by Charles Todd
But the handwriting on the envelope wasn’t of the same quality. It was an angry scrawl, heavy black ink, addressed to The Hall, Sinclair, Suffolk. It had been posted in Wiltshire. Yesterday.
I lifted the flap of the envelope, and with some trepidation pulled out the heavy square of fine paper. It was embossed with a frame, inside which the invitation would be written in elegant script by the hostess.
Instead the heavy black ink was dashed across the space, and I had no trouble reading it.
I have earned the right to know the truth.
I stared at it for a long moment. I had never seen the Captain’s handwriting. But who else in Wiltshire could have sent such a message to her? I looked up into Mrs. Travis’s face.
“Defend that, if you can,” she said coldly.
I passed the square to Simon.
Captain Alan Travis was still alive.
I didn’t know what to say.
“He bears no grudge against you,” I said finally as Simon returned the message to her. “He wants to know why his own life has been made a misery. He feels he is owed some explanation. He may believe that the place to begin his search is here, in Suffolk.” My excuses sounded lame even to me. Why hadn’t he waited for me to come back to Wiltshire?
“I have no obligation to this man.” I could find no compassion in her face or in her words. If I had lost my only son, could I be so callous about the fate of another woman’s child? But then, she believed that Captain Travis was trying to take The Hall from her.
There could be no meeting of minds over that. I could protest, tell her that he didn’t need her home, that he had his own on an island of warm breezes with the glint of the sea never far away. But I was not Alan Travis. And she would have no reason to believe me.
I said, “I didn’t come here to hurt you. Or to disturb the peace of Sinclair. I needed to learn if your son was really dead—not missing, not a prisoner. Impossible to have shot at the Captain, because he himself was a casualty of this war. I’m returning to London. It’s for the best now. Good-bye, Mrs. Travis, thank you for meeting me. And I am grateful, Vicar, for your help in arranging this.”
Neither of them spoke. I turned away, had in fact taken half a dozen steps, when a thought occurred to me. Far-fetched, but it might tell me something I’d like very much to know before we left.
Turning, I asked, “Mrs. Travis. I wonder. Do you know a Mr. Spencer?”
Her expression remained unmoved. The name meant nothing to her.
“Do you have any idea what the Florian Agency is?”
The look of shock on her face then left me staring, trying to work out what it was I had said.
“How do you know about this Agency?” she demanded, taking a step in my direction. “Tell me.”
“I—it was on a card that I saw. The card was in possession of the man who recently fell down the stairs of The George. I called at the surgery to see how he was healing.”
She glanced at the Vicar, who shook his head, and then she turned back to me. “Why should he have such a card?”
“I don’t know. But scribbled in one corner was the name Ellis, Ellis and Whitman.”
Her face paled. “And, pray, what do you know about this Agency?”
“Nothing. It meant nothing to me—I thought it might be an agency for hiring staff.”
“It’s a consulting firm,” she said finally, and I could see that she was not at all pleased. “I have used it twice. Once to look into the background of a certain young person, and once to search for my husband’s next of kin.”
A detective agency? It was my turn to be surprised. “But surely your solicitor could have seen to that for you.”
She was silent then, her lips a thin line. Mr. Caldwell shuffled uneasily.
Simon, just behind me, said, “You don’t trust Mr. Ellis, do you?”
Chapter 14
When Mrs. Travis still didn’t answer, Simon went on softly, “I wonder why.”
Watching her, I saw her make the decision. Without consulting the Vicar, she said, “Did you bring your motorcar to this meeting?”
“I did, yes,” Simon answered her.
“Mine is in the drive at the Vicarage. If you will follow me to The Hall, we can speak more comfortably there.”
Turning on her heel, she walked back to the porch door and disappeared, Mr. Caldwell hurrying at her heels.
I said to Simon, “Do you think we should do as she asked?” I was still dealing with the fact that Captain Travis was alive. And I wasn’t sure why she had suddenly invited us to The Hall.
“It might be enlightening.”
“Then we’ll go.”
We waited in the lane for the motorcar belonging to Mrs. Travis to lumber out of the Vicarage drive and lead us to the main road and thence to The Hall. It was being driven by an older man, and I wondered if this was the intriguing Miss Fredericks’s father. I wished she could look at her cards and tell me how to save Captain Travis.
Simon kept a bit of distance between his motorcar and theirs, giving Mrs. Travis time to arrive at our destination before us.
When we came up the drive, her motorcar was nowhere in sight, and The Hall’s door was shut.
Getting out, I said, “You might want to leave the motor running.”
Simon smiled. “I’d thought of that.”
We went up the steps to the door and lifted the knocker. I half expected no one to answer. But almost at once a maid greeted us and showed us to a pretty morning room done up in shades of lavender and cream.
Mrs. Travis was waiting for us, standing in the center of the room. The Vicar was seated to one side. A lamp had been lit, deepening the lavender walls here, brightening them there. Outside the windows, there was an older man up a ladder, trimming a hedge.
“Please, be seated.”
Simon and I took the chairs she indicated.
“I want to know more about this man who fell at The George.”
“His name is Spencer. He claimed he’d come up from London, but there was an omnibus ticket and schedule in his coat pocket, not a railway ticket.” I hesitated, uncertain how much to reveal.
“We had just returned to The George,” Simon added. “When I went up to the injured man’s room to bring down his coat and valise while Dr. Harrison was preparing to take him to the surgery, the valise fell open. In it were papers to do with Captain Travis. The letter was on stationery belonging to a Bury solicitor, Ellis, Ellis and Whitman. We learned later that evening about a break-in there.”
She regarded him for a moment. “A break-in? I hadn’t heard. But yes, Ellis, Ellis and Whitman were my husband’s solicitors, and therefore are mine. I’m afraid I don’t much care for the present partner. He’s—more modern. That’s why, when word came that my son had been killed, I wrote to a family friend in the War Office, to ask that this dreadful news be verified. I refused to believe—I was convinced there had been some mistake. But it was true.” She turned to watch the man working in the garden. “There was a memorial service, and afterward I agreed to hear my son’s will.” Mrs. Travis faced us again. “It’s somehow so final, you know. A will. You can imagine my astonishment and horror. I couldn’t believe James had left me to the mercy of that branch of the family.”
“He hadn’t confided in you what he intended to do?” I asked.
“James was in France, at the Front. I trusted him to make the proper dispositions. His father’s death had been distressing for both of us, and James knew his duty. Or so I thought. It makes no sense, what he did.”
“Who would you have had him choose?” It was Simon who spoke then.
“I don’t know.” She got up and walked across the room, straightening a frame that was already perfect. “There was a distant cousin. Carlton Travis. He was killed some months ago. And of course there was the boy at Eton with James. Oliver Masters, from Cheshire. It seems his mother was a Travis. At any rate, he called James ‘cousin,’ and James went to visit the family in Chester. There must
be some connection, although my husband was never certain just how far into the past it was. James saw Oliver again in France. He told his father about it in one of his letters. I would have been happy enough if my son had decided to name Oliver as his heir. The connection is slight, but I could have accepted that. It would have kept The Hall in the family, tenuous though the bloodlines are.”
But people change. War changed men. James must have seen something in the grown Oliver that put him off. It was the best reason I could think of, if the two boys had once been friends.
“Did Oliver come to Suffolk?” I asked. “Did you meet him?”
“He was invited, of course, but his mother was ill, and I expect he knew her time was short. She died soon after he left Eton. James and his father went to the service for her.”
“Where is Oliver Masters now?” Simon asked.
“Still in France, surely? I’ve asked Mr. Ellis to find him, but he’s made any number of excuses. He tells me he’s tried, but I think he believes that nothing can be done about Alan Travis inheriting.”
The will would have to be set aside.
“And the Florian Agency?” I asked.
“Ah. There was a young Frenchwoman who came to my door. She had a child with her, and she told me the little girl was James’s daughter. I didn’t believe her. James would have said something. And I thought the child a little too young. The mother claimed she was small for her years. Mr. Ellis was inclined to believe her, but I went to London and applied to the Florian Agency. They discovered the mother had left France at the start of the war. And so she couldn’t have been at Ypres in April of 1915, when she claimed James had rescued her from the Germans.”
“But who put her up to such a thing?” I asked.
“Florian couldn’t discover that. The young woman herself finally confessed that she had been given fifty pounds to come here, but she didn’t know who had found her in the first place, or paid her the money. It had all been arranged by post. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to seek out a Frenchwoman of the right age who had a small child and was presentable enough to make me believe my son had had a liaison with her and intended to marry her. The Agency informed me that such schemes are sadly common with so many men dead, and so many grieving families willing to believe.”
“It was a nasty trick to play,” I agreed. “And a dangerous one. You could have had her taken up for what she did.”
“Not with the child, I couldn’t have done that,” she said, in the first sign of softness she had shown. I was beginning to see that she was a remarkable woman, one who took matters into her own hands when her family was being threatened. She wasn’t a Travis herself, but she was prepared to defend their heritage in the only way she believed she could.
She was saying, “And I have used Florian to find out what they could about Alan Travis. There has to be some explanation for his hold over my son. He has to be another of these schemers, who saw his main chance. I’m determined he’ll never set foot in this house. Not while I live.”
“Have they found out anything so far?”
“Now that the war is over, they’ve agreed to send someone to Barbados.”
I said, “This brings us back to Mr. Spencer. Have you visited him, Vicar?”
He started, not prepared to be called on. “I had no reason to, before this. I inquired of Dr. Harrison, of course, if the poor man wished for spiritual comfort or if I could do anything for him. I was told that Mr. Spencer was not well enough to receive visitors, even from the clergy.”
Mr. Spencer was afraid. And with good reason, if he’d been attacked.
“It’s odd that he hasn’t made any effort to contact me,” Mrs. Travis commented. “The Florian is discreet, but if he’s so badly injured, surely he would inform the London office and they would send someone else. And why does he have papers belonging to Mr. Ellis regarding Captain Travis?” She turned to the Vicar, worry dawning in her face. “What if he’s a solicitor representing the Captain? The war is over—that man might have hired someone to present his claim while he’s in hospital. But why should he have Florian’s card?”
“It’s more likely he’s up to some mischief,” Mr. Caldwell agreed. “He might have called on them to see what they knew about you. They’re a very well known firm. They would have turned him away, but he would still have their card.”
But when would the Captain have found a solicitor? He’d been wounded—had come home to go directly to the clinic, and he’d been there ever since. Besides, he believed James was still alive . . .
Someone pretending to represent him? He’s in hospital, Mrs. Travis, and I am authorized to handle this matter for him . . .
“I can’t believe he knows the Captain,” I said slowly. “If he’s not from Florian, then he’s another charlatan looking to take advantage of you.”
Mrs. Travis turned toward a table with photographs and for a moment looked at them with affection and longing.
“When my husband died, the Times carried a tribute to him from a friend. He was interested in stamps, you know. Philately. And he owned some of the finest early examples. He left his collection to the British Museum. They were very pleased to have it.” She turned back to me. “We received a number of letters after that. Asking us to support good causes. Or to help those in need. I turned them over to Mr. Ellis. He said all but three were frauds.”
“Did he help those who weren’t?”
“With my permission, yes. And—anonymously. I didn’t care to find myself deluged with new requests. It isn’t a matter of charity. These were strangers. There are more than enough people needing my support here in Suffolk.”
“I’m sorry that our presence has made your circumstances more painful,” I said, preparing to leave. “I never intended that to happen.”
She rose, and I thought she was about to see us out, an unexpected courtesy.
But she crossed to the bell and pulled it, then turned to us. “I think we need something more than tea.”
A maid came to the door almost at once. “The drinks tray from the drawing room,” Mrs. Travis said. “Thank you, Annie.”
When it came, Simon accepted a whisky, and I chose a sherry, as did the Vicar. Mrs. Travis, to my surprise, preferred gin.
“Tell me about Captain Travis,” she said as she handed me my glass.
“There’s very little to tell. Is that a photograph of James—in the silver frame?” I added, pointing to it on the table. “There’s a fleeting resemblance, surprisingly. Around the eyes, I expect.”
“How does he sound?”
“Sound? His accent is no different from yours.”
“He grew up in the islands. What about his education?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, thinking hard. “He never mentioned it. He isn’t—ignorant,” I added. “Nor stupid. He’s as well spoken as anyone who has been to university.” I wanted to add that he could hold his own with her and Mr. Caldwell, but I refrained.
It seemed that she might be relenting in her attitude toward her son’s decision, but then she said, “You can speak freely, Sister.”
“I have tried,” I told her. “I have no desire to tell you lies. What I do feel is that someone must find a way to help the Captain before it’s too late. An act of kindness. After all, he is related to you; he’s not a stranger asking for charity.”
“And what about you? What will you gain from this fierce support of a man you hardly know and I have never met?”
“Peace of mind. I became a nurse in an effort to do something about the suffering in this war. Just because Alan Travis isn’t on the table with a gaping wound in his body, it doesn’t mean that he isn’t in anguish.”
“There’s a problem, Sister. If he is in this clinic, being treated for head wounds, I will have a better chance of convincing a court that he can’t inherit. And I will see to it that he never leaves that clinic.”
Stunned, I stared at her. Finding my voice at last, I said, “Wouldn’t it be simpler fo
r him to refuse to accept this inheritance?”
Mrs. Travis shook her head. “People don’t walk away from such a fortune. He will see the good he can do with it in the islands. Or he may sell it, lock, stock, and barrel, and walk away. This land has been in my husband’s family for generations. I won’t preside over its dissolution.”
“Vicar?” I asked, pleading.
“My hands are tied,” he said quietly.
I set down my glass and glanced at Simon. Whatever he read in my face, he rose too. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Travis. I’ve taken up enough of your time.” I started for the door.
“What are you intending to do?” she asked in alarm. “What do you want from me? What will you take to drop your support of this man and go back to your nursing? There are other wounded who need you. He’s not the only one.”
It was so insulting that I didn’t dignify her proposition with an answer. I simply walked out of the room, Simon behind me. Our coats were lying over a chair by the outer door, and I took up mine, not even stopping to put it on.
The cold hit me as I stepped into the motorcar, and I shivered. Simon turned the crank, then got in beside me.
“Bess?” he said quietly.
“I had such high hopes,” I replied, not looking at him for fear I might cry.
“I know.”
“Take me back to Wiltshire. I’ll find Captain Travis, if he’s still alive, and ask the Colonel Sahib to intervene somehow. It’s all I can think of to do, just now.”
“It’s for the best,” he agreed. And then, as if he couldn’t stop himself, he added, “Damn the woman!” under his breath.
It was early—we’d decided to go down to dinner straightaway and use the evening to pack. There was only one other party in the dining room, celebrating a birthday. I counted twelve in the family. Grandparents, what appeared to be aunts and uncles, and a pretty little girl of three in a child’s chair, watched over by beaming parents. I thought perhaps this was the father’s first chance to share his daughter’s birthday, for he was wearing a corporal’s uniform, and one arm was still in a sling. He had very little use of it, but no one minded. There was much laughter, and once I saw the young wife touch her husband, as if to make certain he was really seated next to her. Watching them lifted my spirits. Heaven knows they were in the depths.
