An Unwilling Accomplice

by Charles Todd

  We stopped in another ten yards, and I moved to the seat next to Simon. My cap was crushed and wrinkled, my apron the same. I tucked loose strands of hair back out of sight and smoothed my skirts. “I believe I saw a pub in the village just ahead. Where we turned around last night?”

  “I don’t think either of us is presentable enough to approach the police and ask directions,” he said with a wry smile. “The pub it is.”

  “I expect you’re right.” And then I asked a question I’d been putting off since Simon had found me. “Has the Colonel Sahib had anything to say about my problem with the Army?” I told myself I hadn’t wanted him to know, because I hadn’t wanted to drag him into what had happened over Sergeant Wilkins’s disappearance. But this morning I suddenly found myself thinking about him.

  “I haven’t spoken to him,” Simon answered. “I’ve been out of touch.”

  Which probably meant he’d been in France. Or my father had. Not the happiest thought. I worried about them more than they knew.

  Just then we came to the outskirts of the village, and down the street I could see the pub sign. the SHEPHERD’S CROOK.

  I could feel my stomach growling at the thought of breakfast.

  “What do you say? We can stop here, freshen up, and bespeak breakfast before deciding where we are and whether to go back or continue.”

  “A very good idea.”

  Ahead of us a young woman with a market basket over her arm started to cross the street, a small liver-and-white spaniel on a lead trotting beside her. The little dog darted away, dragging his lead, and charged the motorcar, barking furiously.

  The young woman cried out in alarm, calling the dog’s name, and if Simon’s reflexes hadn’t been swift enough, the spaniel would have ended up under our wheels. Sounding the horn and veering away, he barely missed the little dog.

  I breathed again, knowing just how close a call it was.

  The spaniel must have realized that as well, for it fell back on its haunches as Simon sounded the horn once more, then it turned tail and ran back to its mistress, cowering beneath her skirts. She fervently thanked us, then bent to scold the dog.

  We carried on and pulled into the pub’s yard behind several carts and a horse-drawn milk wagon.

  Apparently we weren’t the only ones to decide to stop here for breakfast. Inside there were half a dozen farmers. The man from the milk van was talking to them and to the cart owners, comparing prices on goods. I gathered there had been a market in one of the neighboring towns the day before, and those who hadn’t gone were discussing the cost of oats and barley and even beer, with those who had. They barely looked up as we crossed the room. I heard one of the farmers boast that he’d bought a bonnet for his daughter in Biddington, and the eager questions about prices turned into good-natured teasing. I saw the man flush with a mixture of embarrassment and pride.

  The pub was old, dark, low beamed—Simon’s head all but brushed the rafters as we walked toward the bar—and the air was rather smoky from the fire.

  There appeared to be no separate dining room, although Simon inquired, and he turned to me to ask if I wished to drive on. But I shook my head. The smells issuing from the kitchen were heavenly, and what did it matter if we stayed? Four years ago, before the war began, I might have been more reluctant. Now, having lived in very difficult conditions in France, sharing my breakfast with farmers was the least of my worries.

  “I think it’s best to stay. But are there rooms available to wash my face and hands?” I asked him in Urdu, and he turned back to the man behind the bar.

  It seems there were two rooms upstairs, although the man couldn’t answer as to whether we would be satisfied with them.

  We followed him up the narrow, creaking stairs to a dark passage lit only by a single window at the far end.

  Simon had a look at both rooms before nodding to the man.

  Mine was clean, but the furniture was heavy—the wardrobe took up most of the space—with a single cot, a washstand, and a chair. Someone tapped at my door, and when I opened it, a man well into his sixties brought in a pitcher of hot water and a pair of fresh towels.

  It was heaven to bathe my face and hands, brush out my hair and settle my cap properly, then brush my clothes as best I could.

  I was ready to go down when Simon came to collect me.

  After we’d given our order to the man who came to our table—the same one who had brought my water and towels—Simon grimaced. “Your mother will have my head for this,” he said, keeping his voice low enough for my ears only. “I shall have to do penance for a—” He broke off as the outer door opened and a woman in riding dress strode in.

  “My horse has gone lame, Tulley,” she said briskly to the man behind the bar, who had been washing glasses. She was quite attractive, slender and tall, fair hair tucked up under her riding hat. But her expression was imperious, as if she expected to be obeyed instantly.

  Wiping his hands on a towel hanging from his belt, Tulley replied, “Jim’s not here. But I can let you have the mare for now. Jim’ll bring the gray to the house as soon as he’s back.”

  She shook her head impatiently. “That won’t do. He must take the gray to Maddie to look her over, then come and tell me what has to be done. Maddie will know.”

  She took it for granted that he would do as she asked, turning to us now and frowning. “And who are you?” She included me in her glance but addressed her question to Simon.

  He rose. “Travelers,” he said briefly. “On our way home from calling on friends.”

  It wasn’t like Simon to be so unforthcoming. His expression was civil but cold.

  “And where is ‘home’?”

  “London.”

  “Indeed.” She considered him for a moment. Then she turned on her heel and went out the door.

  Simon stood where he was until the door had closed behind her, then resumed his place across the table from me.

  The man behind the bar said morosely to Simon, “She’s a right piece of work, but she owns the pub, she does, and there’s naught we can do about it, Jim and me.”

  “Who is she?” I asked, curious.

  “The late Mr. Neville’s daughter. More money than God. Her brother was killed on the Somme, and her father’s heart gave out from the shock. She was always one to want her own way. Even as a child. But now she can make life wretched for anyone stands up to her. Her brother, now, he was never one to cause trouble for anyone. A true gentleman, that one. He—” Breaking off he looked nervously toward the door as it began to open. But it was only a man roughly dressed like a workman, one eye covered by a makeshift patch, bony shoulders showing through the thin stuff of his shirt.

  Relieved, the man behind the bar said testily, “And where have you been? Her ladyship left the gray in the yard. You’re to take it to Maddie, and whatever Maddie says to do, you’ll tell Miss Neville, then bring my mare back home.”

  “Not me. I’m afraid of that damned fool shooting at everything that moves.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told, or know the reason why,” the man behind the bar said gruffly.

  “Easy for you to say, you was never in France.”

  The older man, who could very well be Jim’s father—they looked enough alike—came in with our food, but he’d heard enough to say, “Jim,” in a tone of voice that brooked no argument.

  Mumbling to himself, Jim turned and went out the door, slamming it hard.

  The platters of eggs, cheese, and thick slices of toasted bread were set before us, and then he turned back to the man behind the bar.

  “You can’t push Jim too far. He can’t bear the shooting. The sound rips at him, bringing everything back. Besides, that man’s daft, and will kill someone yet. Mark my words.”

  “She’ll put a stop to it if it gets out of hand. She’s besotted, if you want my opinion. That business of the goat, for one. Did no harm until he wandered off and she had to bring him back.”

  My gaze met Simon’s, a
nd he smiled.

  Who had wandered off, the goat or the man? Or both?

  Amused by this conversation we went on with our breakfast, in a hurry to finish and be on our way.

  “With any luck,” Jim’s father said finally, “she’ll marry and that will be an end to it.”

  It was true. Unless the woman’s father had managed to tie up the estate in his daughter’s name, everything she owned would become her husband’s property on the day of their marriage. And if her father had died suddenly, as it appeared from what the man Tulley was saying, there might have been no time to set out provisions to protect his daughter.

  It was one of the inequities of life. Even my mother’s inheritance had become my father’s property, but the Colonel Sahib loved his lady very much, and he had never treated her like chattel. For that matter, I couldn’t imagine my independent-minded mother allowing herself to become anyone’s chattel.

  The man trudged back to the kitchen and we finished our meal in peace. Simon went to settle our account and I prepared to leave.

  We had just stepped outside when Jim came running toward us, chest heaving from his exertions. We moved out of his way, but he was already speaking to Simon, putting out a hand to stop us.

  “Please, Sart-Major, does the Sister know how to take out a bit of lead?”

  “Who needs this help?” Simon asked as he shot a swift glance in my direction.

  “It’s Warren—he owns the flour mill. He’s been shot, Maddie says, and it can’t be left in, Maddie says. But his sight isn’t what it was.”

  “Is Maddie a doctor?”

  “We don’t run to doctors here, Sart-Major. Not here, not nowhere near. By the time Maddie gets Mr. Warren to Biddington, he’ll be dead.”

  “I have my kit,” I said to Simon. “But I don’t know what else I shall need. Surely it’s better to risk taking him to the nearest town. Perhaps we could drive him? That would be faster than a cart.”

  “Come and tell Maddie that. Maddie’s bent on taking it out.”

  We hurried to the motorcar, taking Jim up with us, and followed his directions to a small cottage on the far side of the village. I could see why there was no doctor here, tiny as Upper Dysoe was. And in such cases, a woman with a healing touch was often part midwife and part doctor and part witch, with herb remedies and the like to cure fevers, heal wounds, and sometimes save the very ill.

  The cottage was stone, settled into the earth as if it had grown out of it. Thatch beetled down to overhang the porch that shielded the door, and it had a rank smell. Not very reassuring, I thought as Simon ducked to step forward and lift the latch.

  Expecting to find an aged woman inside, with poor Mr. Warren lying on her bed, however clean it might be, I was quite surprised when I walked through the door Simon was holding open for me.

  The cottage was low-beamed inside, and there were only two rooms that I could see. Simon was forced to duck again. But there my image of what I’d find ended. Mr. Warren was lying on a low table set to one side of the main room, a clean sheet beneath him and one over him. A man nearly as old as Jim’s father was bending over him, speaking to him in a comforting tone of voice.

  He looked up as we entered, greeting us with a nod. “I’m sorry to trouble you,” he said in an educated voice. “But I can’t do this alone. There’s too much risk.”

  Mr. Warren was trying to see who had come in, twisting his head to look in our direction, his mouth tight with pain. But that tiny movement was enough to set off an agony of reaction, and he quickly closed his eyes, groaning through clenched teeth.

  Maddie pulled aside the sheet to show me the wound, far too close to the patient’s lung for my liking. I crossed the room for a closer look. Maddie was watching my face, watching to see if I thought this was beyond my skills.

  “He should be taken to the nearest doctor,” I said, straightening up.

  Maddie shook his head. “A doctor will ask questions about how he was shot, and the constable will want to know by whom. And that will be a problem.”

  I turned to Simon, who held my gaze for a moment, then shook his head.

  “Who did shoot him?”

  “Mr. Warren refuses to say.”

  I was studying the patient now. There was no bloody froth on his lips. But this wasn’t proof that the lung hadn’t been nicked by the bullet. I asked that he be turned slightly, but there was no exit wound. The bullet was still inside, possibly lodged in the bone. And the other problem was infection. Even if I successfully removed the bullet, I could do more damage than I knew. In several days this man might be dying, fever ravaged.

  It was a task for one of the American X-ray machines, so efficient at finding shrapnel and saving the patient the suffering of blind digging.

  Yet I had done this sort of thing time and again at the Front. Why was I hesitating to do it now?

  This was England, not the trenches of France. There would be a doctor in the next village or the next who could do such work with the proper tools and septic powder, giving the patient a far greater chance of survival.

  I shook my head again. “I don’t think it’s wise.”

  “Then I’ll do it,” Maddie said decisively. “With or without your help, it doesn’t matter.”

  He walked to the door and held it wide for us to go. Mr. Warren had opened his eyes again. They were frightened, staring at me, then at Maddie. Pleading for one of us to do something for his pain.

  I turned away and moved toward the door. But before I crossed the threshold, I stopped. I could see well, I could probe carefully. Would that make a difference in Mr. Warren’s survival?

  “All right,” I said, coming back into the room. “But what shall I use? Can we light a fire and boil enough water? Are there clean bandages for the wound?”

  Maddie pointed to the hearth. Kindling and wood lay ready for a match. Next he opened a cabinet standing in one corner. Inside was a tray of instruments, clean as any I’d ever seen, and well cared for. Below, on a shelf, were bandages, every shape and description, neatly folded and covered with a length of linen.

  I stared at the cabinet, then looked up at Maddie’s lined face. It gave nothing away.

  Who was he? Had he been a doctor once? How had he come by these things, otherwise? A simple healer in a tiny village without a real physician?

  And yet the very imperious Miss Neville had sent her horse to him.

  Without a word he handed me a large apron, and Simon helped me put it on after I’d removed my own.

  Maddie knew what instrument to hand me, and he stood at my side, intent on what I was doing, mopping the blood as it welled up in the wound while Simon and Jim held Mr. Warren steady.

  To give the miller credit, he tried not to cry out, his eyes closed, his teeth clenched, and then mercifully, he lost consciousness.

  I had to be very careful. Not to enlarge the wound, not to tear the edge of the lung or clip a major vessel. I realized suddenly that I could see better, and glanced up to find that Maddie was holding a lamp high to help me.

  And then I felt something move against the probe. In another minute I had fished the bullet out of the wound, grasping it with forceps as it came nearer the surface. I blessed Mr. Warren for being a muscular man without much fatty tissue on his frame as I dropped the small piece of metal into the pan Maddie was holding for me. It clinked loudly in the silence, and then I was putting antiseptic powder into the wound, using it liberally and waiting for the bleeding to clot.

  Straightening my back, I looked at the men on the other side of Mr. Warren’s inert figure.

  Jim was nearly green, and I thought he might be close to fainting. I doubt he’d had to assist at surgery before this. He grinned ruefully at me, saying, “I’ve seen ’em shot and blown apart, but I couldn’t watch the doctors at their work. A bloody shambles it was.” And he turned to stumble out of the cottage. I heard him being sick outside.

  Simon’s face was grim, but he returned my glance and smiled encouragingly. I stood
watching the wound for a time. Maddie had taken over now, frowning as he attended his patient.

  Finally he turned to me. “Well done, Sister,” he said. “Leave the apron by the door. I’ll see to it later.”

  “That’s from a revolver,” I said, gesturing to the lump of lead in the tin. “It’s not bird shot.”

  “I never said it was.”

  “No. But who shot Mr. Warren? And why shouldn’t the nearest constable be summoned? It’s attempted murder.”

  “It isn’t likely to be that,” Maddie said, distracted by his attention to his patient, who was beginning to come around. “I’ve a drop or two of laudanum. Mixed with a little water, and he’ll be quite comfortable for most of the day.”

  “He was shot,” I persisted. “And at fairly close range. Hardly mistaken identity, that, and I don’t think Mr. Warren indulged in stealing chickens.”

  Maddie looked at me. “Hardly. It’s rather complicated. A soldier. Home from the war and not quite right in his head. I shouldn’t think the poor man would be helped by throwing him in a cell. He’s not a killer. I assure you.”

  Shell shock? It wasn’t talked about. Lack of moral fiber, cowardice, whatever derogatory term people used, it was considered shameful, something to hide.

  As if he’d read my mind, Maddie shook his head. “An infection. Delirium. He got out, you see, and it was a while before we could find him again. He thought he was back in France. But of course he wasn’t.”

  My first thought was that I’d found Sergeant Wilkins. But the sergeant hadn’t been armed. And the revolver was an officer’s weapon . . .

  Maybe it was the man and not the goat after all that had gone astray.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SATISFIED THAT MY patient—our patient—was stable, I was ready to leave, but we hadn’t reached Simon’s motorcar when Miss Neville came galloping up on what must have been the pub owner’s horse.

  “What’s happened?” she demanded, staring at me and at Simon as if we were responsible for whatever she suspected. Because it was clear that she knew something.

  Maddie came out the door. “He’s all right, Miss Neville. The miller. A wound in the shoulder, nothing more.” His voice was quietly soothing.