A Bitter Truth (24 page)

Inspector Rother lived on the corner of one of the two side streets in Wych Gate. We found him there after going to the police station, once a gaol for poachers and other village miscreants, that stood foursquare between the bakery and a solicitor’s chambers. He had left a note on the door directing me to his house.

He must have been watching for me. He came out of his door almost as soon as we pulled up, and said, peering into the vehicle, “Sister Crawford?”

“Yes, Inspector?”

Reaching for the handle to the rear door, he said, “I’d rather speak to you in the police station, so as not to wake my family.”

He wasn’t the sort of man I’d associated with having a family, a home life. He had seemed to be wedded to his work. I’d never quite pictured him at the breakfast table, his children around him, as I could Inspector Herbert, whom I’d known in London.

Simon turned the motorcar and drove back to the station. We hurried through the rain in Inspector Rother’s wake and waited for him to light a lamp.

In his office the furnishings were plain, with a narrow desk, a chair, and two others in front of it. Over Inspector Rother’s head as he took his seat was a photograph of the King in his naval uniform, staring at the opposite wall.

I made the introductions.

“I expected the station carriage,” he said sourly, “from Hartfield.”

“My family sent Mr. Brandon to see me safely here,” I answered. “It’s rather late, after all.”

“Yes, yes, I recall seeing Mr. Brandon in Hartfield before Christmas. You must be tired, Miss Crawford. I’ve taken a room for you at The King’s Head.”

“Thank you.” I hesitated. It seemed very odd to have made the long trip here only to be told that he’d taken a room for me. Was there more? I added, “Have you found Lieutenant Merrit? The last news I had was that the inquest had been adjourned while the police continued to look for him.”

He considered me, then glanced at Simon, standing behind my chair, leaning his shoulders against the corner of a tall bookcase. “There were questions that only the Lieutenant could answer. For example, why was a watch removed from the body of the deceased when other valuable items were not taken? What became of the murder weapon?”

“You haven’t found it?” I asked, feeling a frisson of guilt when I remembered the marble kitten slightly out of its accustomed place.

Although I had listened, I hadn’t heard the slightest sound from behind the cell door I’d glimpsed at the end of the passage some ten feet beyond Inspector Rother’s office. If Lieutenant Merrit had been taken into custody, he must not be held here.

“So far we’ve been unable to account for it.”

When he didn’t immediately go on, I asked, “When I was at The King’s Head using the telephone—this was before Lieutenant Hughes was murdered—I noticed a cat asleep in the window of Bluebell Cottage. Has anything been done about it?”

“We brought Mrs. Roger Ellis to Hartfield and asked her to look through Bluebell Cottage. She was there very early on the morning of the murder, and we wished to know if the cottage appeared to be the same as when she saw it then. She found the cat and insisted on taking charge of it. We had no objection to that.”

Lydia hadn’t told me that in her letter. “This was before the inquest?”

“Yes, in fact, later in the afternoon of the day you left for London.”

“And was the cottage the same?” Simon asked.

“It was, as far as she could tell. There was no sign of a hasty departure. Lieutenant Merrit had changed into his riding clothes and gone out. He had a habit of riding out early in the morning. We believe that he had either intentionally gone in search of George Hughes or encountered him by accident. Constable Bates found signs of someone standing by a horse for several minutes. And then the two went on together. Where they went from there was lost when a flock of sheep moved through the same ground. A clever piece of police work, that. It placed Lieutenant Merrit not far from Wych Gate Church.”

Suddenly I knew why I had been sent for. “I was told in France,” I began, “that I was required to testify at an inquest. But you haven’t caught Lieutenant Merrit, have you? And you haven’t taken anyone else into custody. Does this mean that Davis Merrit is dead?”

I felt Simon stir behind my chair.

Inspector Rother held my gaze for a long moment, then said, “Either you are quite perceptive or you have heard something in spite of our efforts to keep the discovery from the public.” He went on slowly. “Five days ago, we found the remains of Davis Merrit’s body. On the heath, in a dell that the locals call The Pitch. It appears that he died by his own hand, after returning to Hartfield long enough to pass the watch to the man we call Willy. He had taken great care to make us believe that he had then left the Forest.”

I was shocked, in spite of my premonition. “But if he’s dead, why is it necessary for me to come back from France to give evidence? Surely my statement would be sufficient, if the case is already closed?”

“I don’t care for loose ends, Miss Crawford. Why did Merrit feel it necessary to come back to Hartfield long enough to give that watch to Willy, when no one suspected him at that time and probably would not have done. If he intended to tell us that he was the killer, then why do away with himself here in the Forest? It would be more useful if he went to Devon, or Northumberland, where he could conceivably remain unidentified.”

“I don’t know. Described that way, it seems rather odd.”

“Yes. And so we find ourselves back to the beginning of the case. It’s late, and you must be tired. I hadn’t intended to speak of this tonight.”

But I thought he had. Otherwise, instead of coming to the police station, he would have sent me directly back to Hartfield and asked me to return tomorrow. Today, it was now.

And then he said meditatively, “Four men. Davis Merrit, George Hughes, Roger Ellis, and William Pryor. And now two of them are dead.”

“Who is William Pryor?”

“I don’t like murder on my patch, Miss Crawford. That’s why I have to wonder why you never told me about the quarrel Roger Ellis had with George Hughes the night before he was killed. Or the jealousy that Ellis had expressed concerning his wife’s volunteering to read to the blind man. Oh, yes, the doctor has suddenly become very eager to help us in our inquiries. As has his wife. Now I think it’s time we all went to bed, and continued this discussion tomorrow.”

With that he rose and ushered us out the door, bidding us a good night as he walked through the driving rain back to his house.

S
imon and I began the long dark drive back to The King’s Head. I was grateful for his quiet presence in the motorcar beside me. I didn’t believe in ghosts, I never had, but two deaths in this Forest had somehow left a haunting presence behind.

I said, after we’d passed St. Mary’s Church, “An unexpected turn of events.”

“I told you in the beginning, Bess, that I had a bad feeling about this business. From the start. From the time you found Lydia Ellis outside your door that December night and took her in.”

“I could hardly have turned her away. But who is William Pryor? The Inspector never answered me when I asked.”

“I should think it’s the man you know as Willy.”

“Yes, of course.” I shook my head. “I must be more tired than I thought. But how did the police find out his real name? I was given the impression that no one knew who he was. And now Inspector Rother is adding Captain Ellis to his list of suspects.”

“Or he wants you to believe he has.”

“It would make sense. A clever way to rid himself of both men. Even Lydia wondered about that.” I considered what I had just said. “Simon, if that is true—and I’m not convinced that it is, mind you—why is Roger Ellis searching for Sophie? Is she in peril too?”

We drove on in silence. And then the track through the Forest ended in what would shortly become the High Street of Hartfield. Ahead of us, the inn loomed out of the dark, and across from it Bluebell Cottage, standing empty.

“I’m glad Lydia took the cat,” I said as we turned into the yard beside The King’s Head. “I wouldn’t have liked for it to be turned out into the winter cold. It had a cushion the same color as the cottage was painted. He liked that cat, Simon, and it was cosseted.”

We hurried out of the rain into The King’s Head to hear snoring coming from the small room behind Reception. Simon went to tap on the door, and a very sleepy man came out to greet us, smoothing his hair as he asked our business.

Ten minutes later we were climbing the stairs to our rooms, and Simon saw me to my door.

After he’d gone to his own room, I went to sit by the window and look out into the night, unwilling to undress and go to bed. My mind was too busy, and as I looked across the street toward Bluebell Cottage, I felt discouraged.

I’d been sitting there ten minutes, possibly fifteen, when I saw someone coming down the street, a shambling walk that made me think at once of the man Willy.

And as he drew nearer, I saw that it was indeed he. I watched him come through the shadows cast on the road by the houses across the way, and stop near Bluebell Cottage’s door.

I drew back a little from the window. I didn’t think he could see me sitting there. But I wanted very much to know what he intended to do next.

After hesitating, as if waiting to see who might be about, he finally crossed the road and came into the yard of the inn.

I could just see where he was going, and I thought at first he was hoping to find somewhere dry to sleep. Instead he walked up to Simon Brandon’s motorcar and looked it over, as if it could tell him who owned the vehicle. Or perhaps he’d seen it before and was making sure that it was the same motorcar.

I was reminded of a fox, sniffing for danger.

Finally, satisfied, he turned and walked quietly back the way he’d come.

I sat there by the window for almost another hour, but he never came back, and the road in front of the inn remained deserted, only the rain whipping through the village disturbing the peace of the night.

The next morning at breakfast, I told Simon what I’d seen.

“He didn’t interfere in any way with the motorcar, did he?” he asked sharply.

“No. He never lifted the bonnet nor touched the tires. He must have felt he recognized the motorcar from your last stay here but wasn’t quite sure it was the same. Once he was satisfied, he went on his way.”

“Hmmmm” was all Simon had to say in response. Still, I could tell the incident had made him uncomfortable. I remembered that his years in the Army had given him a finely tuned sense of danger.

“Why should he worry you?”

“Because Rother is of two minds. Either Ellis is the murderer, or Willy killed both Hughes and Merrit.”

“Davis Merrit was very generous with Willy. It’s rather terrible, to think Willy turned on him.”

After breakfast we drove back to Wych Gate. We had just reached the turning to Vixen Hill when a motorcar came down the drive and stopped to let us pass. I was surprised to see that it was Mrs. Ellis at the wheel. I waved in greeting when I saw that she had recognized me.

“Bess,” she called, and then frowned. “Has that Inspector sent for you as well? I’m just off to the railway station to meet Roger. He’s been called home too.”

“I know you’ll be happy to see him,” I said. But would Lydia feel the same?

“Yes, but what is this about? Do you know? We’ve been waiting for weeks to learn what’s happening. Have the police found Davis, do you think?”

I wanted to warn her, to tell her that Roger was now a suspect—we all were—but I hadn’t the heart.

“I expect he’ll tell us soon enough,” I replied, then before I could think it through, I said, “Did you know that Dr. Tilton and his wife have told the police about the quarrel between George and Roger?”

“It was hardly a quarrel,” she said tartly. “Poor George was drunk, and his mind was wandering. But it’s just like Dr. Tilton to make more of it than it was. He’s a very good doctor, but I sometimes think he enjoys making trouble.”

Leaving it at that, I asked, “How is Lydia? And Gran?”

“Very well. Lydia is nervous about Roger coming home, but I told her there was nothing to fear. Will you come and see her? I know she’d like that.”

“Yes, I’ll try.”

“Good. Now I must hurry. I have a list of things I must buy before the train arrives. Good-bye, Bess, Mr. Brandon.”

And she was gone.

“Why did you tell her about the doctor?” Simon asked as we drove on.

“I thought she ought to be warned. None of the family had said anything. But it was bound to come out. And now that it has, it makes us look as if we were concealing something.”

“But aren’t you?” Simon asked.

I had no answer for that. I still believed it wasn’t my place to reveal the family’s secrets. I had left it to Dr. Tilton . . . had that been cowardly of me?

“Nor have you told them about the message you found in that umbrella.”

“That was different. It’s not the sort of thing a man would do—to leave a message like that in an umbrella, on the off chance it would reach the right person. It’s too uncertain. But I thought perhaps Davis Merrit might have hoped Lydia would find it and come to Hartfield. Then I discovered that she’d already been to Bluebell Cottage the morning of the murder. But perhaps it had never been left in the umbrella. Perhaps someone put it there to throw the police off the scent.”