade me to go. Everyone—
everyone!
—stared at me as if I had two heads, wondering how I came by this bruise. And then the rector’s sermon was inexcusable. And I could hardly believe it when Inspector Rother arrived.”
