A Forgotten Place

by Charles Todd

  I smiled. “No harm done.”

  Rachel stepped forward and held out the stone I’d quietly laid on the umbrella stand in the hall, hoping she wouldn’t notice. “What’s this?”

  “Oh.” I couldn’t think what to say.

  Hugh was already reaching for it, hefting it in his hand. Then he looked up, his gaze meeting mine. “What happened, Bess? Tell me.”

  “I’m not really sure,” I said slowly. It wouldn’t do to lie—Mr. Griffith had seen to it that word was already spreading through the village.

  “Tell me.” He was already reaching for his crutches.

  “Walking back from Ellen’s, I heard someone behind me, and before I could turn, whoever it was hit me on the shoulder. Hard. Mr. Griffith was coming toward me, and whoever it was ran off. He swore it must be Ellen. He claims he saw her. Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

  “Why?” Hugh was standing now.

  “Because if she had been the person who attacked Oliver, he would have told us so—he’d have refused to let her take him back to the cottage. He’d have been afraid of her. And he wasn’t. What’s more, she wasn’t here when Mr. Stephenson was killed.”

  “Yet you believe she left Oliver in that cave to die.”

  “Yes, everything points to that. I know. But somehow—for some reason—that’s different.” I looked at the disbelief in his face, and added, “I know. I don’t quite believe that myself. But there’s bound to be some explanation.”

  Rachel said, “She could have been here when poor Mr. Stephenson was killed. And we didn’t know it.”

  “No,” I said, remembering. “Simon was here then. He watched the cottage.”

  “Then who was it who struck you?” Hugh asked.

  “I don’t know. But I’m convinced that whoever attacked Oliver and Mr. Stephenson hit them with a stone just like that, half stunning them, and then beat them viciously when they were in no condition to offer much resistance.”

  “That’s a coward’s work,” Hugh said tersely.

  “I know.” I looked him straight in the eye. “Who attacked you, that same day?” I demanded. “You must tell me. It could matter. It could tell us who is out there hurting other people.”

  But he stood there, his mouth in a tight line.

  Rachel said, “It was Anna’s father. I saw it happen. And he didn’t use a stone. Only his fists.” Hugh swung around to look at her.

  I asked into the strained silence, “Why would he go on to attack Oliver—and Mr. Stephenson? Or me?”

  “I don’t believe he did,” Hugh said abruptly. “It was—personal.” He was still looking at Rachel.

  “Who else could it be?” Rachel said finally. “And if it isn’t Ellen, why is Mr. Griffith spreading the story that it was her?”

  “Let’s go and ask her. Now,” Hugh said.

  “No.” Rachel shook her head. “Enough has happened tonight.”

  “We must warn her,” I said, suddenly realizing the danger she was in, once half the village had heard Mr. Griffith’s tale.

  “Tomorrow will be soon enough. In the daylight,” Hugh said. “Promise me you won’t try to go there tonight.”

  I tried to argue with him, but he wouldn’t listen. “Yes. All right,” I agreed at last. The truth was, my back was in no state to walk that far. I knew he couldn’t, and it would be dangerous to ask Rachel to go alone. “But first thing. Early.”

  Rachel came forward and poured my tea for me. When I’d finished it, I picked up the stone and for the first time looked at it in the light of the kitchen lamp. Turning it this way and that, I saw a speck of blue wool from my uniform coat, from where I’d brushed it, caught on a rough spot on the stone.

  I told myself that it could have got there from carrying it home.

  Taking it with me, I went upstairs to put up my coat and hat. Then, drawing the window curtains, I opened the top of my uniform and pulled it aside to look at my shoulder. There was already a bruise forming, and it was going to be black by morning. The tingling was wearing off, and I thought no serious damage had been done. But that blow would have stunned me if I hadn’t ducked aside.

  There was no way to see my back in the mirror, but I could almost guess what that bruise must look like. And I didn’t want to ask Rachel to look for me.

  In the night, finding it difficult to sleep, I got up and went to the window. The peninsula was pitch-black. Overhead the stars were bright pinpoints of light, and I watched them swing across the sky for a bit. I was cold and about to go back to my warm blankets when I saw the glow of a cigarette down below my window.

  The shadows were deep there, and I couldn’t see who it was, just the tip of the cigarette burning brightly as he inhaled. Simon didn’t smoke, and I’d been at Ellen’s door, I didn’t think she smoked either, although some women had taken up the habit.

  Whoever it was, he must now be directly beneath my window. The smell of burning tobacco was that strong.

  I dressed as quietly as I could, opened my door softly, and set off down the stairs with my coat in my arms. Along the passage, into the kitchen, and out the kitchen door. Moving easily on the soft ground, I reached the corner of the house and sniffed the air. Yes, cigarette smoke. I peered around it. But there was no one beneath my window now. Only a shadowy figure just crossing the road and disappearing near the hedge.

  I followed, but whoever it was had vanished into the night—or the nearest cottages on the Down.

  Tomorrow I would ask Rachel who lived in them.

  When I stepped back into the kitchen, someone moved, and I stopped stock still, ready to retreat as fast as I could. It wasn’t possible that whoever I’d followed could have doubled back and come into this house by the path door. The dogs would have set up such a racket, everyone would have heard them.

  Then Hugh spoke. “I’m here. I heard you go down. Has your friend come back? Or did you break your promise and visit Ellen?”

  “Neither. There was someone smoking just below my window. Staring up at it. I didn’t like it, and I went out to see.”

  A match flared, blindingly bright, and then Hugh lit the lamp. Keeping his voice low so as not to disturb Rachel, whose room was just above us, he said, “That was foolish.”

  I took the little pistol from my pocket. “I wasn’t afraid.”

  “Good God,” he said, staring at it. “Do you know how to use that thing?”

  “Of course I do,” I answered him, affronted. “That’s why I was given it.”

  He grinned suddenly. “Of course you do. Why should I have doubted it?” Then the grin faded. “You should have roused me.”

  “Two of us going down the stairs would surely have awakened Rachel.”

  “Yes. Where did this figure go?”

  “I could see him as far as the hedge. Not where he went after that. Who lives in the nearest two cottages beyond the hedge?”

  “The Richardsons and the Greenes.”

  “Does Mr. Richardson or Mr. Greene smoke?”

  “I have no idea. But you must realize that whoever it was could have ducked into the shadows by the Griffith cottage and waited until you’d gone? There’s no telling where he might be now.”

  It was true. I hadn’t considered that. “There’s nothing more to be done tonight. Besides, he knows someone was on to him. He’ll be careful now.” I pulled off my hat and shook out my hair. “I’m so sorry to have awakened you, Hugh. I promise, I won’t go back out. Shall I put the kettle on? Would you like something warm to drink?”

  He shook his head. “Go on to bed. I’ll turn out the light when you’ve reached the stairs.”

  But I stopped at the top of the stairs, listening, afraid Hugh was going out to look around too. He came down the passage, opened the door to the road, and stood there for some time before shutting it. I made it to my room before he turned to the stairs.

  It was not quite sunrise when I woke up to angry voices. It took me several seconds to realize they were outside, not in the house. Just
a sound like angry bees, without definition. I got up to look out my window. When I couldn’t see anything from there, I dressed as quickly as I could with a bad shoulder and bruised back, caught up my coat and hat, then went down to the front room.

  Hugh was already there.

  “Trouble,” he said, glancing over his shoulder as I came in. Then he turned back to the window. “Mrs. Stephenson is standing in the churchyard, arguing with Mr. Wilson. I don’t care for the look of it.”

  Joining him at the window, I said, “Nor do I.” I peered at the two people standing among the gravestones. “That’s her husband’s grave, isn’t it? It should be just about there. Possibly she couldn’t sleep and came there to mourn him.” The church door was open, as if Mr. Wilson had just come out—or had been about to go in when he saw her.

  The rector was bending forward, speaking vehemently. I couldn’t hear the words, but he appeared to be pleading. Mrs. Stephenson was shaking her head, wanting none of it. Finally she turned away from him and started toward the road. Her back was ramrod straight with determination. “She’s heard about Ellen,” I said and pulled on my coat. “This is madness. Didn’t she learn her lesson the last time?”

  “You can’t be sure what she’s going to do.”

  But Mrs. Stephenson wasn’t a grieving wife returning to her cottage. She was marching down the road with the determination of Joan of Arc striding toward the massed English Army. Only she was marching toward an unsuspecting woman who might be a murderer but who didn’t deserve to die this way.

  This was Mr. Griffith’s doing. A troublemaker and a meddler. Why he’d told the village gossip about Ellen was beyond my imagination, but he’d been pleased with himself afterward.

  Hugh said, “Bess. Don’t.”

  “I have to do something,” I told him, and walked to the door.

  Rachel was just coming down the stairs. “What’s all that shouting?”

  “Mrs. Stephenson is going after Ellen Marshall.” I didn’t stop to talk, I just opened the door and stepped out, ignoring Hugh shouting at me as he crossed the front room.

  I ran down the path, calling to Mrs. Stephenson. She had just reached the Griffith cottage—and she hadn’t turned toward the hedge. She was carrying on straight.

  “Please wait! There’s been a mistake.”

  She turned, frowning. “I heard you’d been attacked.” She said the word as if she’d expected me to be lying at death’s door.

  “I was—but it was only my shoulder that was hurt. And I’m not convinced that Ellen Marshall was behind it. I didn’t see who it was.”

  “Griffith did, he said it was her.”

  “He’s lying. I don’t know why.”

  She had started to move on, but she paused, looking me straight in the eye. “Why should he lie about Ellen Marshall? They were friends once.”

  Just beyond her, I could glimpse Mr. Griffith standing by his door, watching us. The gray light washed out his face, giving it a ghostly appearance.

  “I don’t know. But I believe he’s wrong. Why don’t we ask him?”

  She considered me. I thought I’d convinced her to listen to reason. But she said, “You should be thanking me for what I’m about to do. If Mr. Griffith hadn’t come along when he did, you’d be dead as well.”

  The sun’s first rays broke the horizon, casting long shadows.

  She walked on. We were just passing the Griffith cottage now. As we did, he withdrew into the shadows by his door.

  I hurried after her. Was she armed? I couldn’t tell, given the heavy coat she was wearing, but I had to assume she was. She’d had a revolver before. Why had she gone to the church first? To make her peace with God? Or tell her husband what she was about to do for his sake? Mr. Wilson had tried to persuade her, judging from what little I’d seen of their confrontation, not to do anything foolish. But he hadn’t stopped her. I didn’t think he had the nerve to try.

  I glanced back, hoping Mr. Wilson might have found his courage and followed us. He was nowhere in sight. But Hugh was coming after us. And Mr. Griffith was keeping to the shadows by his door, watching all of us. I was angry with both of them—Hugh for attempting that long walk down to the cottage, putting himself at risk, and Mr. Griffith for telling lies to Mr. Davis.

  I caught up with Mrs. Stephenson. There was no expression on her face. Neither anger nor hatred. Just—emptiness.

  I looked back again, hoping that Hugh would have stopped. But he was still making his way down that dangerously rutted road. And Mr. Griffith was still watching us. Whatever his reasons for throwing Ellen to the proverbial wolves, he wasn’t likely to care now. Or he’d have come out and called to Mrs. Stephenson when he saw where she was heading.

  I almost missed my step and tripped, looking over my shoulder. Hugh had halted. He was calling to Mr. Griffith.

  It was then I saw Mr. Griffith watching from the rear window of the cottage.

  But how could he be? He’d been right there by his door, and even now Hugh was saying something to him. That meant he hadn’t moved.

  I stopped. But the figure I had seen in the window was no longer there.

  Something Simon had told me came charging back into the forefront of my mind. That Mr. Morgan had claimed he’d been attacked in the night . . . and had the scars to prove it.

  I hadn’t been mistaken. Someone else was there, in the cottage.

  But who was it?

  I stood there for a moment, torn. Should I follow Mrs. Stephenson—or find out what Mr. Griffith was hiding? There wasn’t time. She was already passing the coast guard station, marching steadily toward Ellen’s cottage.

  I ran then, catching her up just beyond the station.

  “Listen to me. I know now why Mr. Griffith lied.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We’re almost there. Let her speak for herself. If she can.”

  I tried everything I could think of, but nothing I could say made any difference in her determination.

  And now it was too late. Here we were at Ellen’s cottage. Mrs. Stephenson was striding up to the door. She didn’t hesitate. She banged on it with her fist.

  Ellen didn’t come to the door, and I was just drawing a breath of relief, when it opened after all, and she stood there, framed by the shadows in the dark rooms behind her. She was dressed, but her clothes were rumpled, and I wondered if she had slept in them.

  “What do you want? If you’re here for my grandfather’s silver, it’s all gone. Gone, I tell you. I should know. I’ve been looking for it.” There was anguish in her voice.

  “Be damned to your grandfather,” Mrs. Stephenson said. “It’s my husband I’ve come about.”

  “Well, he’s not here,” Ellen snapped.

  I thought Mrs. Stephenson was going to explode into anger. But she held her temper on a short rein and said through clenched teeth. “He’s in the churchyard. Where you put him.”

  “I haven’t put anyone anywhere,” Ellen said. But she found it hard to be convincing. Was Oliver still on her conscience? It could explain sleepless nights.

  So could the knowledge that all the silver was gone.

  Ellen was about to shut the door, but Mrs. Stephenson reached into her pocket and pulled out the revolver I’d seen before.

  “No, wait!” I said quickly.

  But she went on inexorably. “I want to know why you killed my husband. And you’re going to tell me. Or lose a foot.”

  Ellen opened her mouth to say something but I cut in.

  “You can’t do this.” I remembered someone had said her name was Ruth. “It makes you no better than the person who killed your husband. Ruth, please put the revolver away, and we’ll talk civilly. Please.”

  “Stay out of this,” Mrs. Stephenson told me sharply, the revolver wavering in my direction.

  Ellen tried to use the distraction to shut her door, but Mrs. Stephenson pulled the trigger, and the shot, almost deafening in our ears, went wild, striking the door’s frame. Ellen cried out and vanished into
the house. I thought flying splinters had struck her face, and I turned on Mrs. Stephenson. “Stop!”

  She waved the revolver at me. “You may have forgiven her, Sister, but I haven’t. Stay out of my way.”

  I heard the sound of the revolver cocking, but I didn’t think she had realized what she was doing, as upset as she was. The revolver went off, and I heard the shot pass all too close to my ear before it broke the window glass beyond me.

  I could hear a motorcar coming fast down the road, but I had no time to think about that. The cottage door was standing wide. A shotgun roared, and it was only because Mrs. Stephenson was bearing down on me that she was out of range of the blast.

  Flinching, she said, “Is that the behavior of an innocent woman? I ask you.”

  The motorcar had come to a screeching halt, scattering the chippings everywhere. The door opened, and I turned quickly to see Simon stepping out and walking fast toward us.

  I didn’t know who Mrs. Stephenson thought he was, but she shouted, “Another of her soldiers, are you?” And she fired at him. “Clear off!”

  I saw him jerk to one side, and knew that she had hit him.

  Chapter 19

  “No!” I shouted at her, and before she could fire again, I had reached her and slapped her hard. While she was still shocked, staring at me, I grasped her wrist and twisted it. Her fingers opened and the revolver fell to the ground. My reflexes were faster, and I had scooped it up before she could move.

  Mrs. Stephenson reached for it, tears running down her face. “No, you don’t understand . . .”

  I kept it well out of her grasp as I called to Ellen, “It’s over, I have her weapon.”

  I was answered by the shotgun, firing at us again. Missing both of us.

  Ignoring the women now, I raced to Simon.

  He was standing by the motorcar’s wing, out of range, grinning, his good hand holding his upper arm. The grin turned into a grimace. “You had the situation well in hand,” he said, but I was prying open his fingers and watching blood soaking into the sleeve of his tunic. “It’s all right,” he added curtly. “I’ve had worse.”