A Bitter Truth (18 page)

He came with me, and I heard the low whistle as he turned to look at Juliana.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful child,” he said. “Or a more beautiful painting. Did she really look like that, I wonder?”

I found what I was after in the ornate little escritoire under the window and quickly wrote a brief message, thanking Mrs. Ellis and her family for their hospitality and kindness. Sealing the note, I wrote Mrs. Ellis’s name on the envelope, but I couldn’t help but wish I could have thanked her in person as well.

Simon was still studying the portrait when I said, “It’s finished.”

I left the note on a table in the hall, where someone was sure to see it, and we went out to the motorcar together.

He was cranking the motor when I happened to look up at the room above the hall. I don’t know precisely why, but possibly it was because I felt eyes watching me from there.

Gran was standing by the window, looking down on the motorcar, Simon and me.

I smiled and waved, but she gave no indication she’d even recognized us. I knew perfectly well she had.

And I realized then that from that height, looking across the flat landscape of the heath, she might just be able to see the smoke from the engine as the train pulled out of Hartfield, carrying her grandson to his regiment.

We drove away from Vixen Hill, and I didn’t look back. But I did look at the heath that quickly surrounded us and wondered if I would ever see it again.

As if he’d read my mind, Simon said, “I have a feeling it isn’t finished, Bess. I heard the conclusions Inspector Rother drew from the evidence. I don’t know if he got it right.”

I turned to look at him. “You don’t think Davis Merrit killed George Hughes?”

“It’s not that,” he said slowly. “It’s just that something isn’t right. And I can’t put my finger on anything to support that feeling. The motive is missing, somehow.”

“Did you know Roger Ellis has left to rejoin his unit?”

“Yes, I saw him on his way to the railway station. Or I assumed that’s where he was heading. His kit was in the seat beside him.” He paused. “Is that why Lydia Ellis isn’t traveling with us?”

“She doesn’t have to face her husband now. She wasn’t looking forward to London, in spite of all she said. She wasn’t ready to start a new life with no friends and no prospects.”

“A measure of her fear,” he agreed. “When I met her in London I could sense it. I’m just glad you’re out of that house. I was afraid you’d have to stay until the inquest.”

“That’s odd, isn’t it? That I haven’t been asked to give evidence.”

“It will probably be adjourned until they’ve found Merrit. And you may yet receive a summons. Much will depend on what motive Inspector Rother discovers. But the watch and the fact that Merrit left without warning or a word will count heavily against him.”

“But did he pack up and leave? Or walk out of the house and never come home again?”

“Gossip says he left tea on the table. And that morning his horse came back to the stable without him.”

I hadn’t heard that.

“Well,” I said. “It’s over. But she wants me to search for that child, Simon.”

“I don’t think that would be wise. Didn’t you say that Hughes told you she was in the care of nuns? She should be looked after well enough. What would you do if you found her?”

What, indeed. “Heaven knows there are enough orphans, thanks to this war.”

“Sadly,” he replied.

We had reached Hartfield and I saw the man Willy just stepping into the road, crossing it just beyond the shops. He looked up then, and his eyes met mine as he stopped, waiting for us to pass.

I had expected the vacant expression of a man whose wits were impaired.

But I could have sworn, in that brief contact, that he knew who I was. And I would have sworn as well that beneath the recognition was another expression.

I couldn’t quite be sure of what it was. But the word that came to mind was
sly
.

If Simon noticed, he said nothing, busy driving through the early Monday morning traffic.

I
spent a very happy Christmas with my family. It was good to be home, and I knew my parents were almost beside themselves with joy.

A letter arrived the day before Christmas Eve, forwarded by Mrs. Hennessey from London. It was from Lydia, and very brief.

Life here at Vixen Hill has settled into an armed truce. I don’t think Gran has forgiven me, but even she can’t hold a grudge for very long. Mama Ellis has heard from Roger, telling her that he’d arrived safely in France. But he hasn’t written to me. I’m glad I stayed. I never expected to say that, but it’s true.

There is no news about the inquiry into the murder. The inquest was held on the Tuesday after you left. After Dr. Tilton had established that poor George was indeed murdered, Inspector Rother asked that the inquest be adjourned until such time as the whereabouts of a crucial witness, Davis Merrit, could be determined and his statement be entered into evidence. He was asked if the search was limited to Sussex, and Inspector Rother replied that the Chief Constable had asked that Scotland Yard be brought into the case. Then Inspector Rother was asked if he believed he knew the identity of the murderer, and he answered that he did, but was not prepared to make an arrest until Davis was found. No motive was presented. Nor were any of us required to give evidence, except for Dr. Tilton, and no statements were read. It was all very odd, according to Henry, who knows more about such things. But I think it may come out in the trial that after my visit to Davis, he went in search of George. I still don’t know why he should have killed him. I imagine that’s what Inspector Rother must find out before he can proceed any further. But I dread being asked to give evidence in court, if it is Davis after all. Henry says it will be necessary and I must be prepared to brave it out. Meanwhile, we have been locking our doors at night. Vixen Hill was never locked before this. But with Roger away I think we all feel terribly vulnerable.

I must wish you back in France soonest. Roger has had a head start in the search. And that worries me even more than what Inspector Rother is up to.

A happy Christmas. I wish I could tell you it comes from all of us, but Gran refuses to be included. I don’t quite understand why. But Mama Ellis believes that Gran blames you for insisting on looking for poor George, that if you’d left well enough alone that Saturday morning, he would never have been found and none of this terrible business would ever have happened. But it was Mama who insisted, wasn’t it? And someone would have stumbled over the body, sooner or later. I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive her.

I found it interesting that still no motive had been brought forward. More surprising was the fact that Dr. Tilton hadn’t said a word about the events of that evening in the drawing room. Why? It was prime gossip, and he would surely have relished passing it on. But the Ellis family was a force in Ashdown Forest, and Dr. Tilton must have very wisely decided that telling this particular secret could see him ruined.

But perhaps, with the inquest out of the way, the hue and cry for Davis Merrit could commence in earnest. If he could be found, the police would do their best to find him now.

I would have given much to know what had become of him. That expression in Willy’s eyes had disturbed me, and I couldn’t quite put it out of my thoughts. After all, it was his possession of the watch that had made the case against Davis Merrit. Not just his disappearance.

Christmas Day passed, and the day after Boxing Day, Simon and the Colonel Sahib drove me to London to meet my train.

I said good-bye to my mother, as I always did, at the door of the house. I said good-bye to my father and to Simon at the door of the compartment of my train.

My father said, “I know you’ve had Ashdown on your mind, Bess. I’ve said nothing, because it takes time to put something like that behind you.”

I didn’t deny it. Instead I said, “It was very unpleasant, being a suspect in a murder inquiry. Even for so brief a time.”

“I doubt that’s what’s been on your mind. Let it go. There’s nothing more you can do.”

I smiled and kissed him, then said good-bye to Simon.

As the train pulled out, I turned to wave, and saw both men staring after me with nearly the same expression on their faces.

Worry. As if they knew me too well to be taken in.

I
n truth, I was too busy the first weeks after my return to think about a child in an orphanage, but when there was a lull in the fighting, I was given a few days in the rear to rest.

And there I encountered two nuns with five small children who had been injured in the shelling, their parents killed. Soldiers had brought them to safety and seen to it that they were treated, but it was time to look at the wounds again to see how they were healing. It was work the nuns could do, but I saw their tired faces and worn hands, proof that they were overburdened as it was, and suppurating wounds were nasty to deal with.

I crossed to the tent where they were waiting in a long line with their charges, and I said to a nursing sister, “Shall I take a look at these for you?”

“Sister Crawford, would you mind?”

I took the nuns and the children aside, found a seat for them, and unwrapped the bandages around small arms and legs. Thank God the wounds had begun to close, and the nuns had kept them meticulously clean. I talked to the children as I worked, telling them as they watched me warily that all was well, and to mind the nuns about keeping their bandages tidy and in place.

A little girl clung to me, her eyes still shadowed. Sister Agnes, the younger nun, said to me in heavily accented English, “She lost her mother and younger brother. It has been very difficult. For a long time, she would not eat.”

I turned to the child, and in my best schoolgirl French, asked her name.

“Marie Thérèse,” she answered softly, hardly loud enough for me to hear her.

“What a pretty name! How old are you, Marie Thérèse?”

“Six,” she replied after a moment. “My brother was only four.”

“What was his name?”

“Henri. After our father.”

“Ah. A good name, Henri. Did he have blue eyes like yours?”

“No, they were not blue. There was brown in them.”

“Did you and Henri play games together?”

This time she nodded vigorously and began to list their games. I had finished examining her broken arm, which was healing well. It had been a compound fracture, and surgery had been necessary to reset it.

“My arm was broken too. Almost a year ago,” I told her as I helped her put hers back in its sling. Pushing up my sleeve, I showed her where my break had occurred. Her eyes grew large, and she touched it with a small finger.

“There is no scar,” she said, wonderingly.

“And the scar on your arm will also disappear. If you mind the Sisters and take good care of it.”

“Henri’s neck was broken,” she told me then. “There was no way to heal it.”

I could have taken her in my arms and held her close, but I smiled and said, “It didn’t hurt, you know. Necks are not like arms.”

She nodded.

At that moment, an Australian soldier strode by, a tall man, broad shouldered and fair. I stopped him and indicated the children. “Do you by any chance have chocolates, Sergeant?”

He grinned down at me. “I believe I do.” The children were staring at him, round-eyed, and watching as he dug into his kit. He came up with a very flat chocolate bar and handed it to me. I thanked him, knowing well that chocolates were treats even for the men. Hadn’t Princess Mary’s Christmas Gift in 1914 included sweets for those who didn’t smoke?

I handed the bar to the Sisters, to be shared with the children on the journey back to their convent.

As they prepared to take their leave, effusive in their gratitude, I hugged the children, then said to the younger nun before she turned away, “As a matter of fact, I’m looking for a child. She’s half English, and her father has been searching for her since her mother died.” I described her, using Juliana’s portrait as my guide. “Have you seen her? Do you know where I could find her?”

But they hadn’t seen her, had no idea where I might begin to look.

“Convents from the north have been taken in by other houses wherever possible,” she told me. “And a few have been given shelter by benefactors. With so many children displaced by the war, it is difficult to keep proper records. Some are too young to know how they are called. And for others, like this little one”—she touched the head of a boy who must have been close to two years old—“there is no village name or family name.” She shrugged, that very Gallic shrug that said,
What can one do?

I thanked them, and watched them go.

“That’s a bonny lass, that little one.”

I jumped, unaware that the Australian was still there just behind me.

“Yes, she is,” I said, wondering what life held in store for such children.