A Forgotten Place

by Charles Todd

  After a bit, the men looked up toward the house where Mr. Wilson and his companions had gone inside. There seemed to be some debate over whether to take the dead man there. One man argued with the rest, pointing to the body. And then it seemed that they agreed to wait for Mr. Wilson to return.

  I remembered the handkerchief and what must have been blood. What had happened to the dead man?

  Increasingly uneasy, I left the overlook and made my way back to Rachel’s house, walking to the pasture first and then cutting across to the kitchen door. Rachel was still in the front room, watching Hugh and Mr. Griffith. When I walked in, she looked over her shoulder at me, saying, “You shouldn’t have gone out.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, “but I had to know. There’s a man lying on the strand. He’s dead. The rector went to a house on the Down, where he told a woman the bad news. I heard her cry out. It isn’t a stranger, there on the strand. It’s someone from the village.”

  “Which house?” she asked, frowning. But when I tried to explain just which one it was, she said, “I’m not sure. It could be the Stephenson house.”

  “Do you know them well?”

  “They’re an older couple. They lost their son in the war. Their daughter lives with her husband in one of the villages just north of Bristol. How did he die?”

  I hadn’t mentioned the blood. “I don’t know. It was too far away to see.”

  “But you’re sure he’s dead?”

  “Yes, sadly.”

  Looking out the window, she said, “I do wish Hugh would come back.” There was worry in her voice.

  I was remembering that Simon had warned me about the body at five in the morning. Trouble by the river. What had he seen?

  We waited in silence a little longer. But Hugh remained out there with Mr. Griffith. I knew he must be chafing at his crutches, for the long descent down the path would mean an arduous climb back to the hedge. Otherwise he would have gone down to see what was happening.

  Watching them, I thought that he and Mr. Griffith were the outsiders here. Both men were Welsh in an English enclave, and suspect.

  Where was Simon? Safely back to his cave? Or watching as I had done from some safe vantage point? He too was an outsider, and if he was discovered, people might blame him for these attacks . . .

  We gave up, finally, on waiting for Hugh, and when he at length came back, Rachel and I had gone on with breakfast preparations, although we had little appetite. Hugh’s was in the warming oven, and Rachel got it out while I poured another cup of tea.

  “What happened?” she asked. “Could you see?”

  He shook his head. “There was a body on the strand. A man’s. I think it must have been Edward Stephenson’s. Mr. Wilson and two others went to his house. After a while, the other men brought his body there. Mrs. Stephenson was very upset, and a neighbor, Mrs. Tucker, came over to comfort her. That’s all I know.”

  “Was he taken ill?” I asked in my turn.

  “There’s no word on that. I expect we won’t know until someone comes back up.”

  I wondered if Hugh had seen the man wipe his hands after touching the body. Had I jumped to the conclusion that there had been blood on his hands? Hugh would have had a better viewpoint, after all.

  But Simon had warned me away. And he wouldn’t have done that if Mr. Stephenson had died of natural causes. If there hadn’t been something wrong about the man’s death.

  The morning seemed to drag. And then as I was helping Rachel carry water from the rain barrel to the new seedbeds, Mr. Wilson came round the corner of the house, startling us when he spoke.

  “Mrs. Williams. Sister Crawford.”

  “Good morning, Rector,” Rachel said.

  “I see you’ve sown your garden. I’m behind times this year.”

  “The weather has held,” she replied, looking at the tidy rows.

  “I’m afraid I’ve sad news to give you. Mr. Stephenson died in the night.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. Is there anything we can do for Mrs. Stephenson?”

  “A neighbor is with her now, but thank you for asking. I’ve come about another matter. Were you awakened during the night by any noise? A quarrel? Someone shouting?”

  Rachel shook her head. “My bedroom is on the back of the house. I seldom hear anything from the direction of the road. Was there a problem? What has happened, Mr. Wilson?”

  “Someone gave Mr. Stephenson a savage beating. He was left by the water to die. But no one heard anything unusual on the Down. We wondered if the quarrel, if that’s what it was, took place up here, on the cliff.”

  This was news indeed. What’s more, it explained the blood I thought I’d seen on a man’s hands.

  “But who could have attacked Edward Stephenson? He was always rather quiet,” Rachel was saying, unable to keep the shock out of her voice. “I’ve never known him to be quarrelsome.”

  The shed door opened, and Hugh came out to join us.

  Mr. Wilson turned to me. “Sister Crawford? Did you hear anything unusual last night?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t. My bedroom faces the Worm.”

  “Mr. Griffith tells me your lamp was on in the middle of the night.”

  “I remember lighting it, yes. I couldn’t find my carafe of water. But I hardly think that was in the middle of the night.”

  “He claims to have seen it around five, when he heard what sounded like voices from the direction of this house.”

  That was so like Mr. Griffith, causing trouble for someone else to throw suspicion away from himself. But it was also too close to the mark. Had he seen Simon tossing pebbles at my window?

  I made myself smile. “I would hardly be wandering about in the dark at that hour of the night,” I said. “Whatever Mr. Griffith heard, it wasn’t my voice.”

  “There was no call for your services? I understand young Jenny has suffered from a virulent sore throat.”

  “Yes, I’d already had a look at it. I was glad she didn’t require my services again. A good sign.” I added, for effect, “Her father made it quite clear I wasn’t to call at the house again.”

  He raised his eyebrows at that. “Did he, indeed? More’s the pity, he doesn’t seem to know how to deal with his own stern independence.”

  It was more likely, I thought wryly, that Jenny’s father didn’t want me to stumble on any secrets. What else was to be seen besides that cup on the mantel?

  “I am more concerned about what happened to Mr. Stephenson. You must know that Ellen Marshall’s friend Oliver was also beaten.” I was on the point of mentioning Hugh as well when I caught the warning he sent me. “Who could have done either of these attacks?”

  “Surely not one of us,” Mr. Wilson replied. “I can’t believe that one of my flock would be capable of such savagery.”

  “But who else is there?” I asked.

  “An outsider. Someone who has found his way here in his effort to escape the police. A madman, perhaps.”

  I was suddenly alert. If these people spotted Simon, he would be in very serious trouble.

  “A madman? Surely not,” I said, putting scorn into my voice. “And as for an escaping felon, he’s more likely to disappear into the busy docks at Cardiff than to risk coming out to such an isolated place as this. How could he hide in a village where everyone knows his neighbor?”

  He studied me for a moment. “You are wise in the ways of desperate men?”

  I could feel myself flushing. “Hardly that. It’s simple logic. If I wished to hide, I would choose London, where there were too many people for one person to be noticed.”

  “This man might not have known the peninsula was so—isolated.”

  “How could you live in Swansea and not know?” I countered.

  “True,” he admitted.

  I brought the subject back to Mr. Stephenson. “Tell me—what sort of injuries did he have? Were they done by a man’s fists or with some sort of weapon?”

  “I can’t bring myself to disc
uss such things before two ladies.”

  “I’m a nurse. I have seen far worse wounds than a beating.”

  Reluctantly he said, “The death blow must have been the head wound. Although there was severe bruising on the body. Mr. Stephenson put up a good defense but he was no match for his assailant. Which brings us back to the question of a madman.”

  “If he fought back, you have only to look for someone else with bruises. And bloody knuckles.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Mr. Wilson said, rising. “I will make a point to look at every man’s hands. Beginning with yours, Captain? To be thorough?”

  Hugh held out his hands, turning them up and then down. “And yours?” he asked then.

  Mr. Wilson stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “Of course, you’re right. I am not above suspicion.” He held out his own, but there was no sign of bruising or cuts to be seen.

  “If you will excuse me? I must be about my business.”

  And with that he was gone, rounding the corner of the house and disappearing.

  When Rachel was sure he was out of hearing, she said, “This is worrying.” She didn’t look Hugh’s way. “We’ve had our differences out here, but there’s been nothing like this. I’ve always felt safe going out at night to look for my sheep. Or before dawn, after a storm.”

  I remembered that she knew who had attacked Hugh. Was she wondering if it was the same person who had attacked Oliver and now Mr. Stephenson? But she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say anything about that. For Hugh’s sake.

  Hugh was saying, “You don’t have anything to fear.”

  She looked toward the corner of the house again, avoiding his gaze. Then she busied herself cleaning the earth from her hands.

  “I wish I’d thought to ask Mr. Wilson why Mr. Stephenson was out so late at night,” I said. “Was that why he was a victim? Because he was there—or saw someone—or something.”

  It occurred to me then that if someone wanted to hunt for those chests of silver, he’d have to do it in the middle of the night, or there would be an uproar from his neighbors. A quiet dive in the dark of the moon—who knew what he might find if he was a strong swimmer? And profit from. Mr. Stephenson might have died because he couldn’t sleep, or had decided on a last cigarette before going up to bed.

  A last cigarette . . .

  “Mr. Griffith is always wandering about in the night,” I said thoughtfully. “Did you notice his hands, Hugh? While the two of you were talking?”

  “He was wearing gloves.”

  It hadn’t been all that cold, this morning.

  Rachel said, “You can’t suspect Mr. Griffith. He’s quite the one for prying, but he’s never been violent.”

  “People change,” I commented.

  “Not people you’ve known all your life,” she countered. “His wife was such a lovely person. Very different, warm and friendly. She and my mother would often put up preserves together, sharing the work. I sometimes wondered what it was that drew her to such a gruff man.”

  But someone in this village was a murderer. And sooner or later, there was going to be a hue and cry, as others came to the same conclusion.

  What then?

  Chapter 15

  Changing the subject, rather than argue the point about Mr. Griffith, I said, “Do you think Mr. Stephenson had enemies? I don’t recall ever seeing him.”

  Unless of course he had been one of the men carrying the dead soldier’s body.

  “He wasn’t the sort of man who got into trouble. More often than not he was there when someone needed him. He came to help my father once when the shed door was blown off in a storm. Without even being asked. And when it was done, he wouldn’t let my father pay him. Robbie’s death was hard enough, and then Edith married one of the men at the coast guard station, and when he was relieved to serve in the Navy in 1915, she moved to Bristol to live with his parents. She hasn’t been back since.” She smiled a little. “Tom would call Mr. and Mrs. Stephenson very English, keeping themselves to themselves. It’s something all of us are very good at, out here. Minding our own business.”

  Ignoring that, I replied, “Then I can’t see any reason for someone to attack him. It must have something to do with his walking along the strand. Was that a habit of his?”

  “I don’t know. It isn’t as if we can see the strand from here.”

  I gathered she didn’t want to talk about what had happened to Mr. Stephenson. Hugh, sensing it too, changed the subject, asking her if she needed help in the garden.

  Whatever she must know about what happened to Hugh, it could be weighing even more heavily on her in light of this latest attack. Ellen’s friend Oliver had survived, and so had Hugh. But it seemed to me that each successive attack had grown in viciousness, and now a man was dead.

  I wanted to talk to Simon, to find out what he knew. For he had warned me away, and so he must have seen something, the body if not the attack. But it was broad daylight, and I couldn’t go down to Ellen’s cottage, to see if he was there. It was best to stay inside and keep my head down. Mr. Wilson had already asked rather pointed questions. I couldn’t quite understand why he thought I might have something to do with the death, but I had brought trouble to this village by finding myself stranded here, and inadvertently learning some of the secrets of this place. The hastily buried soldiers. The silver. I wasn’t to be trusted not to bring more trouble down upon them by telling other outsiders what I knew.

  Which of course I had done, telling Simon.

  I glanced up at the sky, wishing the day gone.

  We were just finishing lunch when there was a knock at the door.

  Hugh went to answer it. He came back almost at once, saying, “There’s a woman who wants to speak to you. It’s Mrs. Stephenson.”

  “For me?” I put down the tea towel I’d been using to dry the dishes and walked out to see her.

  She was a small woman, plump and graying. Just now her blue eyes were swollen and red from crying. Hugh had left her in the front room, and I walked in, not knowing what to expect.

  “Mrs. Stephenson? I am so sorry to hear about your husband.”

  Instead of thanking me, she said abruptly, “You’re a nursing Sister, are you? I hear you came to look in on Jenny, up the way.”

  “Yes. How can I help you, Mrs. Stephenson?” I expected her to ask me to assist her in laying out her husband’s body.

  Her request surprised me. “I want you to come and see my husband. I want to know if he suffered, out there in the night alone and dying. The men can’t tell me how it was for him. For that matter, they didn’t want me to come here. But I want to know what happened. Jenny’s mother told me you were kind to Jenny when she had trouble with her breathing. You must have seen dead men. You’ll be honest with me.”

  I’d seen more than my share of the dead.

  “Why do you want to know? The answer could be painful,” I answered gently.

  “Painful or not, Edward was my husband, and I owe him that.” There was a fierceness about her, a determination, that belied her appearance. I could well imagine that it was true, she had stood up to the men who wanted her to stay away from me.

  “Then let me fetch my coat.”

  I was back in only a minute but went down the passage first to tell Rachel and Hugh where I was going.

  Rachel was alarmed. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” she said quietly. “I didn’t care at all for the way Mr. Wilson was speaking to you. It could be a way of drawing you out of this house. Have you thought of that?”

  Hugh said, “I don’t think Mrs. Stephenson would be a party to such a trick.”

  “Yes, but it’s odd, don’t you think, that she would ask you to tell her how her husband died. It’s bizarre. I never wanted to know how Tom died—it was too terrible to think about.”

  But Tom had died in France. This man had been brought home to his wife, and she had seen what had been done to him.

  I said to Hugh, “What do you think?”

/>   “I don’t know,” he answered, shaking his head. We’d kept our voices low, because Mrs. Stephenson was sitting in the front room. “I must agree with Rachel, but on the other hand, if it’s a trick, surely they’d have come up with a much better ruse.”

  Like Jenny and her putrid sore throat . . .

  “I must go,” I said, “but it’s important for you to know where I am. In case.”

  “I’m not sure we could do much,” Rachel told me.

  “There’s that. But I’m willing to risk it.” Besides, I’d like to see the body for myself.

  In the end, I left with Mrs. Stephenson. We walked in silence for a bit, and then she said, “He was a good man. It was what I wanted most, for us to grow old together. But it wasn’t to be.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said gently. “It’s very difficult for you to face alone. Could word be sent to your daughter?”

  “How would I manage that? Besides, he’ll be in the ground before she could find a way back here. No. I’ll write when I feel stronger, and tell her. Perhaps not all the story. She and her husband don’t need to know that, do they?”

  “No. What could they do?”

  She nodded. “Still, something’s not right. I’ve seen men fight each other. It’s happened, of course it has. But this—this frightened me. And I look at the faces of my husband’s friends, and I can’t be sure one of them isn’t keeping something from me.”

  She was far more astute than her neighbors must have bargained for. And I wondered if she had guessed who had done this.

  “Who could have done such a thing to your husband?” I asked. “Do you know?”

  “I don’t. That’s what is so worrying, you see. Jenny’s father, now, he’s fast with his fists. But he’s a man who acts first and thinks about it later. His anger blows over. Whoever did this wasn’t satisfied until Edward was dead.”

  “Did you know,” I asked, “that the man Ellen Marshall brought down here with her was beaten rather badly?”

  “Was he, now? Rector was on about something happening at Ellen’s cottage. But none of us knew what it was. Mr. Griffith said he thought her friend had taken ill.”