A Forgotten Place

by Charles Todd

  “Damn it, Sister—”

  “No. If you want to find the man who killed Mr. Stephenson, you know now what to look for. And there’s something else. If he’d come out of the sea, his hands would have been wet and cold. And therefore, all the more damaged by the ferocity of his attack. Start with the men here, and then keep on looking. You won’t need me to tell you when you’ve found Mr. Stephenson’s killer.”

  And I walked away. When I looked back from the shadows of the Williams’s house, I saw each of the men carrying torches being examined one by one. I waited, but in the end they all turned and walked back the way they’d come.

  For the first time I let myself relax. Then I jumped when Hugh spoke just behind me.

  “Damn it, Bess, that was the height of foolishness.”

  “Was it?” I replied, my voice colder than I’d meant it to be. “I don’t know what they’d have done to that boy, but it wouldn’t have been pleasant.” I stopped myself from adding that no one else had come forward. I knew why Hugh hadn’t, and how it must have galled him that he couldn’t walk out there and defend me. “It was best that I did it alone,” I went on. “Best that you and Rachel weren’t involved. You live here, and she’s vulnerable.”

  I started back toward the kitchen door, and he followed. “Where is Rachel?” I asked.

  “She went inside. She couldn’t bear to watch.”

  “I can’t blame her. It was going to be nasty.”

  “Why do you think it was Dunhill who knocked me down?” He was behind me in the darkness, where I couldn’t see his face. But there was something in the tone of his voice that made me uneasy.

  “He had the best reason. Jealousy. Besides, I think he needs Rachel’s money. Be careful, Hugh.”

  He didn’t answer. And he was not behind me when I reached the kitchen door and stepped inside.

  Hugh didn’t come in for a long while. And Rachel stayed in her little room, working on the loom.

  I made myself a sandwich and a cup of tea, taking both upstairs with me, then coming back down only long enough to fill my hot water bottle. I was still cold from being out there, for the night had cooled off quickly.

  Taking my plate and my cup to the window, I waited for several hours for some sign from Simon. I heard Rachel come up to bed close to ten, and Hugh shortly thereafter.

  When at last there was a brief flash of light from the direction of the coast guard station, I waited for a message, but none came. But the flash was repeated. I thought, catching it a second time, that it was in the road itself, not behind the station, where I was the only one who could see it.

  That was taking a risk, which was unlike Simon.

  I hadn’t undressed for bed, had instead been sitting by the window with a quilt around my shoulders and the hot water bottle at my feet.

  I waited again. When the flash was repeated a third time, I knew I had to do something.

  I’d turned off my lamp after finishing my dinner, primarily so that Rachel and Hugh would think I was asleep, but also so that I could sit at the window without drawing attention to it.

  Collecting my coat and hat, I stepped to my door and listened. There was silence from Rachel’s room, but a soft snore from Hugh’s.

  I slipped out, left my door ajar, and made my way to the stairs. I’d been here long enough to know where the worst of the creaks were, but the house creaked and groaned in the night from wind and age. Halfway down, I decided to go out the kitchen door, and walked quietly down the passage. Stopping at the kitchen, I listened, but no one had stirred. And the dogs, asleep on their beds, raised their heads for a moment, then lay down again. I found the door to the short passage to the kitchen garden door, and let myself out into the night.

  It was cold enough that I fumbled in my pocket for my gloves and pulled them on. Then I debated the best direction to take.

  I’d been out with Rachel caring for the sheep often enough that I had a good sense of where to go, and I decided to approach the road from inland, where no one would be expecting me to come.

  I went past the shed where I’d first encountered Simon, then across to the fields, clambering over the stone walls until I was out of the area where the sheep grazed and down where some of the larger herds of cattle foraged.

  Praying that I didn’t awaken a bull, I skirted the dark shapes and kept on toward the coast guard station until I was close enough that I could make my way to the road and see who might be there, signaling.

  There were no houses out here, and thankfully no strange dogs.

  Simon hadn’t been in touch since he sent the message about trouble on the strand, and I was very careful now, making certain that each step was quiet.

  There was no one in the road.

  I’d come all this way for nothing.

  And then I saw someone standing in the scrub trees that had grown up along the top of the cliff. If I’d been walking down the road, I’d have come upon him without warning.

  I stayed very still for several minutes, and then was rewarded by the figure moving out of the scrub growth to peer up the dark length of the road.

  It wasn’t Simon. I knew that at once, for I’d have recognized Simon’s silhouette anywhere in the world. His height, the way he stood, his military carriage, and something else, indefinable, that I’d grown used to most of my life.

  Then who was it? I didn’t think it was Mr. Dunhill, nor Mr. Burton. Mr. Griffith? The man moved a little, and I could see most of the shape of his head. It wasn’t Mr. Griffith. Who then? Someone who lived out on the Down?

  He held up something that had been hidden by his body, and flashed a light up the road. Then he moved back into the shadows of the scrub growth at the edge of the cliff.

  I waited, and then I saw him move again, this time down toward Ellen Marshall’s cottage.

  When he was out of sight, and I was certain he wasn’t doubling back, I made my own cautious way back in the direction where I’d passed the sleeping herd of cattle. I remembered only then that someone had found a strange footprint nearby a herd. I wasn’t certain which herd, but I didn’t linger here. Making certain that my own silhouette wasn’t visible on the skyline as I crossed the empty landscape that was their pasture, I soon reached the walled grazing ground of Rachel’s sheep. One of them sneezed when she caught my scent on the wind as I scrambled awkwardly over the wall, and I hurried on toward the shadows by the shed. I still had some distance to go, and kept low, but at last I reached the shed and leaned against its rough wood while I caught my breath. It was empty now of newborns in need of shelter.

  It wasn’t until I’d come round the corner of the shed that I realized that someone was leaning against the kitchen door, blocking my way.

  Chapter 17

  My first thought was that the figure I’d seen on the road had got to the house before me and discovered that I’d left the kitchen door off the latch. I froze for an instant, and then realized that it was Simon waiting there.

  I was very glad to see him.

  He put up a hand, telling me to stop where I was, and then he walked out to meet me, pulling me beside the shed and out of sight.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t wake the dogs,” I said, covering my relief at seeing him.

  “They know me. I’ve met them several times before.”

  He’d always had a way with animals. It was what made him such a fine horseman.

  “The question is,” he said, and I could hear the suppressed worry in his voice, “what are you doing out here at this hour?”

  “I saw someone signaling. I was careful that he didn’t see me when I got to where he was concealed. On the road just above the coast guard station. Then he went on toward Ellen’s cottage.”

  “That was foolish of you.”

  “Yes, well, I didn’t know if it was you or not. And you’ve been least in sight of late.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “So I discovered.”

  “But I’ve been keeping watch. What in hea
ven’s name possessed you to go out there and face those men?”

  “I couldn’t very well let Mrs. Stephenson shoot that man. And I had no idea what the others intended to do to him. Someone had to come forward.”

  “I was across the way in the churchyard. Just behind the tower. I was not certain she was going to shoot.”

  “Yes, well, I was very certain. She’s the dead man’s widow. You weren’t there when she told me that nothing else mattered but revenge.”

  “At that distance, she was more likely to hit one of the men holding him, not the boy.”

  “I wasn’t going to wait and see.”

  He turned away, and then back again. “Bess, I refuse to walk into that house in Somerset and tell your parents that you’ve been hurt. Or worse, killed.”

  Simon meant every word of that. I swallowed hard.

  After a moment, I said, “Do you know what’s going on out here?”

  “No. But when I saw the man lying there on the strand, I went down to find out if he was still alive. It was too late, he was already dead. I left him there, and coming back, someone began tracking me. I’ve been leaving a false trail over half of this blood— this godforsaken peninsula.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I haven’t been able to track him to wherever he comes from. Not without giving myself away. Not that I’d mind a crack at him, but I don’t think you’re ready to let the world and its uncle know I’m here.”

  “I was rather glad I was still here tonight. Last night. They’re obsessed with the sil—”

  He cut me off with a hand over my mouth, pushing me back into the deepest shadows of the shed.

  And then he was gone.

  It was my turn to hear it. Someone walking up the road. Whoever it was tried to be quiet, but in the silence of the night, I could hear the slither of grit under his feet.

  The sound stopped, and I knew he was either standing in front of Rachel’s house or already walking down the path beyond the hedge.

  After a time, Simon came back. “I couldn’t see where he went. I wasn’t there in time.”

  “Do you think it was the man who was signaling?”

  “It’s likely. Who else would be out at this hour? Go to bed, Bess. Sleep if you can. Next time you see a light signaling, look for your father’s code word. If you don’t see it, don’t respond. And in the name of God, don’t go out looking for him. Leave that to me. The only way I’m going to find where he lives is to be free to move without worrying about exposing you.”

  My father’s code word had been Bede. After the Venerable Bede. Short and easy to send.

  He was right, I must stay out of his way.

  “Before I forget,” I said, avoiding giving any promises I couldn’t keep, “I am told that tracks were found out there near one of the herds. The shoemaker didn’t recognize the sole.”

  “They aren’t mine. I went through the herd to cover my tracks. Whoever this is, he knows the peninsula intimately. Better than I can on such short acquaintance with it. That makes him all the more dangerous.”

  “I wish I knew who it is. I suggested searching for someone with bruised knuckles. But it’s more likely that the man wore gloves.”

  “Even so, given the beating I saw down there on the strand, I can’t see how he could have avoided some bruising.”

  “They haven’t dragged anyone else out to question. Not as far as I can tell. I expect those men are beginning to think again about Philip Heaton, if no one else has turned up.”

  “They could come for him again,” Simon agreed. “But stay out of it this time. I needn’t tell you that mobs are not to be trusted, they can turn on someone else in the blink of an eye. You’d best go in. I need to work my way back to the cave. I haven’t slept in two nights. It’s catching up with me.”

  “Don’t let it make you careless,” I warned—unnecessarily, but I was worried.

  “I’ll stay here until I’m sure you’re safely inside.”

  I slipped away then, walking back to the house and quietly opening the kitchen door once more. When I stepped into the kitchen, the dogs barely stirred. They had already heard me coming.

  I made my way around the table and chairs, avoiding the cupboard, and found the door easily enough. The passage was dark, but by this time my eyes were used to whatever light was there.

  Turning at the newel post, I started up the stairs, and before I had reached the top I heard Rachel’s door open. There was nowhere to go, no time to hurry back down the steps, no hope of reaching my door in time.

  I was well and truly caught. And there was no use in claiming I had gone down for a drink of water, not with my coat on. Still, I pulled off my gloves and my hat, shoving them into my pocket out of sight.

  She reached the top of the stairs.

  “Bess? What were you doing outside? At this hour?”

  Oh, dear.

  When I didn’t immediately answer, she said accusingly, “I saw you coming down the path to the kitchen door.”

  Had she seen Simon as well? I had to bluff it out, rather than raise any suspicions she might have.

  “I couldn’t sleep. And so I went for a walk. Not far. I had a look at the sheep, then came back. The fresh air seemed to help.”

  She stared at me, although all I could see of her face was a pale oval in the blackness at the top of the stairs.

  “I don’t understand you, Bess. Facing down those men, and Mrs. Stephenson, who was armed. Wandering about in the dark, alone.”

  “I spent four years in France,” I told her truthfully, “in all kinds of weather and every imaginable condition. I’ve wrestled grown men, wild with delirium, back into their beds, and I’ve been near enough to the fighting to see the muzzle flashes of guns. It’s not that I’m especially brave,” I went on, “but I’ve grown accustomed to facing whatever the war brought my way and dealing with it as best I could.” I had a swift flare of memory: of the Germans overrunning our aid station, and a plane strafing our ambulance convoy. Things Rachel Williams had never thought about, much less experienced. She had her own courage, fighting to stay on in the house her grandfather had built. But it was very different from France. I had been forever changed by France. All of us had.

  “I expect that’s true,” she said after a moment. “But it still makes me uneasy. I couldn’t watch those men. I was afraid of what they might do to Philip. Hugh told me about Mrs. Stephenson. It troubled him that he couldn’t come to your aid.”

  “Better that he didn’t,” I told her, and meant it. “No one out here quite knows what to make of me. Or whoever might come out here looking for me. That helps.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t do it again,” she said. “For my sake. I have to live here after you’ve gone, and I don’t have your courage. I don’t want to have to pretend that I do.”

  “I understand. But I can’t really promise you, Rachel. Even if I wanted to. I don’t think matters will get better before I leave, and I have a very strong suspicion that they’ll get worse. I don’t know what choices I might have to make. But I will promise to remember that you are caught in the middle. Will that do?”

  “I don’t think so,” she told me after a moment’s consideration. “I don’t like being afraid. Feeling afraid.”

  “And yet you go out to find a ewe in distress, however dark or stormy it might be, and bring her and her lambs in to safety in the shed until the worst is over. I admire that.”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “I’m not. I’m telling you that you don’t fear the dark—but you do fear your neighbors.”

  “I have to live here,” she said again, adding, “I can’t change what they are. And I don’t want you to bring a killer to us.”

  I realized then that she was afraid for Hugh.

  “I won’t,” I promised then. “I give you my word.”

  “You can’t be sure of that,” she said, then turned and went back to her room, shutting her door before I could reach the top step and c
ross the landing to my own room.

  Breakfast was awkward the next morning. Rachel had little to say, and Hugh was quiet as well. And when Rachel went out to work in her garden, she didn’t ask if I’d help her. Hugh left with the dogs, saying he might miss his lunch.

  I had begun to rethink my concern for Rachel and for Hugh. Perhaps they would be much better off—and less worried—if I did disappear in the night, and they could honestly claim they knew nothing about my departure.

  But would they worry instead about what had become of me? I could write, once I was safely in Swansea, but there was the question of the post, and how long it might take for any letter to reach them. Days? Weeks, even.

  By three in the afternoon the storm clouds were gathering again out over the water, blotting out the sun and promising an early dusk. As I was walking down the stairs to make myself a cup of tea I heard the kitchen door open and then close softly.

  “Rachel?” I called, but there was no answer. I hurried down the passage and stopped short at the kitchen door, for Simon was standing there in the middle of the room.

  “Simon?” I said in surprise.

  “Mrs. Williams has gone to see to her sheep. There’s a bad storm coming. The Captain is talking to someone by the hedge where the path goes down to the bay. I don’t think anyone saw me. Can you come? I need your advice.”

  “Let me fetch my coat.” I hurried up the stairs, caught up my woolen hat and an umbrella, as well, and went back down to the kitchen.

  “What’s wrong? What is it?” I asked Simon.

  “We need to get out of sight, first.”

  And so I followed him outside. Keeping the shed for the ewes between us and anyone looking our way, we set out across rough grazing land and moved quickly. In the distance I could hear thunder as the storm approached. Keeping pace with Simon I asked again, “What’s wrong?”

  “Wait.”

  And so I did. Simon was not one for dramatics, and if he didn’t want to talk to me now, there was a very good reason. We walked for some time and the wind was picking up, blowing the scrub growth and whipping my skirts around my ankles.