by Charles Todd
Not jealousy, then. But I could hardly ask him that.
“Are you in serious danger of being taken up on charges of murder?” I put down my cup and looked directly at him.
“I don’t know. That’s what worries me, Sister—Bess. The people out here are entirely different from everyone in the valley. They see matters differently. Rachel tells me they wouldn’t call in the police, but I’m not as sure about that as she is. It’s almost as if they want to drive me out. To my face they’re distant, but not actually unfriendly. I sometimes wonder if it would all go away if I just left.”
“And you didn’t recognize the body on the beach? It wasn’t someone from the village?”
“No. Both Rachel and I also saw the body. It wasn’t anyone either of us knew. But the problem is, we’d lie about that, wouldn’t we? We’d deny that it was Tom. He wasn’t a frequent visitor out here—he was working, and Rachel usually came to see her parents on her own. But they were married here, and surely the local people would have known it wasn’t Tom. Couldn’t have been.”
“What did the police have to say? Or the Army? Surely if it was one of theirs, they’d know he was missing.”
“Apparently not. The rector told us that inquiries had been made. But neither the police nor the Army came out to have a look at the body.”
I didn’t want to say the words aloud. That the dead man was someone like Hugh and the other Welsh soldiers, someone who had been released from a clinic and was no longer the concern of the Army. But surely the police would have looked into a suicide?
As if he’d read my thoughts, Hugh added, “He wasn’t an amputee. For all I know, he fell off a passing ship or went over one of the cliffs out here.”
I was beginning to agree with the Captain, that the local people must not care for strangers. Alive or dead. I was about to ask who had claimed the body when Rachel tapped at the door, then stepped into the room.
“It’s rather late,” she said, looking from the Captain to me, “and there’s still the long drive in the dark back to Swansea. Perhaps I ought to ask Mr. Griffith across the way if he could put up Mr. Morgan. He’s the only one with a spare room. But we have a guest room, Bess. We’d be happy to have you stay with us.”
I couldn’t tell if she was sincere in her offer or hoping I’d protest and be on my way.
The Captain smiled at her. “That’s very kind, Rachel. Bess, will you stay? I can’t promise a London dinner, but Rachel has made a fine stew.”
He hadn’t asked permission to call me by my Christian name, but I didn’t say anything about that.
“I don’t wish to impose. I came to see if you were well, and if your wound had healed properly.”
Rachel smiled. “We so seldom have guests this time of year. It will be a treat. And if there’s anything you need to borrow, I’m sure we’ll manage.”
I thought about that long drive in the dark over the ruts and uneven places in the road, and finally said, “If my driver is agreeable . . .”
“I’ve asked him. He’s tired, he said, and is willing if you are.”
“My valise is in the motorcar. I wasn’t sure how long it would be before I found you.”
Before the Captain could volunteer, she said, “I’ll ask him to bring it in when I go across to speak to Mr. Griffith.” She hesitated. “May I call you Bess too? It seems so formal to use Sister Crawford when there are only the three of us.”
“Yes, please do.” I could hardly say no, but I wondered why she was so willing to be friendly.
“Then it’s settled. Hugh, will you keep Bess company while I see Mr. Griffith?”
I thought he was as uncertain as I was about her willingness for me to stay. Then I realized she might want to watch us together . . .
“I’m willing to pay for his lodging,” I told her. “If that will make a difference to Mr. Griffith.”
“Is there anything that I can do to help?” Hugh asked.
“No. It will only take a moment.” She closed the door, and I heard her leave.
“We’ve had no guests. Not since I’ve been here. But she keeps the extra room ready.” He looked toward the windows, rattling now in the wind. “Her parents sometimes took in paying guests in the summer. That was after Rachel and her brother had left, of course. Not many holidaymakers come this far, and they don’t seem to stay long. There’s no place to shop or bathe. Rachel has talked of opening an inn, to make the farm more viable. If I stay on. She believes that there might be an upsurge in the holiday trade.” There was doubt in his voice.
I wondered if she had suggested the inn as a way to keep him here.
It was settled. Mr. Griffith asked rather a steep price for taking in Mr. Morgan. Reading between the lines, so to speak, I got the distinct feeling that he wanted no part of a guest, but because he had a spare room, he couldn’t very easily get out of it under the circumstances. According to Rachel, he’d been put out when I agreed to the sum without arguing.
“It will do him good,” she said, smiling. “He lives alone, and he’s got so set in his ways that everyone has noticed. He probably won’t sleep a wink for fear Mr. Morgan might abscond with the silver. On the other hand, Mr. Morgan might cheer him up a bit.”
I had my doubts. My driver had been polite enough on the drive out from Swansea, but he was hardly gregarious. If anything, he was more likely to persuade Mr. Griffith that in the future, loneliness was preferable to a guest, whatever the sum offered.
Still, I smiled with her, but when I looked at Hugh, his expression was grim. I wondered if Mr. Griffith had believed those rumors, and Hugh wanted no part of being in debt to him.
After a very filling dinner of lamb stew in a thick crust and steamed dried apples, I said good night to my hosts and Mr. Morgan, pleading fatigue. But what I really wanted to do was to write a letter to Simon that could be posted for me in Swansea. It had been a quiet meal, for we hardly knew each other and could only make general conversation. I thought my driver was glad to escape, for he bade everyone a good night too, and left at the same time.
It was a comfortable room, the “guest room,” small but cozy under the eaves. What in many houses of this size would be the Nursery. The two larger bedrooms were next to each other, and I wondered if that had fed the rumors. It was still not considered proper for a single man and a single woman to live together in the same house, brother and sister-in-law or not. But the war had changed many things, and this was one of them: the need for people to depend on someone other than their families, which had been so common in the past. There were usually aunts and uncles and cousins about to turn to in emergencies. Now women like Rachel had to make do.
Chintz curtains were hung at the small window, matching the chintz on the chair, and besides the narrow bed there was a tall chest with drawers. A curtain pulled across an alcove served as the wardrobe, and I hung my coat there. On the floor was a pretty rag rug of the type that one often saw in country cottages.
There was no large table at which to write my letter, but I had paper and a pen with me. The truth was, I hadn’t told my parents that I was taking leave to travel into Wales. I’d expected to be back in England sooner rather than later, and then I could spend at least a few days in Somerset. The problem was, I’d had no idea just when that would be. Now I knew. I’d reach Swansea tomorrow and might even be lucky enough to find a late train to Cardiff, and then from Cardiff to Bristol. Simon or my mother could meet me there and drive me home. If I had the letter ready to post as soon as I got in to Swansea, it would arrive in Somerset in good time.
No need to worry anyone with any mention of a desolate coastline or of bodies washed up in the little bay or a man rumored to be a murderer sleeping next door to my room.
After thinking about it for a good ten minutes, I finally settled on a rather vague message.
Simon,
I’ve taken a brief leave from the clinic to look in on a patient who has had a very difficult time after several of the men from his village fel
t that suicide was more bearable than losing a limb. He was their commanding officer, and he had done his best to give them hope, to no avail. He is at present living with his widowed sister-in-law in the village out on the peninsula south of Swansea. Quite a different world, Wales, but it is very beautiful out here. Now my task is finished, my patient seems quite settled in here, and I shall be arriving in Bristol in two days’ time, on my way home for a bit. It would be lovely if you or my mother could meet me in Bristol. I’ll send a word as soon as I know which train and when it will arrive. If neither of you is there, I’ll find my own way to the house, never fear.
Satisfied that there was nothing in the letter to worry anyone at home, I signed it and found an envelope for it—during the war I made certain I always had stationery so that I could stay in touch with my family and friends. Then I realized that I had no stamp with me.
Well, that was hardly a problem: I could find one in Swansea.
I sealed the letter, tucked it in my handbag for the morning, then prepared for bed.
I was tired. The journey to the valley and then out here had been long and difficult. The loss of hope in men I’d known, men I’d done my best to help heal, cheering their victories and commiserating with their defeats—and there had been too many of those as they’d learned to cope with their wounds—had dampened my spirits more than I was willing to admit. The war was over. The dying wasn’t.
I opened the curtain as soon as I’d blown out my lamp and looked out at the night. I could just see where the land ended, the darkness of the sea beyond melting into the night sky so that it was impossible to tell how broad the bay might be or how high we were.
I could see something moving out there, to my left. As my eyes adjusted to the ambient light, I realized that a dozen or so sheep were penned closer to the house, and I wondered if they were ewes about to give birth. Most were just white lumps where they had lain down in the shelter of the pen wall, while a few moved about, as if restless. I could just make out to my right the end of the cottage across the way, and the gleam of starlight on the metal of Mr. Morgan’s motorcar.
Finally turning away, I climbed into bed. Rachel had thoughtfully given me a small hot water bottle to cut the chill, since there was no hearth in my room, and I stretched my toes gratefully toward the warmth at the foot of my bed.
It wasn’t long before I slept. I woke up with a start about an hour later from a dream that the pit tip was sliding down toward me and, try as I would, I couldn’t run fast enough to get clear of the inexorable horror that was on my heels. Quite literally. For I could even hear it.
And then I realized that Captain Williams was coming slowly up the stairs, his crutches making a low thumping sound. I heard Rachel say from the foot of the stairs, “Sleep well, Hugh.”
A dog gave a soft, excited bark, and the outer door opened and closed as she took the two of them out for the last time.
The male was a working dog, and he’d taken his place on a pallet set out for him in the kitchen while we ate our meal. The female, with more white on her face and throat, was younger and a little more excitable, but even she had settled after a word from Rachel.
The Captain’s door opened and shut, and ten minutes later, Rachel came back with the dogs, walked them through to the kitchen, and shortly afterward came briskly up the stairs in her turn, closing her own door.
The house fell silent but for the sound of the wind rising outside, and I soon drifted into sleep once more, this time without dreams.
Early the next morning I awoke to the sound of rain lashing at the window, but clouds had obscured the dawn, and it was still so dark outside that I couldn’t judge the hour. I reached for my little watch, lying on the tiny table by my bed, and was startled to see that it was nearly seven. In the room next to mine, I could hear the Captain humming, presumably as he shaved. It brought back memories of the Welsh patients singing at Christmastide.
I stretched one more time, then got up, washed my face, and brushed my hair before putting on a fresh uniform. It was wrinkled but clean.
When I came downstairs, Rachel already had the cooker heating nicely, and the kettle was on the way to a boil.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, greeting her. “I’m usually awake well before this.”
She smiled at me over her shoulder. “I wouldn’t know what to do if you offered to help. I’m so used to doing everything for myself.” She glanced at the windows as a particularly hard burst of rain beat against the glass. “Not a very pleasant day for travel. The roads will be impossible.”
“Mr. Morgan is not a great one for conversation, but he’s a good driver. We’ll manage.” We’d had to raise our voices a little over the sound of the rain. I could see it blowing sideways before the wind, sheet after sheet sweeping across the headland. “Is such weather common out here?” I asked.
“Yes, there isn’t anything but water between us and the Bristol Channel. The storms sweep across, gathering strength, then break over us. Still, it helps us stay mild enough to farm and keep animals. Cattle are still driven from here into Swansea. The old drover roads in Wales were famous. They even drove goats and geese. And they made them special shoes to wear, to protect their feet. I saw a pair on display once.” She bent down and took a pan of bacon out of the oven.
That explained the state of the road yesterday. More hooves than wheels must pass over it regularly.
“Where do you go from here?” she went on, setting the pan where it would stay warm. “Are there more names on your list of patients?”
“Sadly, no. But it means I’ll be able to spend a few days at home before returning to the clinic.”
“Hugh tells me that only one of the men who went back to the valley is still alive. It’s upset him rather badly.”
“I’m sure it has. I didn’t want to give him such news, but he asked. Is he any stronger since he came here, do you think?”
I needed to know. And I was asking about his mental attitude as much as about his physical well-being.
“I think so. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but the air here seems to have given him a better appetite. And he feels the need to be useful, which is a good thing in my view.” She frowned. “His sister wanted him to keep to the house and mind the children. I know she had her hands full, but I think she also resented the fact that Tom and Hugh escaped the pits. Her cousin has been ill, and that’s worrying for her as well. During the war, Hugh had his pay sent to her, and Tom did what he could. But it’s never enough, is it? Not with small children. Still . . .”
She let her voice trail off as she finished slicing the bread. I thought she might be feeling a little guilty that she was benefiting from her sister-in-law’s loss. I also wondered how much Rachel had had in common with her valley husband’s family. In outlook, in language, in heritage, so very different. I’d noticed that she hadn’t used the sister’s name, she hadn’t said, Poor Ahnhaireid. Or Mary.
Changing the subject, she said, “Hugh’s taken the dogs out to have a look at the ewes. They’re clever at finding shelter in all kinds of weather, but this is near to lambing time for some of them. And so we keep those close in.” She paused on her way to the pantry. “I worry about him, I’ll be honest. That wind is fierce, I don’t see how he stays on his feet. But I can’t tell him that, can I? He insists on doing whatever he can to help me, and he manages his crutches well enough. I mustn’t say anything, it would be wrong. But the ground is uneven, and it’s so easy to fall. I’m convinced he has, a time or two. I see the signs on the back or shoulders of his coat, and I turn a blind eye.”
“He needs to test the limits of his ability for himself,” I agreed as she brought back a bowl of brown eggs. “Otherwise, he’ll feel useless. And hopeless.”
“All the same, it’s hard to watch him struggle.” She began to set the table. “Was he close to those men back in the valley? He doesn’t talk about them at all, and this too I’m afraid to ask him. When he wrote to me about coming, I had the strongest fee
ling that he was close to sinking into a depression. And of course his sister never writes. Which means I can’t ask her anything.”
“Yes, they were very close. He’d known them before the war, and he’d got most of them through the war. He took their deaths hard. I’m glad he isn’t back there, to be honest.” I told her what I’d learned. “Sadly we can heal wounds but not spirits. There was so little work waiting there for men who had lost limbs. They couldn’t go back into the pit. And pity is the last thing they wanted. Or charity.”
She turned to look out at the rain. There was a kitchen garden just beyond the windows, and I could see wide puddles standing here and there. “I wasn’t offering either pity or charity when I asked Hugh to come. I truly needed all the help I could find. But this is such an out-of-the-way part of Wales, men don’t come here looking for work. I love it, of course. Many people wouldn’t. For Hugh, I think it’s as far from the valleys as he can get.”
She went again to the pantry to fill the little pitcher with milk for our tea, then said, “I thought that being away from daily reminders of those men would be enough.” She hesitated, then went on. “But there have been rumors. Did he tell you? They’ve troubled both of us.”
“I can’t understand how they got started.”
“Nor do I. That man on the strand was not Tom. I’m as certain of that as any wife could ever be. But if Hugh or I had killed him, we’d be sure to say that, wouldn’t we? And there was no identification to prove who he was. Poor man. No one ever claimed the body.” She looked up at me, wanting to read in my face that I believed her.
I wondered if the man had chosen the sea as a cleaner death than leaving his body for his family to find.
“There were no—wounds on the body?”
“He’d been in the water. And the fish . . .” Shaking her head, she said, “It was rather ugly. But Tom was taller, like Hugh, and this man was more compact. Even that was hard to judge. Still, looking at him, I didn’t feel anything, not even a doubt.”
I’d seen drowned bodies. The water took so much away that had once been familiar.
