A Bitter Truth (27 page)

“Yes, well, Gran gave Inspector Rother an earful this morning.” Lydia grinned, remembering. “He was asking her how well she knew Davis, and she told him he could take his suspicious mind elsewhere, that she had not known Davis either in the biblical sense or the literal sense of the word.”

I had to laugh, picturing their faces as the Inspector and the indomitable Gran squared off.

“What was his reply?”

“He turned as red as a sugar beet and stalked off.” Her smile faded. “But he came to see me after that and wanted to know what my relationship with Davis had been. I told him I counted myself a friend, which is exactly what I’d said before.”

Daisy summoned us to our luncheon soon after that, and we were all, I was surprised to see, gathered at the table. But we ate our meal in silence, and afterward I was taken up to the room above the hall to meet Bluebell, Davis Merrit’s cat.

Bluebell was wary of me—I think she still missed her former life, and I was another stranger in her eyes, bent on taking her away from where she belonged. But Lydia had thought to bring the cat’s favorite cushion, and soon Bluebell curled up on that and ignored us.

Lydia said, “I can’t believe Davis is dead. I wish the police would tell us—did he take his own life because of his eyes, or did he really murder George? Will they clear his name? If they’ve been wrong about him?”

“To clear his name, they must arrest someone else.”

“Oh.”

An hour later Margaret arrived, her face drawn with worry. “I haven’t heard from Henry in three weeks,” she said as she greeted her mother and grandmother. “And there were two soldiers from his sector who came through London last night in the train of wounded. One of the women bringing the men coffee and fresh bandages told me. They couldn’t ask either man for news of Henry. They were too heavily sedated. I should have stayed at home, where I can be reached. Has anyone contacted you, Mama?”

“Henry is all right, my dear,” Mrs. Ellis answered her. “I’m sure of it. Now come in and have some tea. I’m so glad you’re here with us.”

For the next three days Inspector Rother was in and out of the house, taking one or the other of us aside and either going over and over old ground or asking new questions based on whatever he had learned. Sparing no one, not even the distraught Margaret.

I had my share of the Inspector’s attention. I was asked if I knew where everyone in the house was that morning when Mrs. Ellis and I set out to search for George Hughes.

I thought I had seen everyone. But after another round of questioning, probing, trying to trick me, I began to doubt my own memory.

Gran took to her room, angry and refusing to have anything more to do with the police. Daisy took to leaving trays of food outside her door. Sometimes they remained untouched.

And I had another worry on my mind. Simon hadn’t returned, although he’d told me he would be a day, two at the most. I wondered where he was and what was keeping him. I’d have liked to know too what if anything he’d been able to discover about William Pryor.

Tensions were running high in the house. Roger Ellis lost his temper twice to my knowledge, sending Lydia to her room over the hall in tears the first time, and upsetting his mother the second time. Word from the Front, what we were able to hear of it, was not good, and Roger chafed at being here when he was sorely needed in France. To his credit, he did make some telephone calls from Hartfield to see what he could discover about Henry, but there was no news at all.

“Which is reassuring,” Mrs. Ellis told her daughter. “Take it as a good thing, my dear.”

But Margaret shook her head and went to her room “for a lie down” she said, but it was to cry. At dinner that night her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, her voice husky.

The morning of the fourth day, Inspector Rother arrived at Vixen Hill and after an hour’s discussion with Roger’s mother, took her away to Wych Gate. Roger was livid when he came home and heard what had transpired in his absence. He set out for Wych Gate straightaway, and when I asked if I could go with him, he was curt.

“No.”

Neither of them had returned in time for lunch, and there was still no news when our tea was brought in at four o’clock. It was already dark as pitch outside when there was a knock at the hall door. We could hear it from the sitting room, as if whoever it was had used his fist.

Lydia went with Molly to answer it, and then came back to where we all waited in anxious silence.

“The hotel clerk from The King’s Head,” she said to me. “There’s a telephone message from your mother. You’re to call her back at once.”

“I’ll go and see—”

“He came on his bicycle, Bess, and the wind is fearsome,” Lydia said. “Take Mama’s motorcar. It will be quicker as well as warmer.”

Margaret sat up straight. “But what if there’s news of Henry? And I can’t get to Hartfield?”

“I can take a bicycle,” I began, but Lydia wouldn’t hear of it.

“If there’s a message from Henry, Bess can come back for you,” she told her sister-in-law.

And so I set out for Hartfield, the silent clerk in the motorcar beside me, his bicycle strapped to the boot. He could tell me no more about the telephone call, but I asked all the same if my mother sounded upset.

“I wasn’t the one who answered,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

When we got to Hartfield, there was a flurry of activity in the normally quiet streets, and I said, “What’s happened?”

The clerk, peering out the windscreen, said, “I don’t know. There was no one in the street when I left. Silent as the tomb, it was.”

It would have taken him well over half an hour to bicycle to Vixen Hill.

Slowing, I said, “Is that Inspector Rother with the torch? There, just across from the inn. Look, he’s going to Bluebell Cottage!”

He disappeared inside the door, closing it after him. The small circle of onlookers was being kept back by a constable, and I recognized Constable Bates. There was someone else just coming up the road, hurrying to speak to Constable Bates, and as he was allowed to proceed, I recognized the rector, Mr. Smyth.

I drove slowly, cautiously, edging past the gawking crowd, and then I heard Constable Bates shout, “You there. Where do you think you’re going?”

I was saved from answering by the inn’s clerk, who leaned out his window and called, “I need to reach The King’s Head. Is that all right?”

“I thought it was one of the Ellises, pushing their way through. Yes, go on.”

I crept slowly past, but just as I drew even with him, there was a shout from the cottage, and Constable Bates turned toward it, not toward me.

“Can you drive? Take this motorcar, turn around, and go to Vixen Hill. Find Captain Ellis and bring him back,” I told the clerk quietly. “I’ll get down here.”

I slipped out into the shadowy darkness beyond range of the torches and was out of sight by the time Constable Bates had crossed to the cottage door to speak to Inspector Rother. Behind me, I could just hear Mrs. Ellis’s motorcar reverse as far as Dr. Tilton’s house, the headlamps dimmed. I walked into The King’s Head and sought out the woman behind Reception’s desk.

She smiled as I approached. “Yes?” And then as she recognized me, she added, “Ah, Sister Crawford. What’s happening out there? I hear people shouting.”

“I don’t know, I think the police must be after someone,” I answered quickly. “The telephone?”

“I’m afraid it’s in use at the moment. It was your mother who telephoned. Mrs. Crawford. She said it was urgent. I hope it isn’t bad news.”

Chapter Fifteen

W
ell out of sight of the police outside, I stood there in Reception, trying to contain my impatience and my worry. My mother wouldn’t have telephoned me unless it was a dire emergency.

Was it Simon, who hadn’t come back as he’d promised in “a day—a day and a half at most”?

Or my father. Had something happened to the Colonel Sahib?

I was trying to think what to say to Inspector Rother if I had to leave for London straightaway, or even Somerset.

I decided then that if it was necessary, I would take the Ellis motorcar and drive to London without telling anyone. The same hotel clerk could carry a note to the family in the morning, when it would be too late to stop me. I’d find someone in London who could ferry the motorcar back to Sussex. One of my flatmates, if anyone was there. Someone. I was willing to pay handsomely, it wouldn’t be impossible.

Finally the artillery officer who had been using the telephone stepped away from it, and as I hurried forward, I heard him say to the woman behind the desk, “I shall need to put through another call to London shortly. Will you keep the line clear?”

My heart plummeted. As far as I knew there was no other telephone in Hartfield.

She saw me hesitate. “This young woman has missed a call from her family. She looks very worried. Would you mind if she used the instrument meanwhile? I’m sure it won’t take very long.”

He turned, on the point of saying no, I could read it in his face. And then he saw that I was a nursing sister, and his expression changed.

“Yes, go ahead, Sister.”

I thanked him and after some difficulty with the lines, I put through the call to Somerset.

The phone rang and rang, my anxiety growing with each ring.

And then my mother’s voice came down the line.

“Bess, dear?”

“I’m here, Mother. Is the Colonel all right? Simon?”

“Yes, my dear, they’ve been delayed. I have a feeling they’re in Scotland. Or else training Scottish troops. Your father murmured something about haggis as he left.”

I was so relieved I couldn’t stop my lower lip from trembling, and it was a moment before I said, “That’s wonderful.”

“Not the haggis, Bess, he abominates it.”

I swallowed a bubble of hysterical laughter.

She went on, “Are you all right? Simon was quite worried about having to abandon you. Richard wasn’t very happy about it either.”

“Yes, I’m very well, Mother. It’s been rather trying, but I hope the police will be satisfied soon.” Was this the reason she’d called? Because she was worried about me?

But then she said, “I had a telephone call earlier this evening. An hour or so ago. Someone trying to reach you. Apparently he was in Dover, in some difficulties with the authorities there, and needed to speak to you urgently. He wouldn’t give me his name, and I rather thought there must be others listening in to his side of the conversation. But he said you would remember the kingfisher. Do you have any idea what on earth he was talking about?”

I drew a blank for all of ten seconds. And then I did laugh. “Did he sound Australian to you?”

“I’m not sure, Bess. His voice was very strained, and he coughed every other breath. In fact, he seemed to have some trouble breathing.”

“How on earth did he find you in Somerset?”

“I’ve no idea. He begged me to reach you, and he said he’d be waiting in Dover for you, and if you could come there straightaway, he would be very grateful. He said it was most urgent, or he’d be clapped in irons and everything would be lost.”

I couldn’t imagine why Sergeant Larimore should be telephoning me from Dover, or even how he got there.

“Was he—do you think he’d been drinking?” I asked, for the Australians had a reputation for putting away large quantities of beer. And he might have taken a dare and tried to come to England.

“I couldn’t tell, not with the coughing. He wouldn’t leave a number. He said you must come as quickly as you could.”

“I’m not supposed to leave here,” I began, and then I had one of those feelings we all get at one time or another, that I ought to go. After all, Dover was closer than London or Somerset. If I was prepared to risk Inspector Rother’s ire by leaving to go to either place, why not risk it and go to Dover? If the Sergeant was a deserter—and somehow I couldn’t picture him abandoning his men—he’d be in a great deal of trouble. I wasn’t sure what I could do, but I would try to help.

“I’ve changed my mind. Mother, if he should telephone you again, tell him I’m on my way.”

“Yes, I’d feel very much better if you did go. But it’s late to be starting out for Dover, my dear, and you must be very careful. Promise?”

“I promise.” Out of the corner of my eye I could see the officer hovering, wanting his telephone back. “I must go, someone else needs to use the telephone. I’ll give you a shout as soon as I can.”

“I’ll send Simon to you as soon as he returns.”

“Thank you. Good night. And don’t worry.”

“And you’ll tell me all about this kingfisher, won’t you?”

She put up the receiver on that note, and I turned to thank the officer trying to hide his impatience.

As I turned away, I said to the woman at Reception, “What happened across the street?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I looked out the door just now and saw one of the constables speaking to Inspector Rother. I didn’t know he was in Hartfield this evening—he often dines with us when he’s here, and I hadn’t seen him. Someone who came in just after you said something about a fire. But I haven’t seen the fire brigade.”

I thanked her and was about to wait outside for Roger Ellis to come, when the officer using the telephone came striding out and said to the woman behind the desk, “I’m off, then. Thank you for your help.”

Off?

I stepped forward and asked, “Major? May I ask where you’re going—and if you have a motorcar?”

“Yes, I do. I’m reporting to Dover tonight. They’ve canceled my leave.”

“Please? Would you mind if I go with you? I—I’ve had a summons from Dover as well, and I’m not sure how to get there.” Holding out my hand, I said, “My name is Elizabeth Crawford. I’m Colonel Crawford’s daughter.”

“By all means, I’ll be happy to escort you to Dover.”

Turning to the woman behind the desk, I said, “Please, if Captain Ellis comes, will you tell him I will be back as quickly as possible?”

We went out to his motorcar and drove out of Hartfield, crossing the railroad tracks outside the town before turning toward Kent, and Dover, on the English Channel. He reached in the back and brought out a rug, which I pulled around my shoulders.

The night had turned cold, the stars overhead bright in the blackness of the sky, and I could feel my feet beginning to go numb from the frigid air. The heater was barely sufficient for one of them, and I kept alternating them close by the vent. Once or twice we stopped on the verge of the road and stamped some circulation back into our limbs. Major Hutton asked me at one point where I lived, and when I told him London, he said, “Then you’ve been to see the bear?”

My mind was on Dover. “The bear?” I repeated, then remembered.

A Canadian officer of the Fort Garry Horse, one Lieutenant Colebourn, had smuggled a small female black bear into England. Her name was Winnipeg, after the town where he lived. When he and his unit sailed for France, he left her in the care of the London zoo. She was enormously popular. Diana, Mary, and I had gone to see her one afternoon, and I told the Major this.

He grinned as we walked together in the glare of the headlamps, his teeth very white in the shadow of his military mustache. “I took my future wife there the first time we went out to dine. Two years ago. She’s expecting our child now, and she’s threatened to name it Winnipeg, if it’s a son.”

“Be very glad, sir, that you didn’t take her to see one of those Australian kingfishes, a kookabura.”

We laughed together, and then, blowing on our fingers, we walked back to the motorcar. I was glad of the Major’s company on this dark and twisting road.

Outside Chatham we stopped again, and later drove through the silent streets of Canterbury. It was nearly dawn when we drove down from the cliffs and into the seaside town of Dover.

It had grown with the influx of people coming from and going to France, and even at this early hour there were men lining up for roll call before being marched on board. Their faces pinched with the cold and anxiety for what lay ahead, they looked dreadfully young to me. The days when men lined up in their dozens to be the first to enlist had long since passed. Now the reality of the trenches had scoured away that bravado, and in its place were these recruits, afraid of shaming themselves in front of their mates but probably wishing themselves anywhere but here.

The Major asked me to drop him near a cluster of officers standing some distance away from the Sergeants barking orders.

“If you will, take the motorcar to HQ. Someone there will see to it. Do you have time?”

“Yes, sir.” I took the wheel and went first to the police station. But they knew nothing about an Australian Sergeant, and so I went to find the officer in charge of the port.

He was sitting in a cramped office that overlooked the sea. It was filled with paperwork, with ships’ manifests, lists of supplies destined for France and no doubt roll after roll of names, and all the other paraphernalia of getting men and materiel across the sea to France.

He looked up as I was admitted, rising tiredly from his chair. “Sister,” he said.

“Good morning, sir. Sister Crawford, sir. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I understand there’s an Australian Sergeant who is in Dover, possibly without his proper papers.” I’d had the long dark ride across Kent to think about what I should say.

I’d expected a blank stare. But he said, “Ah, yes. I think he’s being held in one of the huts under guard. Number seventeen. He says he has a head wound and can’t remember much after the forward dressing station. It’s likely he came from the Base Hospital in Rouen, judging from his blue uniform. He can’t remember how he got aboard a ship. He claims you’ll be looking for him.”

“Yes, sir, he’s been quite troublesome, wandering off,” I said, feeling my way. “Er, how does he look?”

“His hair is singed, he has no eyebrows, and his hands are badly burned. I had someone take a look at him.”

He hadn’t been burned when last I saw him. “He’s not accountable,” I said.

“I should think not. When he’s questioned, he breaks out in crazed laughter. It gave me quite a start the first time I heard it. He was brought here because he was stopped on the street and couldn’t account for himself.”

More bewildered than anything else, I said, “I think I ought to have a look at him. We need to return him to France as soon as possible. He’ll have been reported missing by now.”

“You’ll be careful? I’ll send one of my men with you.”

“I’ll be all right,” I told him, not wishing to have an audience when I found Sergeant Larimore. Gesturing to the cluttered desk in front of him, I said, “You have enough on your hands this morning. I saw the recruits preparing to report.”

“Yes, poor devils. Thank you, Sister Crawford. Any relation to Colonel Crawford and his family?”

“He’s my father.”

“Is he, by God!” His attitude warmed considerably. “Tell me what you need, Sister, and I’ll see that you get it.”

I thanked him and went out. The port was cluttered and crowded. I managed to find the line of huts. They turned out to be temporary housing for any number of offices associated with the smooth running of the port. Number seventeen, set to one side of the rest, had a soldier on guard by the door.

With a sinking heart, I walked up to the soldier, a grizzled veteran with a decided limp, and told him I’d been asked to take a look at his charge.

“I don’t think it’s safe, Sister,” he warned me. “He’s right barmy, is that one.”

“I’ve handled worse cases. They seem to respond to the uniform,” I said pleasantly.

With some reluctance, he stood aside. “I’ll stay within call,” he promised.

I went to the door. It was, to my surprise, unlocked. I walked in as the first late rays of winter sun rose over the horizon and sent a shaft of light across the gray Channel to wash the drab, salt-stained huts a pale gold.

At first I couldn’t see anyone in the dark interior. And then as my eyes grew accustomed to the shadows, I saw that there were two cots in the room, and a bucket on the floor between them. Nothing else.

“Sergeant? Sergeant Larimore?” I said, and immediately the prone figure on one of the cots shot up with an oath.

“Sister,” he answered in a low, hoarse voice. “Great God, woman, I’d given you up.” He stood, and the light of the rising sun caught him full in the face.

I gasped. He was burned, just as the Captain had said, his face raw, his eyebrows all but gone, his hair shorter in front than in the back. His blue hospital uniform was torn, stained with God knew what, and scorched.

“What happened to you?” I asked, appalled.