A Forgotten Place

by Charles Todd

  I turned toward my own room, closed the door, and sat down for a moment on the bed.

  Taking a deep breath, I tried to make sense of the two attacks.

  What had happened out there today—tonight?

  What had precipitated the attacks?

  Two dead men had washed ashore recently. But I couldn’t see how that had any bearing on the beatings. Unless the rumors about Tom Williams being one of them had prompted whatever had occurred with Hugh.

  It wouldn’t have involved Oliver, surely—he’d come with Ellen, and he was still close by the cottage, not wandering about the village. To attack him would mean walking all that distance. And I hadn’t mentioned to anyone that I suspected there was someone in the cottage with Ellen—indeed, I couldn’t have said whether it was a man or another woman.

  Well. There was nothing more I could do.

  And there was no Constable resident in this village.

  The question was, would Ellen—who had lived in towns, who was accustomed to the police being there to help in such circumstances—insist on making what happened to Oliver a police matter? Pressing charges?

  I could see that tomorrow was going to be interesting.

  At the same time, I couldn’t help but wonder how my own situation might change. If Ellen decided to go back to Swansea or Cardiff, either to go to the police or to take Oliver to better medical care, she might be more willing now to help me—since I’d helped her friend when he needed it.

  Well. That was for tomorrow. I realized I was cold, and I undressed quickly, crawling into bed.

  I was just shoving my bare feet down through cold sheets when I remembered that I hadn’t thought to fill my hot water bottle.

  Neither had Rachel.

  We were both going to spend an unpleasant night.

  Chapter 10

  Rain pounded the headland throughout the night, blowing in the gusts of wind. I heard it off and on, unable to drop into a deeper sleep.

  I was grateful the house was sturdy and weatherproof despite its age. But the window rattled with the worst gusts, bringing me up out of sleep just as I drifted off. Several times I put on my dressing gown and went down to look in on Oliver. I’d have asked the night nurse to do just that, if we were in hospital or a clinic. But he was in no danger that I could see. I couldn’t be sure of his ribs, but he gave no sign that they were affecting his breathing. Cracks would show up in pain later.

  And what of Hugh? He was not spending a very comfortable night. And the bruise on his chin would be all too visible tomorrow. He’d be forced to admit to the embarrassment of a fall, if he intended to say nothing about his own confrontation with trouble.

  But when Oliver came, why hadn’t he spoken up? Was he so certain there was no connection between his battering and Oliver’s? Climbing the stairs in the faint light of the lamp in the front room, I wished I could be as sure.

  Still, Rachel had kept what she might have seen to herself as well.

  More than a little exasperated with both of them, I crawled back into my bed and tried to sleep. In their place, I’d have worried about Ellen going back to the cottage alone and warned her. Revolver or no revolver, she was taking a risk.

  My last coherent thought as I drifted into sleep was that these people out here on the tip of the peninsula were a stubborn lot.

  When a watery gray dawn broke, barely lighting my little room on the southwestern side, I dressed, went quietly down the stairs, and glanced into the parlor.

  Oliver was sleeping restlessly. Not wanting to disturb him this early, I went on to the kitchen.

  Hugh was already up, dressed in the clothing he’d worn yesterday. He started when he heard me coming, then nodded.

  “Can you fetch my razor? And that small mirror?” He looked down the still-dark passage. “I’d rather not wake him with my crutches.”

  “Yes, of course.” I went back, found what he needed, and brought it down, along with a clean shirt.

  “I’ll heat shaving water,” I said, “and make us a cup of tea. How are you, this morning?”

  “I’ll do.”

  Which meant, I thought, that he was hurting more than a little.

  “Is your discomfort with those ribs worse? I can’t see inside, I can’t tell how much they are damaged. Have you noticed any trouble breathing?”

  “No worse,” he answered tersely. When the kettle had boiled, I gave him water to shave, and he took the mirror to the window for better light. I could see then how stiff he actually was, moving gingerly.

  Pretending not to notice, I made the tea, and when it had steeped, poured two cups. He’d finished shaving by then and he drank his tea as if he’d needed it and hadn’t had the energy to prepare it himself. Once, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him massaging his thigh where his leg was missing, as if it was throbbing. Phantom pain—or had he hurt it when he fell?

  “You’ve lived here for a little while. Who would have given Oliver such a beating?”

  “I don’t know. Some of the men aren’t very friendly. But I’ve seen nothing like this since I came. Of course, there’s the trouble over that first body. Still, I had a feeling that had begun as a personal matter, not the village as a whole having a say.”

  “And the rector? Does he help with problems?”

  “He’s a good man, I’m sure. But this is an out-of-the-way parish, the living is barely enough to get by on, and that house, the rectory, is a leaky old place that the local people claim is haunted. I doubt the church tends to send their best priests here.”

  I had to agree. The rector had appeared to me to be a defeated man, not one to stand up for anything in this parish. He upheld the moral standard, and that was about all he could hope to do. A leader of men he was not. A changer of lives he was not.

  I wanted to ask Hugh who had attacked him—and if he thought it was the same man who had encountered Oliver later. But I couldn’t ask. And from his manner, I didn’t think he did believe they were the same person. If there was a madman running loose, attacking people on sight, I had the feeling Hugh would be handling this differently.

  But was he right?

  We had just finished breakfast, and I was preparing a tray for Oliver when there was a knock at the door.

  Rachel went to open it, and I heard Ellen’s voice, then Rachel responding.

  They went into the parlor, and I assumed that the question had been something on the order of how the patient was faring this morning.

  When I took the tray in, Rachel was standing by the window and Ellen was there on her knees by the bedding, speaking to Oliver.

  “But are you sure? I can drive you to Swansea, there’s a hospital there.”

  “No. I don’t want to go to hospital,” he said, his words mumbled through bruised lips. And one eye was distinctly dark, giving him an owlish expression.

  It was hard to judge, with so much swelling and bruising, what Oliver really looked like. He had dark hair and blue eyes, was fairly young, and possibly even attractive, for all I knew.

  It would be some days before his face healed. I’d looked earlier at the chest bruising. I thought he’d been kicked while he lay on the ground, because one place on his ribs was darker, sharper. When I examined the spot, he was uncomfortable but not in dire pain. He’d been lucky then, with his heavy coat and his wool jumper. Just enough padding to prevent a broken rib. But it was going to hurt with every breath, at least for a bit.

  He wanted to get up, dress, and go back with Ellen.

  I told him I thought it was too soon. But in the end, he got his way, and I helped him dress—with more difficulty than he’d been prepared for—and laced up his boots for him. He was pale and perspiring from the effort it had taken.

  There were puddles everywhere, and the wind had a bite to it, as we got him out to the motorcar. Overhead the sky was still heavily overcast, although mercifully the rain had stopped for a bit. The Worm had vanished in a heavier shower out to sea.

  He drew his breath in
sharply as we helped him into the passenger’s seat, and I knew that one particular bruise low on the chest wall was to blame. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Are you sure this is wise?” I asked.

  “I’m here in the motorcar. I might as well go,” he said.

  Ellen was already turning the crank. I closed his door and stepped back, beside Rachel. Hugh had been conspicuous by his absence this morning.

  With a nod of thanks, Ellen drove slowly away, trying to avoid the worst of the jarring as the tires found the ruts.

  Rachel and I watched her motorcar travel on down the steep track toward the coast guard station.

  There had been no mention of summoning the police.

  I found that odd. Ellen Marshall hadn’t struck me as the sort of person who would have let such a beating go. I would have imagined her incensed at what had happened to a guest under her roof and demanding that the police send someone to find whoever had done this and take him into custody.

  Rachel started toward the house. I caught up with her and said, “Rachel. About yesterday—”

  She shook her head, hurrying on.

  “Rachel, it couldn’t have been a fall,” I said then.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She went through the door, leaving it open for me to follow, and by the time I’d got to the kitchen, she was in the weaving room with the door shut.

  Hugh was trying to pull on his coat, intending to go out to look at the ewes. I had to help him, against my better judgment.

  When he left, moving slower than usual, I considered offering to help, but I knew it would be rejected. I closed the door after him and went to clear away the breakfast and see to washing the sheets and pillow slips from Oliver’s bed.

  I didn’t hear Rachel go out. I thought it was when I had taken the extra blankets and pillows back upstairs. But the loom was silent.

  Curious, I went to every window on the first floor, wondering if she had decided to confront Hugh outside, away from the house.

  But I could see them out there, working in different parts of the property.

  And standing by his cottage door, Mr. Griffith was staring at them, as if wondering what had passed here last evening.

  Whatever Rachel knew about what had happened to Hugh, she had come to terms with it by the time she came in for the midday meal. The rain had started again, sweeping across the sea and coming over the headland just as Hugh came in, bringing wet dogs with muddy paws at his heels.

  Hugh and I dried them, and I wiped up the puddles while Rachel served us a rich barley soup and toasted cheese sandwiches.

  “Did you discover Oliver’s last name?” Hugh asked as we ate.

  “That’s the only name Ellen gave us. And he didn’t add to it,” I said.

  “Interesting. I’d have liked to know.”

  “But what should I call her?” I asked Rachel, now that I had a chance.

  “She was always Ellen Marshall out here,” she replied, confirming what Hugh had told me last evening. “She married a man by the name of Hobson. Quite a good match, from what I’ve been told.”

  “He never came out here?”

  “I don’t think he did,” she said. “That was probably her grandfather’s choice. He was reclusive, kept to himself. I don’t think he’d have wanted her husband to see where the family came from. There was money—probably inherited, I should think—but he had no desire to move away. Still, he sent his daughter to school in town, and let her marry in town. And his granddaughter as well.”

  And this visit, Ellen Marshall Hobson had brought someone with her.

  For a fleeting moment I wondered if a jealous suitor in Cardiff might have followed them out here and given the interloper a good thrashing. If perhaps that was why Ellen had not pursued the attack by calling in the police. That would make more sense than someone from the village attacking him.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for either of you to wander far from the house,” Hugh was saying. “Not until we know who did this.”

  “You think it was someone local?” I asked.

  He frowned. “I don’t know the people out here very well. That’s the problem. In the valley, if there was trouble, we could usually put a name to it. Work in the pits was hard. A few men drank themselves into oblivion when they could, but they weren’t likely to cause problems for anyone but themselves and their families. A few hotheads fought from time to time. In the pits you had to depend on each other, and you weren’t likely to take matters down with you.”

  “It’s been much the same here,” Rachel said, nodding. “We have to depend on each other. There was trouble in the past. I remember my father and mother talking about it, and stopping when Matthew or I came into the room.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “Matthew and I never knew.” She made a face. “Still, he told me once there had been a murder not far from the village. That was after he’d gone exploring in the prehistoric caves, and he said it would be an easy matter to hide a body in some of them. By the time anyone found it, it would be impossible to tell whether it was ancient or recent. I didn’t know whether to believe him or not.”

  I was reminded of someone in our village in Somerset. Sally Meacham’s brother, who ran away to join the gypsies when he was eleven. The gypsies promptly brought him home again, but for several months he was enormously popular with the other village boys because of his daring. It sounded as if Rachel’s brother was cut of the same adventurous cloth.

  “He must have made a fine soldier,” I said. Sally’s brother had joined the Colonel Sahib’s regiment and was mentioned in dispatches any number of times.

  Rachel smiled wistfully. “He was decorated twice for bravery under fire. I wish he’d been a little less brave and survived the war.”

  My uniform from last evening washed and hung up to dry in the warmth of the kitchen, I went for a walk. Even though Rachel and Hugh were no longer at odds, there still hung over the house an air of uncertainty that I could feel. And the sun had tried to come out, chasing away the last of the storm. The air was fresh, clean.

  And so I set out for the path down to the water. Crossing the road in front of the house, I paused to glance down toward Ellen’s cottage. Should I look in on my patient? I would have felt more comfortable if she’d taken him to Swansea and hospital.

  But she hadn’t been welcoming when I came to ask for a lift back to Swansea, and she had taken Oliver away as soon as she thought it was safe to do so. I’d only be intruding. And since she had the motorcar, she could come for me if he took a turn for the worse. Better to leave them in peace . . .

  I could feel eyes on me, watching, as I passed Griffith’s cottage. But I didn’t look that way, continuing along the path at a leisurely pace, watching the gulls wheeling and arguing out at the water’s edge or turning to look at the other cottages spread across the Down. Somewhere I heard, carried on the wind, the bellow of a bull, and then a dog barking.

  If there was little money out here—from what I could see, cattle and foodstuffs were the only ways of earning pounds and pence—what would the people fight about?

  Property? Enough of it to keep food on the table?

  I didn’t see any signs of a manor house, a squire. But nor did I see signs of the poverty rampant in many towns. There was a distinct difference in the size of houses and the size of the land around them, a difference in how well or poorly outbuildings were kept up. Of course the war had taken a toll there, four years of enforced neglect or not enough men to do what needed to be done. And owning land, either to farm or to raise cattle, meant the need for tenants or laborers. More land meant more of each. And there just wasn’t the hunger you might see for amassing an estate, either in the past or the present.

  I reached the strand. The tide was out, the gulls picking at it as they hunted for food. I slowed, just enjoying the wind and the sound of water lapping at my feet. I didn’t intend to walk very far. But
I found it a fine way to blow out the cobwebs and worry about my patients at the clinic or how my mother would view a request from Matron asking when I expected to return.

  I walked on, nearly halfway round to the far side, my boots sinking into the wet sand. When I finally turned, I was astonished to see several women watching me from the cottages above me. Standing there like sentinels—like statues of waiting women the world over, watching the sea for the first glimpse of a sail.

  But this wasn’t a fishing harbor or goods port. Men didn’t go out with the tide and fail to return.

  What’s more, they weren’t watching for a sail. They were watching me.

  About halfway back to the path leading up to the headland, I paused and turned to look out over the water. Breathtakingly pretty, I thought, here as well as viewed from above.

  There was a bit of something lying at my feet, a broken shell. I picked it up and sent it skimming across the water, skipping five times before it finally sank beneath the waves.

  I hadn’t lost my touch, although I had once seen the Colonel Sahib skip a flat stone eleven times, and Simon nine. All in the wrist, they’d said, grinning. But I was happy with five. I looked down and found another, sent it after the first.

  As it sank, someone spoke behind me, and I jumped. I hadn’t known anyone was there.

  The woman was stout, with a wind-reddened complexion and fair hair pulled back under a kerchief. I put her age at late forties.

  We had to shout over the sound of the water.

  “What are you doing?”

  I thought it was fairly obvious. Skipping stones—well, flat bits of broken shell.

  “Amusing myself,” I said.

  “It’s what the lads do,” she countered, as if I’d lied to her.

  “Yes, well, my father had no sons, and so he taught me.”

  I realized then that she was perfectly serious, and not amused.

  “I haven’t walked beside the sea like this for a very long time,” I told her. “I was tempted to see if I’d lost my touch.”