A Duty to the Dead (11 page)

“That’s a long way from home,” he said.

I didn’t tell him I’d spent part of my childhood in the East. I simply agreed, and he said good-bye, but then called me back to ask, “Do you think Peregrine Graham lacks spiritual comfort where he is? Is he capable of recognizing his needs in that direction?”

“I think,” I responded slowly, “that he despairs of comfort. But it’s a matter you must take up with the family. Or the doctors at the asylum.”

“Mr. Craig was also chaplain there, but I’ve not been asked to fill his position. Perhaps I ought to speak to someone in charge and see what the need is.”

“Yes, that might be wise,” I said. “Good-bye, Rector.”

We shook hands, and I turned away to walk the rest of the way alone.

There was much curiosity at the house regarding my summons to speak with Ted Booker. Susan was the first to ask, and then over our meal, Mrs. Graham brought up the subject.

Not wanting to add to any gossip about his attempt to kill himself, I merely said, “He felt that I’d been closer to the war than his family. I think he wanted reassurance that his problems are not his alone.”

“I should think a rational man would do his best to heal quickly and return to the fighting. God knows, we need soldiers.” Would she have wished her own son back before his time was up?

I could have answered that it wasn’t surprising—the casualty lists continued to be unbearably long. But I said instead, “It takes time to heal the mind, just as it does the body.”

“Did he ask you about Peregrine?”

“About Peregrine? I don’t believe he even knew your son was at home, ill.”

“No, I meant Dr. Philips.”

I think my guilty conscience for having spoken of Peregrine with
the rector must have shone in my face, but I said resolutely, “He complimented me on my skills.”

“You needn’t avoid the question, you know.”

“But I’m not. He did tell me he’d called, to see if I needed his help. I wish I’d known it at the time.”

She nodded. “Thank you for your honesty. And I’ll be equally honest in return. I didn’t wish people in Owlhurst to gossip about my son. I’m well aware that a medical man must keep matters concerning his patients in strictest confidence, but I don’t know Dr. Philips that well yet.”

Timothy came in just then and said, “Did you hear? Booker tried to slash his wrists. Fool that he is. His wife must be in despair.” He sat down to take his tea, and then too restless to be still, stood up and carried his cup to the window.

“She made her choice, Timothy. It’s not for you to judge her decision. I’ve always felt one of the Loftlan girls would be more suitable. We could invite the family to dine with us…”

It must have been an old argument, because I saw Timothy twitch one shoulder, as if trying to shrug off her words.

“I’d just like to think she’s happy,” he said brusquely. “More to the point, safe.”

“How can she be, under the circumstances?” Mrs. Graham turned to me. “Sally was quite popular. Everyone liked her, and she had a sweet nature that I thought spoke well of her upbringing. She and Ted Booker were an excellent match. Everyone was pleased for them.”

“She saw him in uniform, and that was that,” Timothy added sourly.

Jonathan came in, late as usual, and said, “Sorry,” to his mother, before nodding to me.

Taking his cup, he said, “There was a message from the asylum. Brother Peregrine made the journey back safely. I don’t know who is more disappointed in that, the asylum or us.”

“Jonathan!” his mother said sharply.

“What sort of life does he lead, Mother? I’d hate to be caged up. And if he complains, it’s Maidstone instead. The poor devil could live to be eighty in that place. Is that what you want for him?”

“Do you think prison would have been better? Do you want that on the family escutcheon?” Timothy asked from the window.

Jonathan wheeled on his brother. “Peregrine is an albatross about our necks, alive or dead.”

“Jonathan.” His mother spoke his name in such a cold tone that both of her sons stared at her. “We’ll hear no more about Peregrine, if you please. The matter is closed.”

“Yes, well, he’s still Father’s heir when you die, Mother. We haven’t got round that problem yet, have we?”

“Peregrine could well outlive us all,” she told him. “As you said. Which reminds me. Someone needs to bethink themselves of a guardian for him, if anything happens to me.”

Jonathan said only, “Let Timothy see to that. I’m not setting foot in that place.”

“Don’t ask me to go. That’s why we have a family solicitor,” Timothy retorted.

I sat there in embarrassed silence, trying to pretend I wasn’t hearing such a private family issue being discussed.

Robert came in to speak to Mrs. Graham. He stood there, leaning against the doorframe, as if he belonged in this room and was not happy at being excluded. Remembering his gruffness when he met my train, it occurred to me that he hadn’t wanted me to come to Owlhurst. He was close to this family—it was possible that he’d guessed what Arthur would say on his deathbed, and knew it would open old wounds. Even I could see that Robert felt free to express his views. His had been the deciding voice in allowing Peregrine to come home to die.

Watching him there as he and Mrs. Graham discussed a problem with a tenant’s cow, I was reminded of what Peregrine had said about who might have killed his father—his stepmother or her cousin. It
was hard to give credence to his words—they hadn’t married, after all, and I couldn’t think of another reason for killing a husband. Yet they were close, as cousins sometimes are. Clearly the two of them were of the same mind in this problem with the cow, and Robert had come out of duty rather than from a need for guidance.

When they had settled on a course of action regarding how to treat the animal, he nodded to me and left.

Mrs. Graham’s gaze followed him to the door, a frown between her eyes.

Then she turned back to me and said, “You’ve heard us speak of things that are private, my dear—in regard to Peregrine. I must apologize. But his circumstances make it necessary for us to think and act for him, painful as it may be.”

Was she testing me again, to see if I’d noticed—or failed to notice—something in regard to her stepson?

It dawned on me that perhaps the talk about Peregrine’s mental deficiency during his childhood might have been the family’s way of covering up something worse. Better to tell friends and neighbors that the boy was slow than that the boy was dangerous. It explained too why I’d not found him deficient—if anything, articulate and sensible.

I smiled with understanding. “It must be very difficult. I don’t envy you.”

Jonathan said, “I don’t wish to appear to cut short your visit, Miss Crawford, but I’ll be traveling to Tonbridge tomorrow. I’ll be happy to take you to the train, if that’s your wish.”

Mrs. Graham said in protest, “Jonathan, that’s not necessary. Robert will drive her when she’s ready.”

But I knew what was expected of the guest who had stayed overlong.

“It would be lovely if I could go with you, Lieutenant Graham. Much as I’ve enjoyed my visit, I must have everything ready to return to duty when my orders come.”

There was protest, but halfhearted. I smiled, told Jonathan I’d have my luggage closed before I came down to breakfast, and the subject was dropped.

I wasn’t ready to leave. But I didn’t know how to prevent it.

Beware what you wish for.

Dr. Philips was at the door just before dawn, pounding insistently until Susan answered the summons, then awakened me.

Ted Booker had stripped away his bandages in the night and succeeded, finally, in killing himself.

I was shocked.

“There’s to be an inquest,” Dr. Philips was saying urgently. “You must tell them that he was not in his right mind. That he didn’t know what he was doing.”

“He promised,” I said. “He told me he understood what his wife was suffering. I believed him.” I could feel hot tears stinging my eyes. “Poor man. Poor, poor man.”

“You’ll be the only one to weep over him,” Dr. Philips said. “His mother-in-law is telling the world that he’s gone to a better place….” He stopped. “I’m sorry, Miss Crawford, I am so sorry to bring you this news. But I have nowhere to turn. I don’t quite know how to take it in.”

He was upset. I understood losing a patient. “I’ll fetch my coat and come with you.”

Dr. Philips shook his head. “There’s nothing you can do, not now. I’ve seen to the—er—necessary steps that follow on the heels of sudden death. I am refusing to sign the death certificate until another doctor has seen the body. Dr. Blessing is coming from Tonbridge.”

“Dr. Philips. Come with me.”

He seemed almost grateful to follow me to the kitchen, where Susan was just stoking the fires. I gave him a cup of tea and with Susan’s permission, eggs and bacon and toast as well.

He kept murmuring, “This is most kind—most kind.”

When Susan had taken the tea tray up to Mrs. Graham, I said quietly, “Something more than Ted Booker’s death has upset you. What’s wrong?”

“Someone came into the surgery in the middle of the night. I was asleep, I’d had a long day. Then I woke to the sound of something heavy falling, and when I went down, I found a muddy print in the passage, and it wasn’t mine, and it wasn’t Booker’s. His shoes were still where I’d put them, in the small closet where I keep my coat and Wellingtons. I don’t want to believe that someone came into my house and talked to Booker, and left him in a state of mind where he killed himself. But the evidence is
there.”

“What size print? A woman’s? A man’s?”

“I can’t judge. A muddy smudge is more descriptive.” He rubbed his face with his hands. “I don’t want to believe it was Mrs. Denton. But who else? And what am I to do?”

“You said you’d spoken to her. What was she like? Anxious? Unsettled? Afraid that you knew what she’d done?”

“As usual she was full of concern for her daughter. Glad that her suffering was over. Claiming this was a blessed release for Booker. Sometimes I think she could have killed Booker for her daughter’s sake and never blinked an eye. And then I look at her and tell myself she’s not vicious, just a mother fearing for a child’s situation.”

I tried to bring Mrs. Denton back to mind. I thought it very likely that she might have tormented Ted Booker to the point he chose to die and release his wife. Not intending, perhaps, to kill him, but driving home what she considered to be the truth, that he was a poor husband for putting his brother before his wife.

“Sometimes the Mrs. Dentons of this world get their way through sheer cruelty,” I said with resignation. “And then they deny what they’ve set in motion because they blotted out the possible effects of their words. They convince themselves.”

“Do I tell the police? It would create a sensation if I did, and if I am wrong, I’ve done to his mother-in-law what she may have done
to Booker.” He looked up at me, pain clear in his eyes. “I’ve never had to deal with the murder of a patient before. And I don’t know why I should turn to you—”

“Because I’m an objective observer? And I did have a long talk with Lieutenant Booker. Whether it helped or not, we’ll never know now. I thought at the time I had his full attention, that he was listening.” I considered for a moment. “The police must know whatever you can tell them about Ted Booker’s state of mind. As for the inquest—I was leaving today. I’ve trespassed long enough on the kindness of the Grahams.”

“I’ve more than enough space in my house. But I’m afraid as a single woman—”

“No, it would cause talk. I understand. Is there anyone else I could stay with? Preferably someplace where I’m needed. It will look less like the Grahams had pitched me out.”

“Mrs. Turner has just had appendicitis. But what she needs isn’t a nurse, so much as someone to cook and clean until she’s on her feet again.”

“That will do. I’ve done as much onboard ship, when we were shorthanded. I must draw the line at doing the wash.” I indicated my arm.

“You can use the laundress who comes to the Grahams and sees to my needs as well. Mrs. Abbot.”

“Then I’ll break the news to the Grahams.” Somehow I was sure they wouldn’t be best pleased. “You can come and collect me at ten. That’s when I was leaving for Tonbridge with Jonathan Graham.”

“Very well.” He got up, smiling. “Women always know what’s best, don’t they? Food and a willing ear. Are you single, Miss Crawford? You would make an admirable doctor’s wife.”

He was smiling as he said it, and I gave him my answer with a matching smile.

“Why, Dr. Philips, whatever would you do if I said yes?”

We laughed, and he went out the kitchen door rather than
through the house again. I thought he didn’t want to encounter the Grahams.

Susan came down the back stairs and said, “What brought the doctor here at such an early hour? I’ve never seen him so agitated.”

“Ted Booker killed himself last night. Despite all our precautions.”

“Oh, my dear Lord.” She set down her tray and shook her head. “I’m that sorry. He was such a nice young lad. I was quite fond of him. Well, there’s the war, of course. It’s taken so many young men….”

I went to see Mrs. Graham just before breakfast, and told her that Ted Booker appeared to have killed himself, and I would most likely have to give evidence at the inquest. “I’m so sorry,” I added. “It’s an inconvenience to everyone. But Dr. Philips is making arrangements—”

Mrs. Graham frowned. “I don’t like the way Dr. Philips is using you, Miss Crawford. That’s what it is. You’re a young woman of good family. What would your father have to say to the doctor’s inconsiderate behavior? If you stay in Owlhurst, you remain with us. That’s all there is to say.”

She pressed her fingers to her face for an instant and then added, “I must call on Mrs. Denton. It’s my duty. Perhaps you’d like to go with me?”

“I don’t think she will care to see me at such a time. I’ve defended her son-in-law to her.”

“Yes, well, perhaps you’re right. I’ll dress and go directly after breakfast. There will be arrangements to make. Robert will know what to do about that. I’ll ask him to come with me. How tragic, Miss Crawford—it could have been Jonathan, you know, scarred in his mind. The wound on his face could easily have affected his brain. It was deep, very deep.”