by Charles Todd
Reluctant to stop looking, I went through the pages again, and this time I found Mrs. Travis’s name. She had used the Florian Agency once, and here the notation was. But it offered no more information than I already knew: False heirs.
With a sigh I handed it back to Vera Caldwell and she restored it to the boot, adding the stocking to help conceal it once more.
“A waste of time,” she said, her voice sad. “But I’ll contact the Agency, ask them what to do with these belongings.”
“What were you hoping to find?” Simon asked me.
I shook my head. “I don’t know. Whatever it was that Mr. Spencer saw in the solicitor’s? I expect he thought he had time to write it down. Little did he know.”
Mrs. Caldwell looked from Simon to me. “Do you really believe Mr. Spencer would break into a solicitor’s office?”
“Mr. Ellis doesn’t look well,” I said, pulling my gloves on again. Sitting still here on the cold pews had let the chill creep up from my toes to my hands. “Perhaps he’s worried, or there’s something weighing on his mind.”
“He’s overworked. He’s not been able to replace his father. I expect that now the war’s over and men will be coming home, he’ll find someone suitable to bring into the firm.”
But I thought it was more than overwork that afflicted Mr. Ellis. Tuberculosis, for one thing, especially if he’d been wearing himself down trying to cope with clients on his own.
I said to Mrs. Caldwell, “Thank you for this. We were on our way to the surgery ourselves, and it was better that you approached them. Any request on our part might have seemed unpleasant curiosity.”
“Poor man,” she said, closing the valise and snapping the latches. “Thank you for freeing me from that awful cell last night. I could hardly sleep, remembering how it smelled. I’m sorry the Captain had to stay there. Can you do nothing for him?”
“I don’t know,” I said, giving her the truth.
“I think I can see why James liked him,” she said with a sigh. “He was very angry about getting caught. But he was even more worried about me. I found that very touching.” She picked up Mr. Spencer’s coat and hat, then reached for the valise.
“I’ll take that for you,” Simon offered, but she shook her head.
“No, it’s best that I take it to the Vicarage myself. Michael has one of his headaches this morning, and I don’t want to distress him. But thank you.”
Still, he reached for it and carried it as far as the porch door, opening her umbrella and handing that to her before giving her the valise as well. She walked out into the rain without looking back, and I wondered if she was wishing she had never hired Mr. Spencer.
Simon put up our umbrella, and we walked back down the lane toward The George.
Halfway there, I said, “I just remembered something. When we were working with Mr. Spencer while he was lying there on the floor at the foot of the stairs, do you remember what he said?”
Simon frowned, thinking back to that evening. “He was on his way down to ask what time dinner was served.”
“Then he said something about to see if there was time to go out—and then he stopped, and said, ‘I forget.’ But that’s why I always assumed he was on his way out to The Hall, to see Mrs. Travis. With the church almost next door to the inn—and large enough to be seen as Mr. Spencer was coming into town—he wouldn’t have said ‘out to the Vicarage.’ He would have said ‘up to’ or ‘across to.’ And yet it was Mrs. Caldwell who’d hired him, not Mrs. Travis.”
“Mrs. Travis had dealt with the Florian Agency before. He knew that.”
“What made him lie about how he’d reached Sinclair? And why would he be on his way to Mrs. Travis?”
“He knew something that he believed she ought to be told.” Simon looked down at me. “Now all we have to do is find out what that is.”
“And Mr. Spencer is dead, and can’t tell us.”
We reached the inn and went up the stairs. When I opened the door to my room, the cavalry rose from a chair by the fire, where he must have been waiting patiently for me to come back.
“I didn’t know you were here,” I said, hurrying across the room to greet my father. “And what have you done with your motorcar? I didn’t see it out front.”
“It’s in Bury, with a fellow officer,” the Colonel Sahib said, bending down to kiss me. “He dropped me here to wait for you. You look tired, Bess. Sit down and tell me, please, why you needed my help?”
“I didn’t send for you,” I said, laughing, “but I’m very glad to see you.” I hurried to the door and went across the passage to fetch Simon, and he greeted my father with some relief.
“We’ve hit an obstacle where we needed the big guns,” he said, propping himself on the windowsill. “Nothing less would do. And time is running out.” Then, together, Simon and I told my father about Captain Travis.
He listened as he always did, interrupting only to clarify a point or to ask for more information.
When we’d finished, he looked from Simon to me, then said, “Well. It’s a very good thing I brought Major Davison of the Medical Board with me. Your mother told me the Wiltshire clinic had come to the house looking for Captain Travis. I wasn’t quite sure how he could have reached Suffolk from Wiltshire, but on the off chance, I came prepared. I expect we can deal with the issue of his head injuries, but murder could be beyond even my abilities.”
I smiled. The cavalry indeed.
“Do you think this man is in need of medical care in a clinic?” my father asked, serious now. “Is he delusional still, thinking he’s seen a dead man trying to kill him?”
“I don’t believe he is delusional. He saw what he thought was the truth, that James had tried to kill him, not once but twice. Put yourself in the Captain’s place. He hadn’t been told that James was dead. And there seemed to be a conspiracy of silence when he tried to discover what sector James was in. Everyone told him there was no such person. Even when he described James, they shook their heads. They couldn’t see the likeness he’d seen. He refused to believe the medical staff when they tried to tell him James was already dead. He thought they were lying to him too. It must have seemed that everyone was protecting James for some reason.”
The Colonel Sahib turned to Simon. “What do you make of him?”
“I wasn’t certain at first, sir. But I’ve come round to Bess’s way of thinking. It’s likely that the Captain was already beginning to face the truth about Lieutenant Travis, but the memorial in the church was the final evidence. And that speaks well for his sanity.”
“But he still thinks he was singled out and shot,” my father said.
“He gave me an account of both attempts. I couldn’t find fault with them.”
My father nodded. “Then I expect our first step is to see that he isn’t dragged back to Wiltshire. Or that threatening to send him back can’t be used to coerce him into pleading guilty to murder. We’ll worry about the charges against him later.”
We collected our coats. As we came down the stairs to go out to the motorcar, Betty was peering from the dining room door. My father was an impressive figure in his uniform, tall, remarkably attractive, his dark hair just touched with silver, and with that air of command that comes from handling men for most of his adult life.
I could imagine the tale she would carry round the village. And our standing in her eyes must have soared. I hid my smile. It would do us no harm if she told everyone that someone from the King’s own staff had come to Sinclair.
As my father turned the crank and Simon got behind the wheel after opening the rear door for me, the bells at St. Mary’s struck the hour.
We were silent most of the way to Bury. We found Major Davison just coming out of a pub, speaking to several men who wore the uniform of the wounded. He hailed us and got into the rear with me.
A slight man with a long face and fair, wavy hair, he greeted me warmly and said, “Your father sang your praises all the way to Suffolk. But he needn’t hav
e done so. I’ve known a few of the doctors you’ve served with. They were always pleased to have you working with them.” Turning to Simon, he added, “And how is the shoulder, Sergeant-Major?”
“It’s fine, sir. I’ve had no problems with it.”
“Happy to hear that.”
Simon had been seriously wounded at one point, and this must have been the doctor who had cleared him to return to duty.
We stopped in front of the police station, and the Colonel Sahib gave the Major a brief account of what had happened.
“Shell shock is the very devil to treat,” he said, nodding. “Can’t fault the staff, but you can see their view of the case. Well, we’ll soon have the Captain out of their clutches and back in the field.”
We got out, and my father led the way into the station, striding in as if this were a field command and he’d been sent by HQ to have a look.
The Sergeant at the desk rose, staring.
“Good day, Sergeant,” the Colonel Sahib said briskly. “I’ve come from London with one of my medical officers. I wish to see Captain Travis, if you please.”
The Sergeant frowned. “Sir. He’s not called for a doctor,” he said, trying his best to take charge of the situation.
“He’s an Army officer, he’s been wounded in the line of duty, and I have the authority to determine whether he’s fit to return to his regiment or if he’s still convalescing. Which way?”
I could see the choices running through the Sergeant’s head. Should he find his own superior, or allow the Army to see the prisoner? I realized this must mean that Inspector Howe wasn’t in—a piece of luck for us.
“Well? I haven’t all day. I’m expected back in London tonight.”
A Colonel with a full entourage standing in front of him barking orders won the day.
The Sergeant reached for his keys and said, “This way, sir.”
He led us back to the cells, and I saw, when we got there, that the Captain hadn’t been allowed to shave. For fear of cutting his own throat or someone else’s?
My father held out his hands for the keys. “The Major can hardly examine him from here.” The Sergeant was a brave man. He stood his ground for all of a handful of seconds, then passed them over. “Thank you, Sergeant, you have your own duties to attend to. I’ll have the Sergeant-Major call you when we’re ready to leave.”
With all of us crowding in, it was already tight quarters in this small space where a turnkey could sit and guard his prisoners. And at this point, there was nothing more the Sergeant could do. He turned to go, shutting the outer door to the cells behind him.
Captain Travis was standing there, and I could see the alarm in his eyes. He thought the clinic had discovered where he was. And then he recognized my father.
I stepped forward, keeping my voice low. “Hallo,” I said. “I’ve brought my father and someone from the Medical Board to see if they can help you.”
Some of the tension drained out of the Captain’s face as the Major, receiving the keys from my father, opened the cell door. “Step out here and let me have a look at you.”
After the briefest hesitation, Captain Travis said, “Sir,” and did as he was told.
Talking to him about his war, Major Davison proceeded to examine the prisoner, and I waited outside while he looked at the wound in his back. When I returned, a general air of satisfaction greeted me.
“That back needs several more weeks to heal properly,” the Major was saying to my father. “I won’t say he’s damaged it since leaving the clinic, but it hasn’t been well served. As for the head injury, in my opinion it has healed nicely, and any problems that might have been caused by it have been resolved.”
Captain Travis was listening closely.
The Major turned to him and added, grinning, “If they don’t hang you, you’ll live to a good old age. When you’re out of here, I’ll send you to a clinic in Surrey that does wonders with wounds like yours. Meanwhile, I’ll write to Wiltshire and tell them I’ve examined you and find you are neither mad nor delusional, and no longer assigned to their care. Will that do?”
“Yes, sir, it will do very well. Thank you, sir.”
“Now, tell me about Barbados. I’ve never been to the islands, but my brother-in-law was posted in the Bahamas for a time.”
Captain Travis glanced at me, then turned back to the Major. “I had photographs of my home. They were taken from me in Wiltshire. But I can tell you it’s truly a bit of paradise, unless Atlantic storms roll in. And then it can be a struggle to survive. Our house is more or less sheltered, and we’ve been fortunate.” He went on describing his life there, and Major Davison asked questions about how rum was made.
Clearly enjoying the conversation, he suddenly remembered where we were and said, “Well. Thank you, Captain. I found that interesting. When I write to the clinic, I’ll ask for the return of your belongings, and in particular those photographs. Bloody-minded fools.”
Simon and my father had been standing to one side, their arms folded, like a pair of bookends. I’d thought, more than once, that Simon was the son my father had never had. Two tall men who had made the Army their lives, and seen the best and the worst that such a career could offer. They had been marked by it, bore the scars to show for it, and yet had never lost their humanity.
We were just turning to go when the door thundered back on its hinges, and Inspector Howe came striding in.
He found three men in uniform, a nursing Sister, and a prisoner who had just stepped back into the confines of his cell. But the door was still open.
“What the hell is going on here?” the Inspector demanded. And this time it was the Major who addressed him.
“The Colonel and I have been examining my patient. He’s still recovering from a serious wound, and he’s still an officer in the British Army. If you have any objections to me doing my duty, you can take it up with the War Office. Good day, Inspector.” And he handed the keys to Simon, then marched past the Inspector and his Sergeant, who was standing just behind him in the passage.
Simon was closing the cell door and turning the key in the lock.
Inspector Howe turned on me. “This is your doing. You’re lucky I haven’t locked you up with him, you interfering—”
He got no further. My father had stepped in front of me, his face like a thundercloud, and Inspector Howe’s red face began to pale.
“Whatever you have to say, you say to me. Sister Crawford is an officer in the British Army, and I’ll have you reduced to constable if you forget that again.” And then he ushered me past the astounded Inspector, and Simon, as angry as my father, walked by him, fists clenched.
Inspector Howe hurried after us but kept his distance, and said only, “I have a duty as well, to see that justice is done for a man found dead in Sinclair. And this woman has frustrated me at every turn.”
My father turned, and Inspector Howe stepped quickly out of reach.
“Then perhaps you should rethink your case, Inspector. If it’s this fragile, it will never stand up in court.”
And then we were out of the police station, and I heard my father clear his throat. I knew he was making an attempt to control his anger.
Turning to Major Davison, he said, “Where have you left the motorcar?”
“By The Angel,” he replied blandly, as if nothing had happened. “I’ve missed my lunch. We might as well dine there, don’t you think? I want to hear more about this dead man.”
Chapter 20
I found myself repeating what we’d told my father, but a shorter version.
We were sitting at a table in a side room commandeered by my father, and so Simon and I could speak freely.
“Yes, well, it seems to me that this murder has nothing to do with Captain Travis. Not the man I saw earlier.”
“But from the point of view of the Inspector, both the Captain and the victim are strangers. The village will be happier with that solution too. No one has connected Mr. Spencer with the break-in at t
he solicitor’s, and Mr. Ellis won’t cross Mrs. Travis by supporting the Captain. She won’t either, and after Inspector Howe had to take the Vicar’s wife into custody, even if only temporarily, the Vicar will side with Mrs. Travis. If the Inspector needed more proof, there are the papers that Mr. Spencer was carrying. They seem to give the Captain a very strong motive, to protect his inheritance.”
“Reminds me of my time in Africa,” the Major said musingly. “I saw people who were told they’d been cursed, and no amount of reason could save them. I doubt you’ll be able to reason with these people either, or change their minds. Well, I wish the Captain the best. I’m just sorry I couldn’t do more.”
I said to my father, “I have to return to France, and I’m sure you don’t have time to stay here and make certain the Captain has a fair trial. I was wondering if Cousin Melinda could be persuaded to help?”
The Major’s eyebrows went up. “Melinda Crawford? Is she related to your family? Good God. Half the General Staff knows her. I heard General Haig claim that if Mrs. Crawford had stayed with Gordon in Khartoum, it wouldn’t have been such a debacle.”
My father nearly choked on his wine, claiming it had gone down the wrong way. Simon busied himself with his knife and fork.
I barely managed to keep a straight face, saying only, “Let’s hope she’s as successful with the Captain.”
We had lingered over our meal. I was enjoying my father’s company, especially knowing that in all likelihood I’d have to go directly to London from Suffolk and leave for France without returning to Somerset. I could only wish my mother were here as well. The three men had turned the conversation to the last days of the war. Our silverware, the salt cellar, and the sugar bowl were pressed into service, and then our cups and glasses formed divisions and reserves. I was the Belgian border and Simon was the Channel coast.
We were deep into discussions of the political situation in Germany when I looked up to see that the restaurant was nearly empty, the woman who had served us waiting patiently for us to finish talking.
