by Charles Todd
“She took him to hospital,” I told Mrs. Stephenson but didn’t have the heart to tell her that Oliver would very likely survive.
“All the more reason, then, for you to have a look at Edward.”
When we came to the modest cottage where she lived, and where I had seen Mr. Wilson and two other men come to break bad news, I’d expected to see several neighbors keeping her company. But the front room was empty when we stepped through the door.
“I asked them to leave,” she said, as if she’d heard the thought. “I needed quiet.”
Mrs. Stephenson led the way to the bedroom, where her husband, fully dressed, lay on the bed. There was sand and salt in his hair, and sand thick in his clothing. He was a man of medium height and in his older years added weight that made him seem shorter. His hair, graying, was crusted with blood, and his features were ugly with bruising and swelling, making it impossible for me to tell what he looked like. There was a gash just above his temple, and I thought it must have been made by a stone. There were bits of grit in the wound, and one broken stem of some sort of weed.
Ellen Marshall’s friend Oliver had had similar bits of grit in the flap of skin that had fallen over his eyebrow. I started to say something about that, then thought better of it.
It was not the sort of grit one would find along the strand . . .
Most of the other wounds that I could see were made by fists pounding without mercy, with the force of strong shoulders behind them. And they had kept pounding even though Mr. Stephenson must have been beyond any serious resistance by that time. As if driven by a savage need to inflict as much damage as possible, without any regard for the outcome.
If I had been asked under oath, I would have had no qualms about answering that it was very likely that the man who had beaten Oliver had also attacked Mr. Stephenson. Not only was there a similar viciousness in the blows, but there was their placement, punishing the face and the body where it was possible to do the most damage. I could imagine what Mr. Stephenson’s chest must look like. And if there was any doubt still in the mind of a barrister, there was the use of a stone to stun the victim.
It was likely now that whoever had attacked Hugh Williams was a different man. Unless the Captain had put up more of a fight than his opponent had expected. A man on crutches should have been a far easier target.
Or was that why the next two victims had been stunned with a stone first?
I reached out to lift Mr. Stephenson’s hands. He’d tried to defend himself, there were bruises on his knuckles, but he hadn’t had a chance of saving himself. Whoever had done this, he was not satisfied until his prey was dead.
“I opened his shirt,” Mrs. Stephenson was saying. “The bruising is so bad I couldn’t find any clear skin. And he was kicked when he was on his back. I haven’t undressed him all the way. I couldn’t bear to do more than I have.”
Oliver too had been kicked as he lay on the ground. Hugh as well . . .
She pulled open her husband’s coat, and I could see the shirt was unbuttoned. She was right, the bruising was extensive. I thought his spleen must have ruptured.
“Did he lie there, calling for me?” Mrs. Stephenson asked me, gently buttoning the torn and bloody shirt again. “Did he know he was dying?”
I wished I’d seen the body in place, to judge if he’d moved very much at the end. But I did see that he’d been curled up. Dying if not dead.
I said, “I think he was very likely unconscious before the end, and unaware of what was happening. That cut above his temple took the fight out of him. I’m not certain what made it. But I’d guess a stone of some sort.”
She turned to me. “Are you telling me the truth?”
“I’m a Sister, not a doctor. But yes, as far as I can judge, he died without coming to his senses.”
“That’s a blessing, then. And I can curse the man who did this,” she added, her face twisting into hate. “I’ll find him, trust me. I’ll see he pays.”
I said again, “Are you sure you don’t know who did this?”
“It’s hard to think someone we knew could have hurt him so badly,” she countered. “I grant you, it’s not as if there’s a lot of choice in the matter. There’s only our neighbors. But I will find which one. However long it takes. I promised Edward that as long as I drew breath, I’d not rest.”
“You mustn’t take the law into your hands.”
“Do you see a Constable coming through that door to do my work for me? Do you see the police questioning my neighbors? Nor do I. It’s up to me. And there’s the revolver that was Edward’s father’s. He’s used it mostly to put down sick or injured cattle, but I know where it’s kept. And how to use it.”
I stared at her, and realized that she was telling me the truth. This wasn’t just the grief of the moment speaking.
“That will only cause more trouble. You’ll be taken up for murder.”
“What have I to live for, now my husband is gone?” she demanded. “But I won’t hang. There’re enough cartridges in the box to see to that.” Her eyes were dark with certainty.
Changing the subject before I’d pushed her into having to carry out her vengeance, I said, “Why was your husband out so late? Does he often walk along the water’s edge in the middle of the night?”
“Not as a rule, no. One of our cows had a difficult birth. He’d stayed in the barn with her, else I’d have been out looking for him. I don’t know why he walked down to the water. I expect he was tired but not ready to sleep. I looked in on the mother and baby this morning, after they’d brought Edward home. They’re doing well. I don’t think I could have borne it if the calf had died too. Not after Edward trying so hard to save it.” With a sigh, she reached out and touched her husband’s battered face. “I have something to live for, at least for now. After that, we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”
And she turned, walking out of the bedroom, ushering me before her, then shutting the door softly behind her, as if she might wake the man on the bed. “Edward is home for now. We’ll put him in the ground tomorrow.”
She offered me a cup of tea, but I thanked her and told her that I must go. I think she was relieved that I’d refused. She preferred to be alone with her husband, for the little time that was left.
I walked up the path toward the hedge, my thoughts running in circles. I should find Simon and ask him to bring the police here. Before someone else was attacked—or before Mrs. Stephenson discovered who had killed her husband.
Just at the top, I met Mr. Wilson coming toward me, on his way, I thought, to offer comfort to Mrs. Stephenson. He seemed surprised to see me and would have stopped to talk, but I only nodded, and went on my way. He seemed uncertain whether to speak or let me pass, but in the end, he simply touched his hat to me and walked on.
I saw no point in telling him where I’d been, or why.
When Hugh came in later in the day, I made him a sandwich and a cup of tea, then sat down across from him.
“I think it’s time to have a discussion about what happened to Oliver, Ellen’s friend, and what happened to Mr. Stephenson. Oliver’s beating was severe enough, and Mr. Stephenson’s was fatal.”
He considered me, wariness in his face. “You’re going to ask who attacked me.”
He said it as if all along he’d known I hadn’t believed his account of falling and hurting himself.
“Yes. I think something has to be done. Otherwise, it could happen again, and when it does, there’s no Constable present out here to keep people from taking the law into their own hands.”
“What happened to me has nothing to do with the other men.”
“That’s very likely true. After all, I examined both men. But I can’t be absolutely sure of that until I know why you were attacked.”
He moved uneasily. “You can’t be sure I wasn’t the first. And that the attacks are escalating with each one.”
That was a point I hadn’t considered.
“Then all the more reason t
o tell me who it was.”
“No. That’s not for you to know, Bess. You aren’t a policeman. And the less you know, the safer you are.”
“But don’t you see, there is a very strong possibility whoever this man is, he could kill again? Someone has to stop him. And there aren’t any policemen out here. Do you think Mr. Wilson will be able to stop the witch hunt that will start if there’s another death? The village will be looking for someone to blame.”
He sighed. “I’ve thought of that, Bess. But you aren’t going to stop a killer, and neither—thanks to the Germans—can I.”
I nearly told him then about Simon but decided at the last instant that it wouldn’t be wise. Not yet.
“If no one does anything, it’s going to become rather nasty.”
“If I could, I’d get you and Rachel out of here. But there’s no way. Except walking.”
“She won’t go. There are her sheep. And the loom.”
Hugh was suddenly angry. “I know that. It’s what makes her—” He broke off. “She loves this house. It was her father’s—her grandfather’s. The best thing for Rachel is for all of us to stay out of this battle.”
So that was why he wouldn’t tell me. He was protecting her.
When I didn’t say anything, he added, “Leave it, Bess. This is not your war.”
“I don’t feel as sure of that as you do.”
The door to the kitchen opened. We hadn’t heard Rachel come in.
“What are you talking about?”
I turned to face her.
“I’m worried about what happened to Oliver—and to Mr. Stephenson. I’m afraid this isn’t going to end with Mr. Stephenson’s death.”
Rachel looked from one to the other of us.
“There’s nothing you can do. Nothing I can do. Except to stay out of it. That’s what my father always did—that’s how he brought up Matt and me. He said it wasn’t cowardice, it was wisdom.”
“But—” I began, but she interrupted me.
“Don’t you see? If you try to interfere, all of us will be at risk. Better to let this matter resolve itself.”
I tried to again, but she shook her head. “You’re only a nursing Sister, Bess. Not a policeman. You have no right to ask questions. Stay out of it.”
With that she turned and walked into the room where her loom stood. And shut the door behind her.
Hugh pulled his crutches closer, got up, and walked out of the kitchen without a word.
I stood there by the table, listening to the loom moving in the next room, listening to the outer door shut behind Hugh.
I’d crossed the boundary of friendship. The question was, had it been in vain? And would it change how they felt about me as a guest?
I could always leave with Simon.
After all, perhaps that was best for everyone.
That night, even though I stayed by my window for a very long time, there was no signal from Simon.
Where was he?
I waited another quarter of an hour, but the darkness in the direction of Ellen’s house remained unchanged. I gave up and went to bed.
Dinner had been rather strained, conversation stilted. But I hadn’t brought up anything controversial, and by the time I helped Rachel clear away, our old relationship had nearly returned. But I had a feeling it would never again be the same.
The next day Mr. Stephenson was buried. Rachel and Hugh attended the service, and I went with them. It was a somber affair, everyone well aware that Mr. Stephenson’s killer was very likely there among them, singing the hymns and repeating the responses. A cold wind had come up while we were in the church, and it whipped around our shoulders as the committal began.
They were all there, Jenny’s father, Mr. Griffith, Anna Dunhill and her father. I tried to read his face as he stood beside his daughter, but I thought he made a point of not looking directly at anyone. I could understand why he might have attacked Hugh in a fit of jealousy. I couldn’t think of any reason for him to try to kill two other men.
I turned slightly to look across the open grave to where Mrs. Stephenson stared down at the rough coffin that held her husband. Her expression was grim, and during the prayers, instead of bowing her head, she looked around at the people gathered there to support her in this time of grief. I knew she was searching for any sign of guilt, any uneasiness or shifting of feet or clearing of throat that might tell her who had killed her husband.
But it occurred to me, watching her, that this killer wasn’t going to be feeling either nerves or remorse. And that would make him even harder to find.
It was almost five when I walked down as far as Ellen Marshall’s house. I strolled up the walk and then around to the back, but if Simon was anywhere about, he was staying out of sight.
I wanted to call to him, but that would be unwise.
I couldn’t risk staying too long and arousing suspicion, and so I left almost at once, walking slowly back up the long slope.
Simon wouldn’t leave me, not after a murder had just occurred. So where was he?
No one was about when I reached the widening of the road just outside Rachel’s house. Not even Mr. Griffith, although I was fairly sure he was watching from his windows. A lonely man who had outlived his wife and his son, with only the activities of his neighbors to occupy his days.
Then why had he been wearing gloves the day after Mr. Stephenson’s body had been found on the strand?
Much as I found him rather difficult, gloves or no gloves, I didn’t see him as a killer. But if not Mr. Griffith, then who among the village men could it be? I was tempted to call on Mr. Wilson, but I knew it would be unwise to speak to him. He was a villager, rector or not, his sympathies and his concerns lay with his neighbors. And I couldn’t be sure he would keep any confidences of mine. This village had too many secrets. And most of those who tried hardest to keep them were his flock.
I realized as I stopped by the churchyard, staring across at the raw damp earth that was Mr. Stephenson’s resting place, that someone was watching me. He stood by the hedge, half concealed by it, and I didn’t recognize him.
He knew who I was, that was abundantly clear, and he gave the impression that he didn’t mind my seeing him there, staring at me.
My watcher for today? Or the killer, coming to have a look at me?
I walked on, past the church, past the rectory, and then turned back toward Rachel’s house.
He was still there, idly waiting. I went up the path and opened the door, disappearing inside without looking his way.
But once inside, shielded by the curtains, I stood to see how long he would stay.
Ten minutes later he turned and walked back down the path leading to the strand.
We were finishing our dinner when there was a knock at the door. Rachel put down her fork and went to answer it.
She came back with an odd expression on her face. I gathered she didn’t care for whoever had interrupted her meal. “It’s for you,” she said. “Mr. Burton.”
“What does he want?” Hugh asked.
“He didn’t say.”
“I hope it isn’t Jenny.” I rose and went to the door, saying at once, “Is it your daughter? Is that why you’ve come?”
“Naught to do with Jenny,” he said brusquely. Looking over my shoulder at the open door into the kitchen, he added, “Walk a little way with me.”
“The last time I saw you, you threatened me. I’m not sure I wish to walk anywhere with you.”
He grimaced. “Only to the middle of the road, then.”
I considered that, then nodded. “No farther.”
“No.”
“Let me fetch my coat.”
He waited while I went upstairs, pulled on my coat, reached for my gloves, and came back to the door.
We walked down the path as far as the road, and I stopped in the middle of it. No one could overhear us here, I realized, and I turned, looking up at him, waiting for him to speak.
“I’m told you saw Stephe
nson’s body.”
“Yes,” I replied warily. “Mrs. Stephenson needed my help.”
“She turned down other offers.”
“I think she felt I wouldn’t gossip about what I saw,” I told him bluntly.
“Aye, there’s that.” He looked down the long slope toward the coast guard station and the Marshall cottage, nearly invisible beyond it. “What did you see?”
“I saw the body of a man who had been beaten so severely he’d died,” I retorted. “What else was there to see?” But I was already wondering if he knew something about that head wound, and the stone that had made it.
“I’m not speaking of his wounds,” he said. “I saw them for myself.” He turned back to me. “Why did Ruth burn the clothes he was wearing?”
Surprised, I said, “Mrs. Stephenson? Did she? I didn’t know that.”
“Did you help her lay him out? Did you see what was in his pockets?”
“I did not.”
I was beginning to realize that he wasn’t talking about the wounds, but about something more important to him.
“What is it you really want to know?” I asked, facing him squarely.
He paused, then said reluctantly, “That man with Ellen Marshall. He was helping her search the house for something belonging to her grandfather. And Stephenson was by the water’s edge. He must have found something. Or seen something out there in the water. We’ve talked, the rest of us, and we’re certain that’s why he was attacked. We don’t think the killer found out what it was.”
Just as I’d thought. We were back to the silver.
“If he knew something, he took it to his grave,” I said. “But if you suspect that he was killed for what he knew—or had seen,” I added, as Mr. Burton was about to interrupt me, “then you must know who did that to him.”
“We don’t know,” he said harshly. “That’s the trouble, you see. And Joseph Warren saw strange tracks when he went out to look for strays. He runs his cattle out beyond Mrs. Williams’s sheep holding. Down the spine of the peninsula.” He turned to point. “It wasn’t the Captain, the man had two legs. But none of us had gone out there.”
