by Charles Todd
I wondered if Mr. Warren, the miller, knew that his lad told such tales.
It wasn’t until I was sitting on a bench by the church, eating a ploughman’s lunch of bread and cheese and apples, that I learned anything truly useful.
A man was scything the grass between gravestones, and when he stopped to rest, he nodded to me and asked what brought me to Biddington, if I’d brought someone home.
I explained that I was on leave and looking for my brother, who had walked away from the hospital where he was recovering.
“No strangers in Biddington that I’ve heard of,” he assured me, leaning on the handle of his scythe. “I’d learn soon enough if there was. My wife cleans the church every week, and the committee ladies bringing in the flowers gossip freely.”
Laughing, I asked if he’d heard all the talk about Barbara Neville’s fiancé
“There’s two schools of thought there,” he said, casting a glance toward the Rectory to be sure he couldn’t be seen chatting with me. “One says Miss Neville brought him home one day without a by your leave and announced she was going to nurse him back to health.”
“And the other school?”
“That she found him wandering on a hillside, half mad and barely able to walk. And she took him in, claiming she knew him.”
This was too close to the mark to ignore.
“Did she indeed?” I asked, offering him one of my apples. “What was he doing there?”
“Thankee, Sister. No one seems to know. And the servants are closemouthed, as you’d expect. But there must be some truth to it, because if she brought him back from London, no one saw her passing through Biddington.”
“She might have driven in from Worcestershire.” It was the direction we’d come from, and it would make some sense if Miss Neville were coming up from Dorset.
He shook his head. “It’s what the gossip says.”
“Have you ever seen him? Does he often come with her to Biddington?”
“No one has seen him. There was a story making the rounds that he was deformed and only walked out at night. Some claim they’ve seen him on the road in the evening, and they look the other way for fear he’s burned or disfigured or some such.”
He thanked me again for the apple and went back to work, whistling to himself as he moved between the graves.
Simon hadn’t returned by late evening.
The next day I stayed close. I’d visited most of the shops and could think of no other way to approach people. But by late afternoon, tired of four walls, I went out again. Biddington was strung out along the road, like many villages and towns that had grown from a few huddled buildings to any size. Only a few lanes led off the High Street, and most were residential, cottages and bungalows in the direction of Upper Dysoe, and a scattering of cottage industries and a smithy toward the next village. I made a circuit, coming back by way of the churchyard. The grass cutter was nowhere to be seen.
Biddington’s church to St. Martin was not very large. I walked up the path to the west door and stepped inside for a moment, looking around at the walls, where new memorials had been added to commemorate the dead who were buried in France. They were so new, the engraving sharp, the brass gleaming. I’d seen recent graves in the churchyard as well, raw mounds only beginning to grass over. The altar window was rich with greens and reds and even blues, and I thought it might have been endowed by a rich merchant, but the little visitor’s booklet claimed it had been a gift of a Tudor-era Neville, in memory of his father, lost at Bosworth Field.
I walked out into the sunlight again and stood there, watching a woman pushing a pram along the road. I was reminded of the baby I’d delivered to the refugee woman, and I wondered if the little girl and her mother had survived.
Feeling a wave of sadness, I resolutely set out again. I was in a short street of small houses, hardly more than cottages. The door opened in one near the end of the street, and a young woman stepped out.
I knew her, I was sure of it, but at first I couldn’t place her. She was coming toward me, and I smiled, still trying to remember who she was. Dark brown hair, hazel eyes, a long face . . .
Then it struck me. In a blue dress trimmed with cream and a small hat, she looked nothing like the trim housemaid who had brought hot water and clean bandages up to the Major’s room.
What was her name? I don’t think I’d heard it. But unless Miss Neville had told her staff about our incursion in the sickroom, no one knew I’d been sent away with a flea in my ear. I could at least try to speak to her.
She nodded to me as she came abreast. “Sister,” she acknowledged shyly. She would have walked on, but I stopped, and so she was forced to pause as well.
“You were there when Maddie and I were treating the Major’s leg,” I said, using the tone of voice of a ward Sister inquiring about a patient. Professional without any personal overtones. “I’m afraid I can’t remember your name. How is he today? Has the fever dropped?”
“It’s Violet, Miss. As to the Major, I can’t say,” she went on. “Miss Neville was sitting with him in the morning, and this was my afternoon off. But I do believe he’s less feverish than he was. And the powders Mr. Maddie left do keep him quiet. He was thrashing about quite a bit in the night after the wound was cleaned. It must have been hurting something fierce.”
“I’m happy to hear he’s improving.” I turned to walk on, and she fell into step beside me. My interest having been established as purely medical, I went on. “What happened to his leg? It was an old wound close to the knee, I could see that, but recently reinfected.”
“He keeps wandering off. The Major. A week past, he found the gates shut and locked. Trying to climb up and over them, he took a frightful fall. The new wound didn’t appear to be that deep, but you never know, do you? All at once it became swollen and turned so dark a red, Mrs. Neville sent for Mr. Maddie, not waiting for the mistress to return.”
“That explains it,” I said, nodding. “Why it was so infected.”
“He was off his head when Miss Neville first brought him home,” Violet added confidingly. “And not from delirium. We’d find him in that old barn, the one that’s burned down. Or someone would come across him lying on the road or away up the hill, too weak to go on. Then he took a fancy to that goat.” She laughed. “Mrs. Neville claimed he was just taunting Miss Neville, but who’s to say? I heard him going on to Miss Neville about the time he was a prisoner of the Germans. But she claims he was no such thing.”
“Perhaps that’s why he’s always trying to escape,” I said. “Because he thinks he was.”
“It could well be,” she said. “I’d never thought of that.”
“Has Miss Neville known Major Findley very long?”
“That’s the odd thing. We’d never heard her speak of him, then suddenly she brings him home and informs us they’re engaged. Mrs. Neville says he’s a nobody, that her stepdaughter could do far better. An earl or even a duke.”
“When did he first come to Upper Dysoe?”
“It must be close on to six weeks, now.”
Close to the time Sergeant Wilkins disappeared. In London.
We had reached the High Street, and she waved to the greengrocer’s boy, who was just closing the back of the cart used for deliveries. I could see bundles and baskets of foodstuffs. The fragile fronds of carrots next to fat cabbages and the long pale shapes of parsnips.
“I’m sorry, Sister. He’s to drop me at Windward,” Violet said, bidding me a hasty farewell. Running lightly across the road, she hailed the boy, who could be no more than fifteen, and he helped her onto the cart’s seat, talking animatedly to her as he took his own place.
She looked back at me, giving me a little smile that seemed to say, What can one do?, as if the boy’s attentions made her feel a bit awkward.
I walked on to the inn, thinking about what Violet had told me.
Encountering Violet had been the second bit of luck I’d had since Simon had driven away.
&nb
sp; Then I had another bit. I was just finishing my tea when the owner of the pub, a man named Oakham, was telling someone that he could borrow the mare for an hour at reasonable rates. But the man wasn’t a rider and shook his head, asking if one of the shopkeepers might give him a lift to Lower Dysoe.
I waited until he’d thanked Mr. Oakham and left before approaching the bar.
“I’d like to take your mare out for an hour or so.”
He looked me up and down. “I’ve no sidesaddle, Sister. Do you have riding clothes with you?”
“No, sorry, I don’t. But I can manage, I think.”
He was doubtful. Still, he took me around to the kitchen yard where the mare was in the stall that was at the near end of a small shed. He opened the half door and led her out.
She was a tall horse, a pretty, softly dappled gray with white mane and tail. She nuzzled my arm as I came forward to rub her nose.
“The Army didn’t want her,” Oakham was saying. “Not dark enough. And I can’t say I wasn’t glad. She’s been gently reared, and I couldn’t bear to think of her going off to war.”
“Yes, I understand,” I said, thinking of all the dead horses I’d seen in France. The mare nodded, as if in agreement.
Mr. Oakham fetched a saddle and bridle, then set about putting them on.
“Know horses, do you?”
“I’ve ridden since I was a child,” I told him.
“Well, then, you’ll have no trouble. Her name’s Molly, and she has no bad habits. Wait here.”
He went back inside the pub and soon reappeared with a worn but good pair of riding boots. “My late wife’s,” he said. “She wouldn’t mind if you used them.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
I went back inside, to my room, and changed into the boots. They fit very well, and I was glad of them.
Downstairs once more, I led the mare to the block and mounted in a flurry of skirts. But I managed to sit the horse with sufficient decorum to ride on. Mr. Oakham watched me out of sight, making certain I could handle Molly. We were soon trotting sedately down the road to Upper Dysoe.
Maddie was in his cottage when I arrived. I called to him, and after a moment he came out his door and stood there, looking up at me.
“That’s Oakham’s mare,” he said, as if accusing me of stealing her.
“Yes, I’ve borrowed her for the afternoon. I’m staying on in Biddington for a while.”
“What do you want with me?” His glance strayed to my right arm. I’d left off the sling after helping him with the infected leg, and I found I could even manage Molly’s reins with only a little pain to remind me to be careful.
“I was concerned about Major Findley,” I said, as if I’d never spoken to Violet. “If cleaning the wound had been enough.”
“His fever is down,” he said, almost reluctant to give me news. I couldn’t help but wonder if Miss Neville had said anything about my interfering again. “And there’s no sign of new infection.”
“I’m glad.”
“What keeps you in Biddington?” he asked, as if against his better judgment.
“I’m not sure,” I replied, giving some thought to what I wanted to say. “We came here by accident the first time, you know. When the miller was shot. Looking for someone who had disappeared. A soldier. But we lost him near Upper Dysoe. And then after I’d returned to France, Sister Hammond wrote to me about the letter she’d received. Purportedly from you. It seemed to be an odd coincidence.”
“We’ve discussed this before. I don’t know this woman.”
“I’m sure she didn’t know you, I told you she thought Maddie was short for Madeleine. At any rate, that pleading letter has stayed with me. Someone was begging for help, and I still haven’t found him. I can’t ask you to break a promise. But if I could just hear that he’s in good hands, I could go back to London.” It was a different approach. I wondered if it would work.
“It will do you no good to linger. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.” His gaze went beyond me, watching a young woman coming out of one of the shops farther down the street.
“Do you think it was Major Findley? I’m undecided—is he the man Sergeant-Major Brandon and I have been searching for? Wouldn’t it be best for everyone if we could reconcile this problem once and for all? Someone wrote to Sister Hammond. Someone used your name and this address. How many people do you think even know where to find Upper Dysoe? It’s hardly a crossroads of Empire.”
He said nothing.
Remembering suddenly, I said, “You told me that you had another patient suffering from a head wound.”
Maddie regarded me. I couldn’t quite read his expression but I thought I’d caught him off guard. After a moment he said, “We have grown accustomed to war wounds. We have forgot that horses can still kick a farmer in the head or a child can still fall out of an apple tree.” He sighed. “If you wish to know more about Major Findley, speak to him. Or failing that, to Miss Neville.”
And that was, after all, good advice. But carrying it out was another matter.
I thanked him, turned the mare’s head, and rode through Upper Dysoe toward Windward.
Soon after I passed the burned-out barn, I caught up with the young woman I’d seen earlier, doing her marketing. She looked up and smiled. I thought I must present quite a sight, my skirts tucked around me. Molly, lovely lady that she was, moved well, making it easy for me to keep them wrapped around my borrowed boots. And that reminded me that she was also tall, and I’d need help getting back into the saddle. I hadn’t seen a mounting block by Windward’s main door.
There wasn’t one.
As I rang the bell, I tried to sort out what I was intending to say. I’d probably have only a matter of a few seconds to make my mission clear before the servant answering the door sent me about my business.
I didn’t recognize the maid who answered my summons. As in so many grand houses, Windward’s footmen and even butlers must have gone to war or off to do war work.
Older and quite prim, she politely asked my business.
Inviting me to step inside, she went away to see if Miss Neville would receive me.
It was several minutes before I was shown to a narrow room that opened out onto a garden. The door was standing wide, and it was quiet enough that I could hear the buzz of insects in a shrub just outside.
Miss Neville was trimming cut flowers. Beside her on the stone shelf was a large, elegant green-and-white vase.
She went on about her work as the housemaid withdrew. “I thought I was rid of you,” she said, without looking up.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Neville,” I said, keeping my voice level. “There’s been a misunderstanding, one I’d like to clear up if I may.”
At that she wheeled and stared at me as if I had grown two heads. I didn’t think Miss Neville was accustomed to anyone who spoke to her as an equal.
I stared back. She was hardly as frightening as some of the Matrons I’d known.
“Indeed. What is your name, Sister?”
“Crawford.”
“I shall remember that when I report you to your superiors for insolence.”
If she’d meant to rattle me, she failed.
“I came to Upper Dysoe in search of a wounded man who had—er—been released too soon from the hospital where he was being treated. We failed to find him. I had seen Major Findley sitting on that bench under the tree on the front lawns, and he looked so much like the man we’re been seeking that I was worried. I must apologize for my next question. If you had found him ill and wandering in his mind, had taken him in and cared for him until you could discover who he was, I could well have the answers you must also be looking for.” That last wasn’t quite the truth, but she couldn’t prove it wasn’t.
“Why should you dare to assume that a guest in this house was some lost soul missing from a hospital?” She was suddenly angrier than she ought to be, and I couldn’t quite understand why.
“Because the last
sighting we had of this patient was not so very far from here. And for several reasons, he could be considered dangerous. That’s why the man called Maddie allowed me to help him treat the Major.”
That gave her pause.
“A dangerous man? And you’ve misplaced him?”
“Baldly put, yes.”
“I can assure you that he is not Major Findley. I brought him here from Dorset, because he didn’t appear to be recovering quickly enough in that hospital filled with screaming men and a staff too exhausted to care for half of them.”
“And yet there is no doctor available closer than Biddington. Unless of course you consult Maddie. The Medical Corps frowns on patients being cared for in less than ideal circumstances.”
“Are you presuming to tell me that I was derelict in bringing the Major here?”
“Indeed not. It was a kindness. But you can see why I might have mistaken him for our missing patient. Under the circumstances.”
She put down the scissors she was still holding in one hand, ready to shorten the stem she held in the other.
“You have a point,” she said, although I thought it was a grudging concession.
As if the little room was suddenly claustrophobic, she gestured for me to follow her, and we stepped out into the very pretty cutting garden.
“What do you mean by dangerous?” she asked when we were out of hearing of anyone in the house.
I had no intention of mentioning murder. “In delirium, men sometimes believe they’re back in France. They will lash out violently, even to the point of laying hands on the Sisters or orderlies.” I held up my arm as a case in point. The bruises had faded nicely to a pea green mixed with yellow. “The same can be true of severe head wounds. If you don’t know what to expect, it can be quite frightening.”
Miss Neville frowned again. I wondered what was on her mind. Something most certainly was. Was she worried about Major Findley? I suddenly remembered what I’d been told about his wandering, and the problem with the goat. They had loomed large when I considered the possibility that the Major could be Sergeant Wilkins. She had seen both as an annoyance. But he had a head wound—and he’d been delirious from the infection in his knee. Was she thinking of her own safety? Someone at the hospital ought to have warned her about the risks of caring for this man on her own, fiancé or not.
