A Forgotten Place

by Charles Todd

  Instead, there was a woman wearing a cape, her face hidden as she tried to maneuver a half-conscious man through the door and toward the front room.

  I ran to help Rachel and the woman, and we managed to get the man into the front room, down on the rug, flat on his back. We were breathing hard from the effort it had taken.

  Rachel fumbled for the matches and lit first one lamp and then the other.

  By this time I was kneeling by the man. And Hugh had dragged himself out of the kitchen to the parlor door. I glanced up to see him slumped against the frame, his face drawn from the effort he’d made.

  In the lamplight my hands were dark with blood, and there was so much blood on the man’s face that I could hardly tell where most of it was coming from.

  But I could see—quite clearly—that he’d been badly beaten.

  The woman spoke, and I realized for the first time that it was Ellen Marshall.

  “He didn’t come back—he’d gone for a walk. I went out to see—and I found him like that.”

  “Did you see who it was that did this?” I asked.

  Rachel said, as if waking from a dream, “Clean cloths—warm water,” and hurried from the room. Hugh clumsily got out of her way.

  I’d got the man’s scarf off, unbuttoned his coat, and pulled his collar away from his throat.

  He moaned once, but I thought he’d been moving in and out of consciousness for a while. In fact, it was a miracle that Miss Marshall had got him here at all.

  “Did you see who did this?” I asked her again.

  “No. He was lying in the middle of that wretched lane that runs down to the cottage. Hardly a road, is it? I thought he was dead—he just lay there, not moving, not answering me.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how I got him into the motorcar. It was all I could think of, getting help for him. There must be some blood in his throat. He was choking on it . . .” She broke off.

  His nose was most likely broken, his lip split, bruised cheekbones would turn his eyes black, and a flap of skin hung down into his eyebrow, still bleeding copiously.

  I had no idea how many blows to the body there had been.

  I opened his coat, got the woolen jumper under that off him, and opened his shirt.

  Ellen made a sound as if to stop me when I leaned forward to see more clearly.

  His chest was rapidly bruising, and his shoulders as well.

  She turned away. “Please God, don’t let him die out here.”

  Hugh was still in the doorway, there was no sign of Rachel, and the woman had hardly moved.

  I got up, found the little porcelain jar that held the long matches, and took one of them to light the fire. It was cold in here, and even with the fire burning, I would need pillows, blankets. I didn’t think this man was going anywhere tonight.

  Returning to his side, I asked Ellen, “What’s his name?”

  She hesitated.

  “I must call him something.”

  “It’s Oliver.”

  Rachel came down the passage just then, a tray in her hands. There were clean rags in a small heap, a basin of warm water, and some sticking plasters.

  She brought the tray into the room, flinching a little as she saw the man was half-dressed, and set it down to my hand.

  “A pillow—blankets—and Miss Marshall could use a cup of tea. Captain, perhaps you could help with that.”

  Rachel said, “I’ll just go upstairs . . .”

  And Hugh turned, walking back to the kitchen.

  “You must have some idea why this man was beaten so badly,” I said as I began to wipe away as much blood as I could. “What had he done, to incur such anger?”

  She had moved away, toward the window and the darkness outside. I could hear the rattle of the glass as a gust of wind came up from the sea.

  “I don’t know. Nothing—nothing like this has ever happened on my visits.”

  I remembered the sound of a chair’s leg scraping the floor in another room as she kept me standing on the doorstep, while I asked her for a lift back to Swansea.

  “He’s staying with you? Oliver?”

  “He came down. It was to help me with something in the cottage. Something I couldn’t do on my own.”

  I thought, judging by how upset she was, that Oliver was possibly more than just someone who came along to help in the cottage. His clothing was good, not that of a laborer she might have hired. A friend?

  I remembered too that she was a widow.

  “Has he been here before?”

  “No—no, I generally come alone.”

  “Then he would have no enemies here.”

  I had got the worst of the blood cleaned off his face, put pressure on the flap of skin to try to stop fresh bleeding, then used plasters to keep it in place. The nose was broken, I was sure of it now, but not displaced, and the bruises on his upper body were the size of fists.

  I noticed as I cleaned and closed the flap of skin that there was grit in it, as if Oliver’s assailant had struck him with a stone, in the hope of taking the fight out of him, and then administering what was little short of a severe beating while his victim was too dazed to defend himself.

  Had the same man who had attacked Hugh also attacked Oliver? But whoever it was, he couldn’t have mistaken one man for the other. Both attacks must have been deliberate . . .

  Rachel was back with an armload of bedding, blankets and sheets for the floor, pillows and pillow slips.

  I turned to Ellen. “You might help Mrs. Williams make a pallet for Oliver. And then we can roll him over on it.”

  Ellen looked surprised, as if she hadn’t expected to be asked to work. But she took off her cape, knelt on the floor, and proceeded to help Rachel as I’d asked.

  I was worried about my patient having been unconscious for quite so long. And so I began to speak his name as I worked. I wasn’t certain about his ribs, but they had taken a battering, and they could be broken. There was a healed wound in his side, the rough scar running from back to front from his ribs possibly to his hip. It looked like shrapnel. He’d been in the war then, although he was dressed in civilian clothing tonight.

  When I examined his hands, I saw bloodied knuckles. Oliver, I thought in some surprise, had put up a fight. Was this why he’d been brutally beaten when he stopped being able to ward off his attacker?

  Oliver’s eyelids flickered. They were already swelling, but they opened, he jerked wildly, and then he slid into the darkness again. I was sure he thought he was lying in the road and his attacker was still here, waiting for him.

  After a moment, his eyes opened again, and he lay quietly, staring up at me. He hadn’t seen me at Ellen’s cottage door. He’d heard my voice, possibly heard what I was asking. And it was likely that Ellen Marshall had told him after I’d gone what it was I wanted from her.

  And so he knew there was a Sister in the village. He hadn’t asked if he had been taken to hospital.

  That was a good sign. Still, I thought he might well have a concussion. It would bear watching.

  I had nothing with me to tend to such wounds. But keeping them clean and keeping the patient warm and in bed would do until he could be driven to Swansea for a more thorough examination.

  Thinking about that, I said, “If you wish—I understand there’s a doctor in one of the other villages.”

  “He’s better off in your care, Sister,” Ellen answered. “I can’t get him back into the motorcar tonight. It’s beyond my strength.”

  They’d made the pallet bed, and we pulled it to Oliver’s side, and then as I rolled his body onto his side—he cried out at that—we got it under him and then rolled him back on it. I managed to finish the task, and drew the last blanket up over him.

  Rachel said, “I’ll fetch the tea.”

  She came back with the tray, two cups, the teapot, milk jug, and a little jar of honey. Pouring one for Ellen, who had gone back to the window, staring out, Rachel took it to her. Ellen thanked her. And then she brought the second
cup to me, already containing milk and honey, the way I took it at breakfast and dinner.

  I’d washed my hands as best I could in the bloody water in the basin. Taking the cup, I drank a little, and watched Oliver’s eyes follow me.

  “Not yet,” I said gently. “Your lips have only just stopped bleeding.” And they were already swollen.

  “Did you see who did this?” I asked.

  His voice was light when he spoke, higher than Hugh’s. I thought possibly he was younger as well, but couldn’t be sure.

  “It was dark.”

  “You were set on?” I asked.

  But he didn’t answer that.

  “Have you seen that man before? Could you identify him again, if you saw him?”

  “Don’t know.”

  But if Oliver’s knuckles were anything to go by, there might well be some bruises that spoke loud enough to identify the face if not the name.

  I was still perplexed by two attacks in one evening. I’d thought I guessed who had come after Hugh. But why would he then walk down that wretched road and attack this man?

  I couldn’t believe he’d simply run mad. It didn’t make sense.

  Getting up, I set my teacup on a table, collected the bloody rags and the basin, and went to the kitchen to dispose of them. Then I washed my hands properly.

  Hugh was watching me. I knew what he wanted to ask. But he’d lied about what had happened to him, and he didn’t know quite how to get around that.

  Keeping my voice low, I said, “He tells me he didn’t know his attacker. I don’t know whether he did or not. Miss Marshall says he hasn’t been down here before. That she usually comes alone. If that’s true, then he may also be telling me the truth. But he defended himself. And from the look of it, someone will be bruised tomorrow.”

  “As a rule, she doesn’t bring anyone with her. At least so Rachel has told me.” He hesitated. “Is he well enough to go?”

  “No. I expect they’ll have no choice but to spend the night here.” A gust of wind followed by the sound of rain hitting the house seemed to reinforce what I was saying. “I can’t see how we can get him back into Miss Marshall’s motorcar.” I was reminded of something else. “I keep forgetting. She was married. Is it Mrs. Marshall?”

  “Out here she’s always been Ellen Marshall. I’ve never heard Rachel call her anything else.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. Do you need anything?”

  “No.”

  The bruise on his jaw was dark enough now to be noticeable. I thought that might be why he was staying clear of the parlor. When he was standing in the doorway, it hadn’t been visible, and I thought he intended to keep it from Ellen. He didn’t want to answer questions.

  It occurred to me that Hugh had been about to go into the front room and attend to some matters. Or find a comfortable place to sit? “Hugh. Can you manage the stairs?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then we’ll make you a bed in the weaving room. It might be for the best. And it’s warm enough in there.”

  “Don’t fuss.”

  “I’m not,” I told him briskly. “I’m facing facts. Unless you want to share the parlor with Miss Marshall and Oliver, you don’t have much choice.”

  He considered that. Finally, he looked up and his gaze met mine. I kept my own as bland as I could. “It might be for the best tonight. Tomorrow I’ll be fine.”

  Tomorrow he was going to be stiff and possibly in pain. But I let it go. “I’ll go to your room, collect the bedding, and come back down.”

  I did as I promised. As I passed the front room I heard voices. Rachel’s and Ellen’s, in conversation. From the few words I heard, I gathered they were discussing where she was to sleep, for I heard the words chair and pillows.

  I got the blankets and sheets from Hugh’s bed, caught up the pillows, and hurried back down the stairs, moving as quickly and quietly as I could.

  There was silence from the front room, and I found that Rachel had gone back to the kitchen, bringing the tea things with her.

  She looked up as I came in, her face showing her surprise at my burdens, and then she said, “Hugh?”

  “This shoulder is a little stiff from my fall,” he said quietly. “I thought it best not to try the stairs.”

  “A good idea. The weaving room?” She turned, opened the door, and went ahead of me to light the lamp. Together we made up another pallet on the floor, this one on the pretty rag rug. Hugh was just there in the kitchen, and we couldn’t say anything that wouldn’t have been overheard.

  As we worked, she asked, “How badly hurt is Miss Marshall’s friend?”

  “I’m not sure. But he’s better off here, where I can keep an eye on him. Do you mind dreadfully?”

  She took a deep breath. “Not really.”

  But I knew she was being polite.

  When I went back to the parlor to look in on Oliver, I found Ellen Marshall wearing her cape and preparing to leave.

  “If you could spare an umbrella?” she asked. “Although from the sound of it out there, much good will it do me in this wind.”

  “You’re leaving?” I thought I’d heard Rachel trying to persuade her to stay.

  “My grandfather’s cottage is standing wide open. I must go back.”

  “Are you sure it’s safe?”

  “I have the motorcar. It’s not as if I must walk. Besides, I’m used to the weather out here.”

  “We don’t know why Oliver was beaten. Whoever it is might be waiting for you in the house. He might not have finished his night’s work.”

  “Nonsense. Besides, there’s a revolver in the motorcar. I can defend myself.” She looked down at the man on the bedding. “I owed it to him to be sure he was taken care of. He’s sleeping a little. I can go with an easy mind.” She glanced toward the windows as they rattled again. I could almost read her thoughts. I’ve stayed too long as it is.

  There was nothing I could do to persuade her, but I was uneasy with her going alone. If anything happened to her, we wouldn’t know until she didn’t appear in the morning. By then it might be too late.

  “I wish you would reconsider—” I began, but she interrupted me.

  “Yes, yes, I understand.” Drawing her cape about her, she looked again at the man’s bruised face. “He’ll be all right. He was in the war, you know.” It wasn’t so much a question as a statement, as if she was trying to will him to be all right. As if surviving France meant he could survive anything.

  I couldn’t help but think she might be right. I’d seen the scar on his side.

  Turning away, she walked briskly to the door. “Please thank Mrs. Williams for her kindness. May I take this?” She reached for an umbrella in the porcelain Chinese stand, its white background standing out in the shadows by the door. And then she had opened it and stepped out into what appeared to be a gale. With rain blowing into my face, I watched her make her way, splashing through the puddles, to the motorcar.

  She had to turn the crank, her cape flapping about her like something alive, tormenting her. And then she was in the motorcar, slamming the door, and as an afterthought, turning on the headlamps. They picked out the driving rain for a moment before turning away toward the road.

  I shut the door quickly, before I was drenched.

  Rachel was coming down the passage. “Bess?”

  “It was Ellen. She just left. She was worried about the house standing open in all this rain.”

  “But she’s coming back? I told her I could make a comfortable enough bed for her there in the parlor.”

  “I don’t think she will.” I drew a breath. “She was glad her friend was all right. She asked me to thank you for helping him. I tried to persuade her, but it was no use. She had made up her mind. She borrowed your umbrella.”

  “But is it safe for her to be out there by herself?” It was the same question I’d asked myself. “That’s to say—after what has happened?”

  Hugh called, hearing our tense voices, “What is
it? Rachel?”

  We hurried back to the kitchen. “Ellen felt she had to go back to the cottage. The storm,” Ellen told him quietly. “Bess couldn’t convince her to stay the night.”

  He tried to rise. “I should have gone with her—let her close up, then bring her back.” But he couldn’t drive. And in this wind, he would have found it difficult on crutches.

  Instead, Rachel said, “I think she wanted to sleep in her own bed. Just as well. She would have been restless here. Worrying.”

  “Still.”

  “We might as well call it a night ourselves,” Rachel said. She looked longingly at the weaving room, but she couldn’t work there tonight. Then, glancing around the kitchen to be sure all was well—Hugh had cleared away our dinner dishes—she said good night and left us there. It occurred to me that she didn’t want to be alone with Hugh. Not yet.

  “Is she all right?” Hugh asked, watching her disappear down the shadowy passage.

  “I think this has been upsetting for everyone,” I replied. “Is there anything I can get for you? Before I look in on Oliver and then go up myself?”

  “No. Thank you, Bess.”

  He fumbled with his crutches, forced himself upright, and crossed the kitchen. “I’ll leave the lamp lit here, shall I? In the event you need something?”

  “Yes, a very good idea.” I wished him good night and went back to the parlor.

  Half an hour later, with rain and wind still lashing at the house, I was satisfied that my patient was stable enough to be left alone. I’d given him a little watered whisky earlier, and it seemed to have helped. Most of his wounds had stopped bleeding, although the one on his forehead was still weeping a little. I dealt with that, asked if he was comfortable, and got a mumbled reply.

  Taking that as an affirmative, I got to my feet and wished him good night. Seeing that there was an extra pillow, I added it under his head, then stoked the fire to keep it burning.

  There was nothing more to be done.

  I went up myself.

  I got to the top of the stairs and hesitated, wondering if I should tap at Rachel’s door. But it was firmly closed, there was no light showing, and I took that to mean she didn’t want to talk. I couldn’t imagine, given everything that had happened, that she was asleep in that dark room. Still, I had to respect her wishes.