by Charles Todd
“You gave him sanctuary, didn’t you?” I accused him.
“Of course I did. That’s my son.”
“But—he’s dead—” I felt almost dizzy, the wash of relief was so great.
“I saw to it that everyone thought so. Even closed the shop. Cost more than I liked to put that brass plaque up on the church wall, but it was convincing, wasn’t it? Tom, come here. There’s the motorcar standing by Rachel’s house. Take it and get as far from here as you can. In my pocket you’ll find enough money for now.”
“I can’t. He’s got my hands tied.”
The shotgun swung toward Simon. “Cut him loose.”
“No. If you shoot me, you’ll hit your son too.”
The shotgun swung toward me. “Doesn’t matter to me who dies.”
Grimacing, Simon released Tom Griffith.
“That’s better. Come on, lad, take the money and go.”
“What will you do with them?”
“Leave that to me.”
“I want to be sure. I don’t want to hang. That man’s Army, he’ll send the Foot Police after me.”
“Damn it, get out of here before someone raises the alarm.”
“There’s the rector,” Tom pointed out. “He saw me too.”
“I told you. I’ll deal with them.”
Reluctantly, Tom approached his father, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a handful of pounds, shoving them into his own pocket. And then before anyone had an inkling of what he was about to do, he caught the shotgun’s barrel and wrenched it out of his father’s hands.
“Tom—no! There’s been enough killing,” Mr. Griffith shouted, trying to pull the shotgun away. But his son had a tight grip on it, and used the barrel to clip his father across the ear. The older man collapsed at his feet.
“Now then,” Tom said, and pointed the barrel toward Simon. “You first, so that I can reload. Then her.”
I dropped the torch, and as it tumbled on the hard winter ground, the light flashing skyward and then across our feet, I had my pistol in my hand and I fired.
Tom Griffith cried out in pain, and the gun went off.
Neither Simon nor I were in the line of fire, but the side of the rectory took the full force.
Simon had already dashed forward as I scooped up the torch again, tearing the shotgun out of Tom’s hands.
Tom lay there on the ground next to his father, and the shoulder of his light coat was turning black with blood in the pale torchlight.
I could hear people coming on the run, shouting. Men from the nearest houses, in their nightclothes. They came to an abrupt halt as they saw Simon holding the weapon. I was already bending over Tom Griffith. His father, groaning, was trying to sit up.
“Summon Captain Williams,” I said. Mr. Griffith, crying and calling his son’s name, was trying to crawl to him. “It’s a shoulder wound,” I said to the father. “But he needs medical care. The bone is splintered, I think.”
The door of the rectory opened and Mr. Wilson stood there on the threshold. Simon had broken open the shotgun and put it well out of reach.
“What’s happened?” one of the men asked while another man hurried across the road toward Rachel’s house.
“Mr. Griffith’s son tried to kill us. I’ve got to take him to hospital as quickly as we can.”
And just then the torch winked twice, and died.
I could hear Simon running toward the motorcar, and I guessed what he was doing. Someone was pounding on Rachel’s door.
“No, you mustn’t take him away,” Mr. Griffith cried, trying to shield his son’s body with his own.
“If your son doesn’t go to hospital and quickly, he could die,” I told him coldly.
“I’d rather him die here than hang,” he said.
Without warning the motorcar’s large bright headlamps turned on, and the vehicle swung toward us, lighting the scene garishly.
Hugh’s voice called, “What’s going on? Simon, is that you in the motorcar? Where is Bess?”
“Ask Rachel to bring out our kits. There’s been trouble. We need to get a man to hospital in Swansea as soon as possible. He’s been shot. Hurry.”
Hugh had been an officer, and a good one. He didn’t waste time asking more questions. I could hear him shouting up the stairs.
I said to the other men, “I need blankets. Quickly. Then we must get him to the motorcar.”
A woman came running with an armful of blankets. I thanked her, and she pushed Mr. Griffith aside, helping me to wrap the wounded man in them. And then she realized who it was. “That’s Tom Griffith. But he’s dead.”
“Very much alive. And I want him to stay that way.”
Another woman brought me clean rags for the wound as I worked to staunch the bleeding.
Behind us Mr. Wilson was telling people what had happened. But he hadn’t seen me fire. He thought it was Simon. “He saved us. The man’s run mad. Tom. Tom Griffith.”
“He was such a quiet boy,” the woman helping me said softly. “He should never have enlisted. He wouldn’t have made a soldier.”
But Mr. Griffith was scrambling to his feet, shouting, “He’s not mad. He never was. I kept him safe all these years, ever since he left his training.”
Tom was mumbling something, and I bent closer to hear. “I couldn’t bear being locked away any longer. But people saw me. I had to stop them from telling my father. Or the Army.” He began clawing at my hands, trying to tear them away from his wound. “I don’t want to hang, I tell you.”
It was all I could do to stop him. And then, mercifully, he fainted from the effort and the pain.
Rachel was there a little later. “Bess, I finished your packing. And Simon’s too. It’s all in the boot.” She reached across awkwardly and hugged me. “I’m so sorry. About everything.”
And then she was ordering several of the men to help me lift my patient. Simon brought the motorcar alongside us, and after arranging the blankets across the rear seat, we got Tom in and covered him again. He was shivering with shock now. His father pushed his way to the door and said, “I’m going with him.”
But Simon pulled him away. “And throttle him while we’re driving? I think not.”
Hugh was there. He put a hand on my shoulder. “Thank you, Bess Crawford. I owe you more than I can ever repay.” And then he leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. Stepping back, he said to Simon, “Travel safely.”
Simon nodded and got behind the wheel. I got in the other side, and we set out for Swansea. Behind us, Mr. Griffith was swearing at us, accusing us of killing his son.
Tom Griffith lived to be tried for the murder of Mr. Stephenson and the attack on Oliver Martin, who had glimpsed him in the dark. I thought it best not to report my own encounter with him, but I understood why Mr. Griffith had pointed a finger at Ellen Marshall, to protect his son.
There was no proof that Tom killed her, but I learned later that she had helped spirit Tom out of Swansea after he’d deserted, and she’d taken him to one of the caves on the other side of the peninsula. From there Tom had managed to make his way across to the village, to beg for his father’s protection.
Had he shot Ellen because she’d helped him escape—and knew where he was hiding? Or for the silver he was so certain was still hidden in her grandfather’s cottage? But that wasn’t brought up in Tom Griffith’s trial.
Despite his father’s pleas, Tom was sentenced to life in prison. Mrs. Stephenson was furious, but the jury had found that there was not sufficient evidence to warrant a hanging.
Hugh and Rachel were married in the spring. I was given leave from my duties to attend the wedding. It was a quiet one, in the Swansea church where Rachel’s parents had been married. The only other guests were my mother, the Colonel Sahib, and Simon. But Rachel didn’t mind. There was no one else she cared to invite.
The dead men in the churchyard and the silver from the treasure ship never came up at the trial either. Ellen was dead, there was nothing—and
no one—left to connect her to either of them. Tom, even to escape the hangman, never offered to tell what had become of the ship’s treasure in exchange for his life. It was the village’s secret, not his. His father moved to be nearer the prison where Tom was serving his sentence. Or so Hugh told me just before the wedding when he and I had a few minutes alone.
He also told me that only three days before, in the latest spring storm, a handful of coins had washed up again.
Authors’ Note
The Gower Peninsula in South Wales is isolated, quite beautiful, and protected so that it will stay that way. The bay is unbelievably lovely. The people there, of Norman descent rather than Welsh, are warm and friendly, and our coast guard station is a National Trust shop with a tempting selection of goodies. The Worm and the caves are places for the adventurous to explore. We enjoyed our time there immensely, and never intended to do more than take pictures after a very good lunch in what in our story is Mr. Griffith’s cottage, but in fact is a small but excellent little café attached to a variety of shops. The fuchsia hedge just outside was in full bloom when we were there, scarlet ballerinas dancing in the wind. The sheep and cattle are gone, but storms still roll in wild as ever.
Then someone mentioned the Henrietta, a treasure ship carrying silver from Goa in India, and meant as part of the dowry of the Portuguese princess who was marrying Charles II. Catherine of Braganza, that was.
How can a mystery writer, much less two of them, walk away from an account of a wrecked treasure ship? And what happened to all that silver? A clue: there’s a story about a nineteenth-century coach and horses racing up from the bay in Ellen Marshall’s grandfather’s day, laden with a fortune in silver that had washed ashore in a recent storm. But that silver had vanished by the time the coach was found—abandoned. They say it still haunts that road on stormy nights, the rattle of the wheels, the hoofbeats of the horses, the jangle of harness carrying above the sounds of wind and rain.
How had all that silver changed the lives of those who lived out on the tip of the peninsula, isolated, far from Authority, nearly a law unto themselves? What were their feelings as they watched the Henrietta come to grief in their bay—then realized what she was carrying? What happens when all that unexpected largesse begins to dwindle over the centuries, only to pop up again in 1813, giving local people fresh hope? Just the place for Bess to travel to in 1919, to carry out her sense of duty and responsibility for those the war has left behind, only to find herself caught up in the complicated problems of Rachel and her neighbors.
Still, we sincerely apologize to the residents of the peninsula if we’ve offended them in any way by creating our own account of a village by the name of Caudle overlooking a bay just like theirs. And we urge our readers to visit Gower for themselves and see why it is such a fascinating place.
Our thanks, meanwhile, to Nicky, tour leader extraordinaire, who planned our excursion into South Wales. We’d follow her anywhere—and often do!
And we might add we hope Captain Hugh Williams and his men exemplify soldiers of every war who came home badly wounded and lost their way for a time—then found they were still men and the bravest of the brave. As we finish writing this on the eve of Veterans Day—once Armistice Day, commemorating the end of the Great War—it’s fitting to remember the men and women who serve.
About the Author
CHARLES TODD is the author of the Bess Crawford mysteries, the Inspector Ian Rutledge mysteries, and two stand-alone novels. A mother-and-son writing team, they live on the East Coast.
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Also by Charles Todd
The Ian Rutledge Mysteries
A Test of Wills
Wings of Fire
Search the Dark
Legacy of the Dead
Watchers of Time
A Fearsome Doubt
A Cold Treachery
A Long Shadow
A False Mirror
A Pale Horse
A Matter of Justice
The Red Door
A Lonely Death
The Confession
Proof of Guilt
Hunting Shadows
A Fine Summer’s Day
No Shred of Evidence
Racing the Devil
The Gatekeeper
The Bess Crawford Mysteries
A Duty to the Dead
An Impartial Witness
A Bitter Truth
An Unmarked Grave
A Question of Honor
An Unwilling Accomplice
A Pattern of Lies
The Shattered Tree
A Casualty of War
Other Fiction
The Murder Stone
The Walnut Tree
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
a forgotten place. Copyright © 2018 by Charles Todd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
first edition
Cover design by Lex Maudlin
Cover images © Mark Owen / Trevillion Images (Woman, Sky, Water) ; © mimagephotography / Shutterstock (Hair Tendrils)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Digital Edition SEPTEMBER 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-267885-0
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-267882-9
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