An Unwilling Accomplice (28 page)

We drove sedately back through the gates, and turned toward Upper Dysoe.

“So much for saving Major Findley,” Simon said, lightly.

“Or discovering that he is Sergeant Wilkins,” I answered wryly.

“But now you want to know who this fellow was that Matt Warren saw lying on the road. You must realize that he could be miles from here now.”

“Or he crawled off the road and found a safe place to die.”

“Perhaps that’s the kinder ending.”

I said, “Maddie mentioned something about a second patient with a head wound. But when I asked him directly about that, he implied it was not a war wound. That could be true of Sergeant Wilkins. His head injury wasn’t related to the war.”

“Bess.”

“Do you suppose someone here in the Dysoes has taken in the sergeant? He could have concocted some sort of tale, it needn’t be true. That he’d been wounded and demobbed and had nowhere to go. It wouldn’t be the first time he lied to someone.”

“Bess,” he said again, this time in a different voice.

I took a deep breath. “I know. I know. But, Simon, who tried to frighten the mare, Molly? It couldn’t have been Major Findley, and somehow I can’t imagine Miss Neville lying in wait for me.”

He laughed against his will.

“We aren’t even sure that Sergeant Wilkins stole the bay horse in Ironbridge. It could have been someone courting a girl in the next village who decided to ride rather than walk. Imagine his horror when the bay got free and disappeared.”

“Perhaps the horse jumped the fence on its own, possessed by the desire to explore,” I retorted.

“What, the love of its life sold as a cart horse to someone in Lower Dysoe?”

I smiled. “There’s no constable in any of the Dysoe villages. The closest one is in Biddington. He keeps the peace, but I doubt he knows the village secrets. And there’s no Rector. But Maddie knows all the secrets,” I said.

“But he keeps them, Bess. He must, or people would refuse to turn to him in times of need. It’s his livelihood as well as his duty.”

“I wonder who Maddie is. And whether that’s his first or his last name. He’s got secrets too. Where did he train? Did he qualify as a doctor? Was he stricken from the lists for something that went wrong? Is that why he’s willing to live in this backwater? People must pay him in kind, save for the Nevilles, who can afford his services. And perhaps a few other families.”

“He never reported to the police that Warren had been shot. And no one has turned him in for not reporting it. Not even you.”

“As you say, he must keep his secrets. And I had other reasons for not insisting on the police being involved. We were looking for a wanted man.”

Simon was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Bess. We’ve all assumed the Major shot Warren. But why would he have done such a thing?”

“I don’t know. Miss Neville paid for Warren’s care and for help at the mill until he was well enough to work again. That’s a tacit admission of guilt.”

“Yes, but look at it this way. Everyone
assumed
that it was Findley. It’s known that sometimes he takes his revolver out and shoots at something. He’s a man with a troubled mind, and perhaps this is his way of coping with his demons. But he had no reason to shoot the miller, did he? And most certainly Warren wasn’t walking in the far corners of the grounds. God knows Windward must be large enough to accommodate shooting parties. Findley could have found a quiet corner for his marksmanship.”

I could see where he was taking this.

“Why would anyone else want to shoot Mr. Warren?” I paused, thinking it through as Simon had done. “It wasn’t Mr. Warren who stumbled on the soldier by the roadside. But it was the Warren
cart
that went past the man that day. Perhaps that’s all someone saw, the cart, not who was driving it. Matt is nearly as tall as his father. Someone half dazed with hunger and exhaustion and pain could be forgiven for thinking he’d seen the miller and not the miller’s son. But where did he get the revolver? That’s an officer’s weapon.”

“Which might have served to save Warren’s life. Most men in the ranks wouldn’t be able to hit their mark with a revolver. In the melee of battle, even a novice could kill someone.”

But Simon could hit his mark with a revolver. I’d seen him. “Revolvers don’t grow on trees,” I said. “Sergeant Wilkins hanged that man on Iron Bridge. If he’d had a revolver, why not simply shoot him?” I answered my own question. “The report would have echoed across the river and up the hillsides. He wouldn’t have risked it.”

“Exactly. But here, where the Major already has a reputation of sorts, everyone assumed he’d fired that shot. If Warren had died, it would be the Major the police would question. And if he was confused, couldn’t defend himself, he’d soon be taken up for murder.”

I felt cold. “We need to ask the miller what he saw when he was shot.”

“A very good idea.”

Mr. Warren was sitting in the small bare room where he kept his accounts. There was a deal table stained in places by ink spills, a pair of chairs, and to one side a small cabinet half filled with ledgers of various sizes. Other papers filled cubbyholes above the cabinet.

“You can’t be worrying about my shoulder, again,” the man said as Matt ushered us in.

I took the chair in front of the table. “In a roundabout way, perhaps. Did you see who shot you?”

His mouth tightened, and I thought for a moment he didn’t intend to answer. Then he said, “I don’t want trouble. I gave my word to Miss Neville’s steward. She paid for my care and brought in extra hands to help while I’m unable to do the work. Besides, the Major is not accountable for what was done. He’s wounded, and all.”

“I don’t wish to cause trouble for you or for Major Findley. The problem is, I’m not sure it was Major Findley who shot you.”

And that was the wrong approach to take, I could see it at once. Miss Neville had been generous. To admit that it wasn’t Major Findley after all would mean losing her help. And Mr. Warren still needed that help.

I added hastily, “This is between the three of us, Mr. Warren. I have no wish to make this public knowledge. For my sake as well as yours. It was another wounded man who brought Sergeant-Major Brandon and me to Upper Dysoe. I wouldn’t care to make trouble for him either.”

“The soldier on the road my son saw? That’s why you came to ask about him?”

“Yes, it could have been the same person. You see, we don’t really know. If you could say unequivocally that it was the Major who shot you, that you saw him, then we must look elsewhere. If you aren’t sure, then I’m obligated to go on looking for this man somewhere here in the Dysoes.”

I could see in Mr. Warren’s quick glance toward Simon, standing just behind my chair, that the miller had assumed, like everyone else, that it
was
Major Findley. Getting him to admit to anything else was going to be difficult.

He said as if in answer to my thought, “It was bound to be Major Findley.”

“But that means you didn’t see who it was,” I responded quickly.

“The man was wandering about shooting at anything that moved.”

“Yes, I’m sure he was. And the stories about that got rather out of hand. What took you to that distant part of the estate? That’s the question. You make your deliveries to the kitchens at Windward. You had no business wandering about the grounds. Unless of course you fancied a pheasant for the pot?”

“I’m no poacher. Besides, it wasn’t on the grounds. It was not far from that barn, the one that’s burned down since.”

That was all I could draw from him.

I turned to Simon, who said, “Mr. Warren, have you considered? It was Matt, in your cart, who saw the drunken soldier. It’s possible that the man with the revolver thought it was you—and tried to kill you. If he realizes his mistake, he might come after your son.”

“Here, what sort of person is it you’re after?” he asked, alarmed. “Is he shell-shocked? Is that it?”

“He’s capable of killing,” I said. “That’s the problem, you see. We want to find him before someone else is hurt.”

Mr. Warren pushed his chair back and began to pace. “You aren’t telling me this folderol just to frighten me, are you?”

“I’m afraid not.” It was Simon who answered. “Why do you think I’m accompanying Sister Crawford instead of an orderly?”

He stopped pacing, looking out the door toward the mill. “There was someone in the old barn. It’s where the Major went sometimes. Miss Neville doesn’t like it when he wanders, and I slowed the horse, thinking to be sure it was him, not one of the local lads skipping lessons, before sending word to her. And then he fired, whoever he was. If it hadn’t been for the horse taking me home, I’d have been lying there in the road until someone discovered me. I’d never heard of the Major coming as far as the road to do his shooting. But there’s a first time for everything. He’s known to wander. But he was never armed then.”

“And you never saw a face—a uniform?”

“He must have been inside the barn, in the shadows cast by the fallen roof. Just a shape in the darkness. I was about to call to him. Then something hit my shoulder hard, nearly knocking me over into the cart, just as I heard the shot. It didn’t hurt at first. Then it felt as if my arm had been taken off. It was bleeding something fierce, and I couldn’t seem to draw a breath.” He flinched at the memory. “I couldn’t think clearly, but I was as sure as I was alive that it had to have been the Major.”

It could well have been.

I stood, ready to thank him and take my leave.

And then he said, half to himself, half to us, “He wasn’t wearing his officer’s cap.” Looking up, he added, “I slowed the horse because I was trying to see who it was in the barn. A shadow, as I told you. But the reason I wasn’t certain, that I was thinking it might not be the Major, is that I’d never seen him without his cap. It covered the bandages over his head, where the hair was still growing out. As if he doesn’t want anyone to notice. And there was no cap on that shadow. Why would he take that cap off in the barn? Did he think he was indoors?”

Only a slim lead—but I was grateful for it.

“Are you certain?” I asked. “I promise you, I won’t say a word to Miss Neville.”

“I am,” he said, gazing from Simon to me. “I’d not thought about it since it happened. It wasn’t something that mattered, was it? But now it makes sense.”

It most certainly did. And the Major’s head wasn’t bandaged now. His hair had grown over the wound.

Simon asked, “Where would this man find a revolver?”

“I don’t know. There’s only the Major I know of, with a revolver.”

The Dysoes, I thought, being such small villages, little more than hamlets, weren’t likely to have produced many officers.

And then Mr. Warren said, “Of course there’s Mrs. Chatham. Her husband died at Mons. He was a career soldier. A Captain.”

The revolver could have come back with the Captain’s belongings. Boxed up by someone in his unit and sent back behind the lines to be returned to the dead man’s survivors as soon as possible. And if the Captain had purchased his own revolver, as some officers did, it would belong to his family like any other possession.

“Where can we find Mrs. Chatham?” I asked.

“Chatham Hall. That’s in Lower Dysoe. Up the lane that comes into the main road just by the old tithe barn wall. The house had belonged to her husband’s parents, and she came back to live there in 1916.”

Mons had been one of the first battles of the war and it had been fought by the British Army regulars. A fierce, last-ditch effort to keep part of the German Army from taking the coast road. Many a brave man died there.

We thanked the miller and walked back to the motorcar.

“How do you ask a widow if she knows where her late husband’s revolver is?” Simon asked as we settled ourselves in the motorcar.

“The question really is, how could someone just passing through Lower Dysoe discover that she possessed one?”

“There’s that,” Simon agreed. “Do you think in his erratic wandering, the Major left the revolver in the old barn? It could have been used, and then returned to where it was found. Who would notice, unless Findley was accustomed to checking how many shots were left?”

“It’s possible, of course,” I said as Simon drove out of the miller’s yard to the main road. “But can we trust his memory?”

Clouds were gathering to the west, dark and ominous, and a wind was rising. Ahead of us, just past the gates to Windward, I saw a well-dressed young woman walking briskly toward Middle Dysoe, a market basket in either hand. They appeared to be heavy. As we came nearer, I remembered having seen her in Upper Dysoe a few times.

“We ought to offer her a lift,” I said, watching the clouds racing toward us. “She’ll be caught in the storm.”

Simon slowed, and I spoke to her.

She hesitated, then cast a worried eye toward the storm. “It’s kind of you to ask,” she said.

Simon put on the brake and came around to help her set the baskets in the rear seat. He was just closing the door when we heard the first low rumbles of thunder.

We’d hardly reached Middle Dysoe when rain came down in hard driving drops that struck the windscreen and splattered. The rounded hills that surrounded us echoed the thunder, making it difficult to tell how near it was. But the lightning flashed across the windscreen with a brightness that made me blink.

“Where can we set you down?” I asked over the roar of the rain. In that same instant, lightning flashed blue and thunder followed hard on its heels. “Or perhaps it would be better to wait until the worst has passed.” Wind rocked the motorcar, whipping at the words.

Our passenger looked out at the sky. “It’s very bad, isn’t it? Perhaps a few minutes . . .” She let her words trail off.

Looking out as the rain swept through Middle Dysoe, moving in a curtain down the High Street, I couldn’t help but think the village had an air of timelessness about it. As if we could have come here a hundred—two hundred—years ago and it would have looked much the same. And a hundred years from now, it would have hardly changed at all.

We had pulled to the side of the High Street, and I saw that the shop next to us was a small bakery that was no doubt one of Mr. Warren’s many customers. There were half-empty trays in the window, and by this time of day most of the loaves would have been sold. There was one lonely round loaf next to a half dozen fruit tarts, and even as I watched, a hand moved into the window from inside the shop and took away three of the tarts.