by Charles Todd
Inside, Simon asked for two rooms, and then we settled down to wait. I ordered tea, more to warm myself than out of hunger, and Simon asked for sandwiches for himself and a bowl of soup for me.
“We might have to move quickly,” he said. “Just as well to eat while we can.”
And then there was nothing we could do but be patient.
The tea trade had come and gone. I’d seen them in the pretty room to one side of where we sat in a nook just off the bar. There was a fire on the hearth beside us as well as one in the little tearoom, and I watched one of the girls who had been serving bring in more scuttles of coal for the dinner trade. Meanwhile, the bar was filling up, men talking and laughing, occasionally casting curious glances in our direction. The serious drinking wouldn’t begin until later, but already the talk was growing louder as the taps were kept busy.
I looked at my little watch for the seventh or eighth time. The hour hand seemed to be moving faster now. It was already close on six, and even on foot two people walking to Clare should have arrived by now.
“What has gone wrong?” I asked Simon in a low voice.
“Give them time. They might not have been able to come directly here. Much will depend on when Howe arrives from Bury.”
The church clock struck six. And then the quarter past, the half, and still no sign of them.
“We can’t leave. It would be our luck that they arrived by a less direct route, just after we drove back to search for them.”
“It will be all right. Be patient.”
But that was growing more and more difficult. During a lull in the conversation at the bar, as men went home to their dinners and before the post-dinner drinkers arrived, I heard the church clock strike seven.
By seven thirty, I knew something was wrong—had known it, truth be told, since we set Mrs. Caldwell down to go after the Captain.
“They could have had to hide, if a search was going on,” Simon told me, forestalling my next question.
“I don’t think so. Mrs. Caldwell was so certain she could do this.”
He was silent. Seven thirty. We’d got here a little past four thirty.
I reached for my coat. “I can’t sit here any longer. Something has happened, and we need to know.”
Simon, whose chair had a better view of the door, said, “Bess.” It was a warning, and I turned quickly to see a very worried Vicar step through the door and search the bar.
Simon rose, and Mr. Caldwell, only a little relieved, hurried over to where we were now standing.
“What is it?” I asked before he could even draw breath to speak.
“My wife has sent me. She’s in Bury. The dogs in the house next but one to Mrs. Horner’s tea shop began to bark. Ill-trained little terriers, but it’s a sharp bark, and it drew the attention of Inspector Howe, who had just arrived. Travis was already out the kitchen door, and he was moving so quietly that Vera missed him somehow in the dark. Howe found him first, and Vera reached them just afterward. Needless to say, Inspector Howe has taken the Captain into custody.” He looked from Simon to me. “How did you drag my poor wife into this? Did you tell her that this was what James would have wanted? What have you done? I can’t bear to see her cry.”
Distraught as he was, it took us a quarter of an hour to calm him enough to ask him questions. Apparently Mrs. Caldwell had insisted on being taken to Bury as well, and Inspector Howe, in no mood to deal with what he thought was a troublesome woman, not only took her to Bury but put her in another cell for aiding and abetting the escape of a murderer.
Sister Potter had gone to find the Vicar, met him on his way back from The Hall, and told him what had happened. He went directly to Bury, and his wife told him where to find us.
“But surely they won’t keep her,” I said. “And what about Sister Potter, have they dragged her into this as well?”
He sighed. “They couldn’t prove that Travis had come from her house. They had no grounds to hold her. That had already angered Howe, and by the time he encountered Vera—my wife—he was in no mood to show anyone any mercy. Look, you’ve got to do something. You got her into this, you must go to Inspector Howe and tell him that she was misguided and just trying to help.”
He looked to be at his wits’ end. Dusty from traveling from the village to Bury and then to The Swan, exhausted, worried, and afraid for his wife, he was beyond reasoning with.
I said, “Of course we’ll go at once to see that she’s set free. I’m so sorry, it shouldn’t have ended this way.” It was sheer bad luck, but he didn’t want to hear that. “But first, would you like a sherry—tea? It will help.”
“No, no, I couldn’t swallow anything, not with Vera in a cell. It smells, it’s filthy. It’s no place for my wife.”
Simon helped me on with my coat, took up his own, and said, “The motorcar’s just outside. But I must settle our account. Go on, and I’ll follow.”
I urged Mr. Caldwell to come with me, and after a moment’s uncertainty, he did. I got him in the rear seat and went to turn the crank. Then I climbed into the driver’s seat.
The Vicar was craning his neck, trying to see through the windows, looking for Simon.
“We took rooms. We thought we were on our way to Kent. He’ll have to deal with that as well as our tea,” I said, resisting the temptation to peer through the windows as well.
And still no sign of Simon.
The Vicar already had his door open and was about to get down when Simon finally appeared, his face grim.
He gestured for me to move over, but I shook my head. I’d driven his motorcar before and I was going to drive it now. His mouth tightened into a thin line, but he didn’t argue. He picked up the vicar’s bicycle, leaning against one of the flower boxes by the windows, found rope in the boot, and quickly lashed it in place. Another man had come out of The Swan just behind him, setting off at a trot in the opposite direction. I started to say something to Simon about him, worried that he might be on his way to the police. There was no reason to think he was, but by this time I was truly worried. Anyone could have overheard the Vicar and taken it into his head to go for help.
Simon stepped into the motorcar, I dealt with the clutch and the brake, and we were moving at a good clip past the church and to the turning for Sinclair.
After a moment, Simon asked me, “Do you remember Major Inglis?”
I blinked. It was unexpected, and it took me several seconds to realize what Simon was telling me.
Major Inglis had been in command of a troop of cavalry that my father had sent for to help put down a rising in one of the villages near the Khyber Pass.
I smiled, realizing that Simon had just told me that he’d sent for the cavalry. I didn’t know how he’d managed it, but then I remembered. This village had a train station, and there must be a telegraph office as well.
“What does Major Inglis have to do with this matter?” the Vicar asked, suspicious.
“Nothing,” I said. “Except that he was a very brave man, and the Sergeant-Major is trying to keep my spirits up.”
I drove with speed, but also with care. Once, I heard the Vicar start to say something and then think better of it as we rounded a bend in the road a little too fast. It was a dangerous stretch, I remembered that too, and slowed a bit.
We reached the outskirts of Bury, coming up the hill and around buildings that jutted out in our way, making it necessary to swing around them. And finally I saw the police station.
I didn’t draw up in front but went past and around the corner. There I pulled over and said, “We can walk back.”
We stepped through the door of the station and saw a Sergeant just coming out of a door on our left.
It was the Vicar who spoke first. “My wife. I’m here to see her.”
“Yes, sir, if you’ll just come this way.” He glanced at us, and I knew that Inspector Howe hadn’t expected us to come here. The Sergeant hadn’t been forewarned.
I said, “And I should like to see Captain
Travis, if you please. I’m the Sister assigned to his care.”
“And the Sergeant-Major?” the Sergeant asked.
“He’s here to see that I come to no harm.”
The Sergeant went away and came back with a ring of keys, then led us toward the rear of the station.
There were only three cells beyond the locked door we had just passed through. And two were occupied. Mrs. Caldwell started to speak. Just then her husband came through the door after Simon, and she turned to him.
Captain Travis had the makings of a very nasty black eye, and there was a scrape on his chin.
“My goodness, Captain, whatever shall I tell Matron?” I said, before he could greet us.
Wary now, he said only, “They took exception to my efforts to escape.”
“I shall make a note of that. Matron will not be happy—”
Behind me I heard the Sergeant close the outer door—and although I listened carefully, I didn’t hear him turn the key.
Relieved, I said softly, “And how are you?”
“Well enough. I almost made it, that was the damnable thing. But the dogs belonging to one of the houses I was passing heard me and set up a racket. I tried to move away, but there was a locked gate in the next back garden, and I had to go around. The pity is, I saw Mrs. Caldwell coming from the other direction, and I thought she must be one of the pursuers. I was moving away from her when the police caught sight of me and gave chase. I don’t know how the Inspector got there so quickly. He must have been on his way, and Constable Simpson intercepted him.”
Mrs. Caldwell had soothed her husband, and she called to us. “I wanted to be sure they didn’t strike him again. The Inspector can’t keep me. I have asked to see the local Vicar, claiming I was arrested under false pretenses. He’ll speak to the police.”
“How did you explain being out there?” I asked.
“I was searching for my cat. She was frightened by a passing lorry, and she hasn’t come home.” Her eyes twinkled. “Fortunately they didn’t search the rectory, or they would have found her asleep on the hearth rug.”
Mr. Caldwell told her that it was wrong to lie, and she said, impatient with him now, “Yes, I understand, my dear, but surely you wouldn’t wish my little escapade to reach Mrs. Travis’s ears. It’s all a very sad misunderstanding.” She glanced toward the door, as if half expecting the Sergeant to be listening on the other side. Lowering her voice, she said, “They haven’t discovered that Mr. Spencer had come to Sinclair to see me. I hired him to find out about Captain Travis. But he refused to send for the Vicar, and so I had no idea that he was in the village to make his report. I thought—well, I thought he must be passing through on other business. I’d never met him, you see, and his wasn’t the name I’d dealt with when I contacted the Florian Agency in London.”
“Vera—” the Vicar protested.
“Yes, well, Margaret Travis was refusing to do anything, and that man Ellis was too weak to face her down. And so I did what I could.” Tears filled her eyes suddenly. “How would you feel if it were Nigel’s last wishes, and someone refused to address them, much less carry them out?”
“Nigel is dead, my dear,” he said, infinite sadness in his voice. “He never went to war, and I thank God every day that he was spared that horror. James isn’t your son, he never was.”
“Of course he wasn’t,” she said, her voice thick with tears, “I always knew that. But he was a measure, you see. A measure by which I could remember Nigel, and think, ‘He’d be as tall as James . . . He would be good at cricket like James . . . He would stop and admire my garden, just as James often did.’ It was a comfort to me. You had your God, and I had James.” She buried her face in her hands then, her shoulders shaking, and the Vicar couldn’t reach her to console her.
The door opened and Inspector Howe strode in. “Quite a gathering, I see,” he said. “Good evening, Sister Crawford. Sergeant-Major. Tell me why I shouldn’t unlock these and put you inside as well.”
“I should like to hear the charges,” I said before Simon could come to my defense.
“I’m sure you would. Interference with the police in pursuing their duties, to start with.”
“Did you find Captain Travis in Sister Potter’s house?”
“I did not, but it was clear he’d just left it.”
“Can you prove that he was in Sister Potter’s cottage? Did you find any evidence to show that he had come from there or was headed there?”
“No, but he wasn’t far from it.”
“Nor was he far from Mrs. Horner’s tea shop and several other dwellings. Mrs. Caldwell tells me she was close by where you found the Captain, but if you ask her, she will give you her word that she had never met Captain Travis until you found her searching for her cat at the same time you were searching for him. When I stopped to say good-bye to her, she was in the church, arranging greenery for services. If you don’t care to believe me, go there and look for yourself. The holly is only half-trimmed.”
“Sister,” Mr. Caldwell warned, his tone indicating that it wasn’t my place to challenge Inspector Howe.
I wanted to tell him to speak up for his wife rather than criticize me, but there was too much at stake to upset him.
“Is this true, Mrs. Caldwell? That until the encounter in the Brentwoods’ back garden you had never met or spoken with the Captain before?”
“I give you my solemn word, I had not.”
So far we had spoken only the truth, if not the entire truth, except for the matter of the cat.
And then Mr. Caldwell said reluctantly, “The cat does roam. Mrs. Brentwood has a female from the same litter, and they are friends.”
Faced with such corroboration, Inspector Howe gave up. I don’t think he particularly cared to have a Vicar’s wife in custody. He called to his Sergeant and had the door to Mrs. Caldwell’s cell unlocked. She cast a grateful glance my way as she stepped across the threshold and said firmly, “Thank you, Inspector Howe. I am happy to see that justice prevails.”
But there was nothing I could do for the Captain. Not yet. I heard Simon offering to drive the Vicar and his wife back to Sinclair, and for a moment I thought Mr. Caldwell was about to refuse him. It was late, and cold, and his bicycle was not comfortable for two. Finally he said, “I thank you, sir,” as if he’d just been offered his choice of poisons.
As they started through the door, I had an opportunity to speak quickly to Captain Travis. “Don’t worry.”
But I could see his face clearly, and behind the exhaustion lurked the very real worry that before I could do anything to help him, he would be brought up on a charge of murder and sent back to the clinic in chains.
The four of us drove in an uncomfortable silence back toward the village. It had begun to rain, a chill and penetrating rain, and as it beat against the windscreen, I thought about what lay ahead. For me, for Captain Travis.
The two men were riding in the front, staring straight ahead. In the darkness of the rear seat, Mrs. Caldwell reached out a hand and clasped mine. Her fingers were cold—I don’t know what had become of her gloves—and I put both of mine over hers to warm them a little.
And then, as if she’d found courage in the touch, she said to her husband, “You must know, if the police in Bury charge Captain Travis with the murder of that poor man in Dr. Harrison’s surgery, I shall expect you to do your very best to see that he’s set free.”
“Vera. I can’t do that. Mrs. Travis will be furious with me if I even try. Our son is buried in the churchyard of St. Mary’s. I don’t want to be forced to leave this church. Please understand. It would be more than I could bear.” He turned his head a little, to look toward her in the dimness of the rear seat. “What is this man to you? You swore you’d never met him. Was that a lie?”
“It was not,” she said firmly.
“Then why do you care so much?”
“I have mourned Nigel in my own way.”
“Yes, with this unhealthy obsession with
James Travis.”
“What is unhealthy about watching my son’s best friend grow up, and wishing I could have seen Nigel at the same age? His life didn’t stop for me when we lowered his casket into the ground. The little boy I lost would have been a man now, and now the only mirror I had of what might have been, of what he might have done, if he’d lived, has been taken from me. This is a mother’s grief, my dear, not obsession.”
“Yes, very well,” he said, goaded, “but you have no reason I can think of to support this Captain Travis. I won’t allow it, do you understand?”
“Very well. You leave me no choice. If the police charge Captain Travis with the murder of Mr. Spencer, I will go to Bury if I have to walk there, and I will tell them that they have arrested the wrong person. That I killed Mr. Spencer myself. After all, I had hired him. And that I can prove.”
Chapter 18
There was an electric silence in the motorcar. It was as if the world beyond our headlamps didn’t exist, as if the farms and cottages along the road, an uneven pattern of squares of light in the darkness, were only a backdrop to the misery in our midst.
I thought Mrs. Caldwell was crying softly, and I found a handkerchief to offer her. The Vicar seemed to be struggling with his shock, his duty to Mrs. Travis, and a wife who had suddenly become a person he no longer knew.
“I fail to understand you, Vera. To go behind my back and interfere in Mrs. Travis’s affairs is unconscionable. I still can’t believe you contacted the Florian Agency. This just isn’t like you.” His throat was tight, and his voice came through the constriction with a harshness that must have cut his wife to the quick.
She sighed. “It would have been all right, if he’d just told you who he was looking for. But then you never got to speak to him, did you? He refused to see the local Vicar, unaware that you were Mr. Caldwell. I had no idea who he was, everyone thought he was just passing through the village. I expected something by post, I didn’t know the Agency had sent someone to speak to me in person. And so I never got his report.”
