A Duty to the Dead (23 page)

“Yet you came all this way…”

“I made a promise, Mr. Graham. I have told you.”

“And so you’d have traveled to Yorkshire, if a patient asked you to.”

“Kent was much easier. But yes. I’d have tried.”

He nodded. “Yes, that’s honorable. I’m angry that I’m not allowed to join the army. I resent the bonds that soldiers share. Arthur and Jonathan wrote often to each other, but less often to me. Or to my mother. It was as if we didn’t exist because we weren’t
there.”

I could sympathize with what he was saying. My father, during
his years as a commanding officer, cared for his men like a stern but loving father. I doubt they saw it that way, especially those who felt the sharp edge of his tongue, but my mother and I did. We sometimes felt pangs of jealousy, and my mother would say, “I married a regiment, my dear. If you are looking for single-minded love, find yourself someone in civilian life. A nice banker, perhaps.”

I said to Timothy Graham, “I think it isn’t so much the bond between soldiers as the fear that to tell the truth to those one loves would be too painful, and so letters must be brief, before other things spill over. I’ve written to wives and sweethearts and mothers, putting down what I’m told to write, and even knowing it for kind lies, I add nothing of what I know.”

There was the young Welshman who assured his mother that the trenches were quite comfortable, despite what she read in the newspapers, and that he had clean sheets and a good pillow for his bed.

“Did Jonathan tell you about Peregrine?”

“No. Your mother did, when I was asked to care for him. You were there.”

“I’m surprised you could bear to be in the same room with him.”

“A nurse is only concerned with the health of a patient. I wasn’t there to judge Peregrine Graham, only to heal him.”

“What did he tell you?”

“He was so ill. I think once he asked me why I was there—he thought I must be Arthur’s wife—and again he asked where he was, and I told him. He had to fight for every breath, even to tell me whether he felt like drinking more broth, or if he needed another pillow to help ease the coughing. And I was far too busy to worry about what he might have done years before.” It was such a narrow line between truth and falsehood.

Timothy nodded. “I didn’t want to see him. None of us did. He was the painful past, come creeping back. I wouldn’t recognize him if he spoke to me on the street. He must have changed beyond
recognition. It explains why he killed himself. I wouldn’t have wanted to be shut away, as he was.”

“No.” We had reached the churchyard wall, and he opened the gate for me.

“I’m glad Arthur had someone with him at the end. It must be rather frightening to die alone. I can’t imagine it, to tell you the truth.”

I went through the gate, and after closing it, he turned toward his home. Then he came back to me. “I won’t mention the fact that I saw you. I can do that much for Booker. And his death did me no good. Mrs. Denton took Sally away with her, and it may be months before she’s home again.”

“Just as well,” I said. “She has a great deal of healing to do before she thinks about any future.”

“You’re a wise woman, Elizabeth Crawford, did anyone ever tell you that?”

I smiled but didn’t answer. And he was gone, limping across the uneven, winter-dead grass in the churchyard.

P
EREGRINE WAS WAITING
for me, and I said as I reached the head of the stairs, “I walked in the wood for a time, and Timothy saw me there. I came back as soon as I could.”

He was silent. We went down the passage to the door of my room and paused by common consent.

I hadn’t told him what I’d learned about his disappearance and possible death. I couldn’t have said why, except that it had erased Peregrine’s identity, and I wasn’t sure it was for the best to tell him that. He could take passage now to half a dozen countries that wouldn’t ask too many questions, he could create his own past, and walk away from Peregrine Graham. Would he be as eager to learn about Lily Mercer, if he knew all that I knew?

He waited. I said, “Peregrine. We should go back to London. We’ve learned all we can learn, here.”

“You know how the rector died, don’t you?”

“Yes. He tripped and fell down the pulpit stairs. Do you remember? It’s very high and the steps turn and narrow as they descend.”

Frowning, he looked for the memory, then nodded. “Yes. I do remember.”

I had opened my door and was about to cross the threshold, when he said, “You still think Arthur may have killed Lily Mercer, don’t you? I’ve seen your face when you’re afraid the evidence points
in that direction. Tell me, how would you choose between Arthur and me, if it came to that—if the only way you could protect him would be to sacrifice me?”

I said, “Arthur is dead. Nothing can harm him now. You are alive.”

“Fair enough. Then I’ll be honest with you as well. If I didn’t kill Lily Mercer, why do I dream so vividly about her death?”

He turned and walked away, going into his room without looking back.

I had dinner sent up to both of us, for fear that someone might recognize Peregrine in the dining room or ask questions about the man who accompanied me. And so I ate alone, and Peregrine did the same.

We left Owlhurst behind and went back to Tonbridge, to take the train to London.

We hadn’t been in the flat for five minutes before Mrs. Hennessey came puffing up the stairs. I made certain Peregrine was safely out of sight before opening my door.

“There’s someone to see you, Miss Crawford. I declare, Mr. Hennessey might have something to worry about, if I were thirty years younger. But after those stairs I daresay I’m thirty years older.” She had brought up the post as well and was fanning herself with it as she caught her breath.

“Is it my father?” What if Peregrine and I’d encountered him as we arrived? It was such a close call I felt weak.

“No, my dear, I know your father very well. It’s the other one. He’s very anxious to speak to you, though he was inordinately polite when he asked if I’d mind going up to fetch you for him.”

Simon Brandon. And that would have been just as bad.

“Yes, I’ll be there in a moment. Let me collect my coat.”

She turned to descend the stairs again, smiling at me over her
shoulder. I stepped back into the flat, promised Peregrine that I’d return in a few minutes, and went down to meet the sergeant major.

He greeted me and held the door for me. “Let’s sit in the motorcar—it’s warmer.”

The hall was cold. I went out and got into the motorcar, wondering what was afoot.

As he got behind the wheel, he said, “How are you faring with your search for Lily Mercer?”

“Um—well, I know her parents went to New Zealand shortly after she died.”

“Then you may not know that one Peregrine Graham was charged with her murder. He stabbed her in the throat with his father’s pocketknife. And it was agreed by all parties that he should be remanded to an asylum for the rest of his natural life.”

“Indeed.” It was all I could think of to say.

“Indeed. And said Peregrine Graham is now missing from said asylum, and the authorities have every reason to believe he shot himself on the coast of Kent, somewhere south of Dover. Winchelsea? Dymchurch? And his body is still missing, though they did find someone near his size and age.”

Something he’d just said struck me.

“She was what? Stabbed in the throat, you say?”

“My friend at Scotland Yard tells me that’s what the report says.”

“But—I thought—I mean, someone told me she’d been disemboweled—”

“Now that’s a nasty thing to be telling a lady,” he said, turning to look at me, his dark eyes unreadable in the dimness of the motorcar’s interior.

Oh dear. Simon was frighteningly astute. Had I given myself away? Still, I had to ask.

“Are you very certain, Simon? It’s important to know this.”

“As certain as the report filed at the time of death. I don’t know how your Mrs. Graham managed to protect her stepson the way she
did, but the police were in agreement that in his present state, taking him into custody would only aggravate his condition. A number of other cases of a similar nature had been sent to Barton’s, they knew the doctors there and respected their expertise. The upshot of it was, the boy was given into the care of his stepmother to be transported to the asylum, where doctors evaluated the facts, examined him, and reported to the police. The inquest was held, the documents were placed in evidence, and that was the end of the matter.”

“Does the Colonel Sahib know any of this?” I asked after a moment.

“Not yet. That’s why I came to see you first. Want to tell me what’s going on?”

My heart sank. Simon would never accept my assurance that I was as safe with Peregrine Graham as I was with him.

“I learned something when I was in Owlhurst. I don’t know that Peregrine did what he’s accused of. If my information is reliable, it’s possible that his half brother let Peregrine take the blame for what happened to Lily Mercer. If that’s true, Peregrine may have spent nearly fifteen years in an asylum for something he didn’t do.”

Simon whistled. “My God, Bess, you do manage to get yourself into a tangle. Don’t tell me you found a way to spirit Graham out of that asylum yourself. It would be just like you.”

I sighed. “He escaped the day I left Owlhurst. I didn’t know—I thought the family had been told he was dead of pneumonia. There was the death of Lieutenant Booker, you see, and I was so distressed by that—”

“Who is Booker?” Simon asked suspiciously.

“While I was in Owlhurst, I was asked by the local doctor to help him watch a patient suffering from severe shell shock. He was threatening to kill himself, you see, and in fact he did.”

“I thought nursing would keep you safe. How wrong I was.
Britannic
sank under you, and now Owlhurst involved you in murder and suicide. I’m taking you back to Somerset with me.”

“No, you can’t—” I began to say, then stopped short.

“Pray, why can’t I?”

“I—I want to do something first. Are you sure Lily Mercer was stabbed—that there was nothing else?”

“You’ve already asked me that,” he pointed out. “Who are you really trying to protect, Bess? Arthur? Peregrine? This man Booker? Are you in love with any of them?” His voice was exasperated.

“Ted Booker is—was—married, and he has a son. Arthur is dead. And you just told me that Peregrine was dead.”

“I told you the authorities believe he could be. For all I know, you have him hidden in your flat, while you sort all of this out. If it weren’t for Mrs. Hennessey and her rules, I’d march up there and see for myself.”

I was glad I was looking away from him, watching a large man walking a little dog with pretty brown ears. Simon would surely have read the alarm in my eyes as I scrambled to think of a response.

“I’ll ask her to do my marketing and then smuggle you into the flat. What a story that would make for the Colonel. Just promise not to tell her what you find, or she’ll never allow me to live here again.” God knew how much trouble I’d had smuggling Peregrine in and out. It was a miracle we hadn’t been caught long before this.

Simon laughed, and I could breathe again.

“All right, Bess. Stay in London if you must. But your father’s no fool, and he’ll soon be on your doorstep again with no allowance for your wishes. I’ll give you twenty-four hours before I tell him what the Yard told me.”

“But—that’s not enough time!”

“You don’t have time, Bess. Your father was notified that your orders will be cut within the week. You’ll be sailing for France in a fortnight.”

Oh damn.

I thanked Simon and went back to the flat, my mind racing.

Peregrine was behind the door when I walked in, and I could see that he was on edge.

“That wasn’t your father,” he told me flatly.

“No—that was Simon Brandon. He might as well be my father. Sometimes he’s worse!”

“He’s not old enough to be your father.”

He wasn’t. I hadn’t given it a thought before.

“Peregrine. That doesn’t matter. Listen to me.” I was taking off my coat, reaching for the kettle, making tea. The English panacea for stressful moments. “Somehow Simon got a look at the official report on Lily’s murder. It says—it says that there was a pocketknife in her throat—but no other wounds are listed. If you’d—well, if you’d butchered her, there would have been
something
in the file.”

“My stepmother—”

“I know. Whatever she told you, she didn’t have the power to change the official record. Are you sure you remember—that you see in your dreams—something so horrible?”

He stared at me. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “No. Yes, I dream I’m touching her entrails.”

Dear God. “Peregrine, it could be that you dream about it. But that it didn’t happen in life. The police can’t be wrong.”

He put his hands to his face, covering it. “You can’t make up a dream. Not like that. Not unless I’m mad as a hatter. I used to wake up screaming, I tell you. It was that real.”

I turned around. “Are you alone? Is someone else in the dream? Who is there in the dream with you?”

“I hear my stepmother’s voice, she’s speaking to me, telling me I should be ashamed, making me face what I’ve done. I am nearly sick from the smell, but she won’t let me go, she’s
there.”

The kettle was beginning to boil, I could hear the soft rumble of bubbles forming in the bottom.

“She found you by the body, trying to retrieve your knife from the wound—is that when you see the entrails?”

“I don’t remember.” He crossed the room to sit down heavily in the nearest chair. I was pouring the hot water into the teapot now, splashing a little on my hands, unaware of the pain.

Remember Ted Booker
—a little voice in my head reminded me.

Shock can do terrible things to the mind. And a fourteen-year-old boy with limited experience of life might easily be made to remember something that wasn’t real. But how? With words?

I couldn’t quite grasp what had been done. Or how Mrs. Graham could have allowed it to happen. But a mother will do anything to protect her own child, and destroying Peregrine Graham was the surest solution to the thorny problem of presenting Arthur or Jonathan or even Timothy to the police as the murderer.

I cudgeled my wits, but no brilliant solution offered itself.

Handing Peregrine his cup, I sat down across from him with my own. The hot, sweet tea was reviving. “Peregrine? You asked me if I’d sacrifice you to save Arthur’s good name. But the facts point to Arthur as the killer—he was Mrs. Graham’s favorite, he was next to you in age, you were already damaged, and so it was a short step to substituting you for him. But I need to know why Arthur would kill?”

“To protect one of his brothers?” But he was unconvinced.

I on the other hand leapt for that explanation.

“It could happen. If Lily, in the house alone with you and resenting that she couldn’t have the evening off with the other staff, taunted the four of you for being in her way—”

He shook his head. “Don’t.”

“Peregrine. I’m being ordered back to active duty within the week. Time is slipping through our fingers.”

“It doesn’t matter. I can go somewhere else and start another life. The Mercers must have done that in New Zealand, and it would have been harder for them than for me. After all these years in Barton’s, I don’t need much. I could survive.”

Peregrine was already thought to be dead. There were ways it
could be made to happen, this new life. There were people in India I could send him to—

But it solved nothing. There was Lily, deserted by her family, however desperate they’d been to accept the offer of passage away from England. If I had thought it was my duty to Arthur to bring his message home, what duty was still owed to Lily Mercer?

“Talk to me, Peregrine. Please—if you didn’t kill her, someone else did. Do you remember what you told me about that conversation where Arthur and Jonathan discussed doing something six times to give the victim—or perhaps the police—a fair chance to catch you?”

“I’ve already considered that. Lily. The policeman Gadd. The doctor. The rector. Lady Parsons.”

“You can’t count her. She survived.”

“The boy who drowned, then. That’s five. And about as farfetched as a fairy tale.”

“Add Ted Booker. Six.”

“Arthur couldn’t have killed Booker.”

“To my knowledge, Jonathan was the last person to see him alive.” Unless I was wrong, and Mrs. Denton went to the surgery.

“Jonathan?”

Unless Jonathan had completed Arthur’s six. It would have to be Jonathan. But he was never Mrs. Graham’s favorite.

He was her son, all the same. And she would be rabid to protect him.

Could he kill at that age? He must have been what, ten? A little younger, perhaps. If he’d caught Lily off guard, he could have struck her with the knife, just happening to find the right place to kill her. Or lashed out and was unlucky enough to cut an artery.

I hadn’t liked Jonathan very much, but that didn’t matter. The truth did.

But what if it was not the boys? What if it was Mrs. Graham? Or Robert? If he’d tried to seduce Lily, and she’d told him she’d
complain to Mrs. Graham, he might have been in a panic. Or to twist it another way, if Lily had seen Mrs. Graham and Robert together—or perhaps guessed that one of the Graham children was his—she might have been killed if she threatened blackmail. What were the laws on inheritance, if it could be shown that a child might not be the legal father’s son?