by Charles Todd
We’d hardly reached Middle Dysoe when rain came down in hard driving drops that struck the windscreen and splattered. The rounded hills that surrounded us echoed the thunder, making it difficult to tell how near it was. But the lightning flashed across the windscreen with a brightness that made me blink.
“Where can we set you down?” I asked over the roar of the rain. In that same instant, lightning flashed blue and thunder followed hard on its heels. “Or perhaps it would be better to wait until the worst has passed.” Wind rocked the motorcar, whipping at the words.
Our passenger looked out at the sky. “It’s very bad, isn’t it? Perhaps a few minutes . . .” She let her words trail off.
Looking out as the rain swept through Middle Dysoe, moving in a curtain down the High Street, I couldn’t help but think the village had an air of timelessness about it. As if we could have come here a hundred—two hundred—years ago and it would have looked much the same. And a hundred years from now, it would have hardly changed at all.
We had pulled to the side of the High Street, and I saw that the shop next to us was a small bakery that was no doubt one of Mr. Warren’s many customers. There were half-empty trays in the window, and by this time of day most of the loaves would have been sold. There was one lonely round loaf next to a half dozen fruit tarts, and even as I watched, a hand moved into the window from inside the shop and took away three of the tarts.
I’d tried to make conversation, but our passenger appeared to be shy, for she answered questions with a quiet yes or no, when she could. We’d fallen silent, listening to the rain change from thumps to a steady drumbeat, and finally to a simple patter.
Simon turned. “If you’ll tell me where you live . . . ?”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I must stop in the bakery for a moment. I’ll be all right from here.”
“We’ll be happy to wait,” I offered, but she shook her head, blushing a little as Simon came to help her out and hand the baskets to her one by one. She thanked him, and quickly ducked into the bakery before he could hold the door, wedging her baskets ahead of her.
Simon returned to the wheel and we drove on. “As we come into Lower Dysoe, watch for the lane where Mrs. Chatham lives.”
I almost missed it, for it turned at a sharp angle, half hidden by that old section of wall, just as Mr. Warren had told us. The stone was rampantly covered in wisteria, the green leaves and tendrils reaching up into the air where a roof had once been.
We took the lane past a handful of cottages, and came upon a low wall that enclosed a wood. Across the way was another, higher wall that I thought might be part of Windward land. Very soon we could see a small manor house tucked away to our right, in a dip of the hill. It was built of the same mellow rose brick as Windward, but that was the only similarity.
Simon pulled up the brake. It was still raining, and the lead roof gleamed dully in the gray light. I could hear the thunder behind us now, moving toward Upper Dysoe and Biddington.
“It must have been a dower house of the original estate,” I said. “Or the home of a less distinguished relative.”
And yet the house was serene, welcoming, as if one only needed to knock at the door to be admitted. But the gates were firmly closed, shutting us out. “Locked,” Simon noted.
The name of the house, Chatham Hall, was carved into one of the marble blocks set into the stone gateposts.
“I can see why Mrs. Chatham chose to come back here, rather than live in London. It’s a lovely setting,” I said.
“It is.”
“I can’t imagine how anyone could possibly walk into the grounds, steal into that house, find a single revolver, and slip out again without arousing suspicion.”
“Certainly there’s been no gossip about a break-in.”
“Then we’re back to the possibility that the Major left the revolver in the barn. But that’s rather a coincidence, don’t you think? The miller, the forgotten weapon, and the man who intended to use it, happening to be in the same place at the same moment. The only other possibility is that someone living in this house had access to the revolver and took it out to use it.” I peered out at the gates. “We could walk up to the house.”
“Hardly the most auspicious way to arrive, muddy and damp, asking inconvenient questions,” Simon commented. He released the brake and drove past the gates, following the low wall for a little way. But there appeared to be no other entrance. Reversing, he drove back the way we’d come and continued down the lane toward the main road. “We’ll have to find an excuse to call.”
We had just reached the wisteria-clad wall at the junction with the main road when someone came hurrying around the corner and stopped short at the sight of our motorcar.
It was the young woman we’d left in Middle Dysoe, in the baker’s shop.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SHE STILL HELD a heavy marketing basket in each hand, and her hair had begun to straggle out from under her sodden hat. The shoulders of her coat were wet and so were her shoes.
We stared at each other for a stunned moment.
I put down the window and said, “I’m so sorry. We could have brought you here. But you said Middle Dysoe . . .” It was the best opening I could think of. We had offered.
She stood there, her mouth still open, trying to think of something to say. Finally she blurted, “I—I stopped to look in on a sick friend.”
I doubted very much that there was a sick friend, any more than there had been a pressing need to stop in the little bakery.
Simon had put on the brake and was already out of the motorcar. “Let me set these in the rear,” he said solicitously. “You are already wet through.” She wanted to protest but didn’t know quite how to refuse Simon.
She blinked once or twice, as if her mind was still muddled. Then she said, “I don’t like to ask favors when I can’t possibly return them.”
“You’re not in our debt,” Simon replied easily and helped her climb into the rear seat.
She was still faintly protesting as Simon headed back down the lane. “Tell me where to go. One of the cottages?”
Our passenger was too well dressed to belong to one of those, but I knew that Simon was trying to put her at her ease.
“No, the house—farther along.” I could tell from the direction of her voice that she was sitting stiffly on the edge of the seat. “Why were you on this lane? Not many people come up it.”
“We’d driven farther than we’d intended. I was looking for a wide enough space to turn the motorcar.” He and I had silently agreed to lie rather than tell her what we were doing. At least for now.
“Oh,” she said, as if she’d not been thinking of such a simple explanation. But what could be worrying about our presence here?
“Just there,” she said, pointing over my shoulder. “The gates.”
Simon obligingly nodded, and then pulled into the space before them.
“Oh,” she said again. “Someone’s locked the gates.” She seemed uncertain what to do now, as if we had somehow overwhelmed her by giving her a lift.
Or as if she had a secret she was afraid she might accidentally reveal?
Her secret—or someone else’s?
Simon got out and went to look. The gates were latched, but not locked. I’d have sworn he was right earlier, that they had been locked. He swung them wide and then came back to drive the motorcar through.
“I’ll close them when we drive out,” he said over his shoulder to the woman.
She didn’t reply. I glanced over my own shoulder to smile at her, and watched as she made an effort to give me an answering smile. It wavered, then vanished.
The arched doorframe was set off by stone facings, and the windows were old and elegant, many of them mullioned, the others plain glass inset with shields and emblems. The ornate knocker, brass in the shape of a lion, was heavily draped with the black crepe of mourning.
Almost as soon as we’d come to a full stop, before Simon could step out and
help her, she’d opened her door and was trying to pull the heavy baskets toward her across the rear seat. He lifted them for her and started toward the door, but she was there before him, thanking him profusely and telling him that she could manage now.
It was clear that she wouldn’t open the door to the house until he had rejoined me in the motorcar and we’d started around the loop in the drive that led to the gates.
“She’s gone inside,” he said, finally looking back. “It wasn’t another red herring.”
Simon got out and closed the gate, latching it as promised, and then when he was once more settled behind the wheel, he said, “Those were very heavy baskets. Was she doing the marketing for that entire household?”
“And why walk all the way to Upper Dysoe? Simon, I’ve seen her before, I told you. In Upper Dysoe several times. I’m sure of it. And I think Maddie must know who she is. I remember once when he was speaking to me that he turned to watch her as she came out of a shop. Perhaps she doesn’t want to be seen here in her own village buying more than usual?”
“If she lives in that house, and her clothes suggest it, added to the fact that she walked in the main door, not a servants’ entrance, why not take a carriage or use a dogcart?” Simon asked.
“Perhaps she didn’t want anyone to know how far she had to walk?”
Of course none of this confirmed that Sergeant Wilkins was inside that house. But the soldier Matt had seen was lying just outside this village. Circumstantial evidence still. But it was intriguing.
We drove into Lower Dysoe and looked at the handful of shops as we passed. There was nothing here to match the shops in Upper Dysoe. When we came to the end of the hamlet, we found a farm track that led into the estate where we’d just left the woman. Simon turned in and we drove a little way into the grounds, stopping short of the outbuildings of what must be the home farm or a tenant’s house. As we were reversing, a dog began to bark at the motorcar, and I looked back to see the little spaniel we’d nearly run down one day when it got free from its owner. She’d had quite a fright. I remembered the look of horror on her face. Was that why she’d left the little dog at home after that?
There was a rainbow in the sky as we drove into Upper Dysoe. The storm had moved on eastward, and the sun was trying to break through in the west, now and again picking out the sparkle of raindrops on trees or turning puddles on the road into bright mirrors of light.
Simon continued into Biddington, and at the inn where I’d stayed, he also took a room.
We’d missed our lunch, and so we went down for an early dinner. I found Simon already there, talking to the man behind the bar. I waited for him to join me, and together we went into the small dining room.
“What did you learn?” I asked, when we’d given our order.
Simon smiled. “Mrs. Chatham is a war widow, as we know. She’s brought her younger sister to live in the house with her. Her name is Phyllis Percy, and she sounds very much like the young woman in question. Most of the staff went off to war while the house was closed. Mrs. Chatham insisted on opening it anyway. There are three tenant houses on the property. One is occupied by an older couple whose son is at sea on a frigate. The other is quite small, a grace-and-favor cottage where the former nanny lives. She suffers from rheumatism, and her meals are brought to her from the main house. The third cottage is empty. It’s some distance from the other two, on the far side of the road we explored. It’s where the head groom, later chauffeur, lived. He was killed in France.”
“The man at the bar was an endless source of information,” I said, surprised.
“It seems he spent his boyhood in Lower Dysoe and still has an aunt who lives there.”
“Lucky for us,” I said, smiling. “Do you think it’s true? What he told you?”
“He has no reason to lie. He also told me that Miss Percy often takes the little spaniel for a walk. It must be lonely and rather dull in that house. Mrs. Chatham never entertains and seldom goes out. She sits in her room, mourning her husband, taking most of her meals there.”
“Then why bring her sister to the house?”
“To keep it running smoothly, I should think. If Mrs. Chatham intended to retreat into the past.”
Still, Phyllis Percy would not be required to do the work herself. Only to supervise the household through the housekeeper, decide on what was to be prepared for meals, and keep an eye on the outside staff, whatever gardeners, grooms, and their helpers remained in wartime. A young woman would find she had time on her hands, but that wouldn’t explain the daily walk to Upper Dysoe and back.
Our meal arrived, and we ate in silence for a time. I always found the silences comfortable when I was with Simon.
Then a thought occurred to me as I considered what must be the patterns of Phyllis Percy’s life.
“She must be hiding something. She doesn’t do her marketing in the village. She doesn’t send the cook or housekeeper to do it for her. She doesn’t order the pony cart or carriage to take her to Upper Dysoe. And when we brought her home she waited until we were leaving before opening the door and going inside. Almost as if she was afraid someone might be standing on the other side of it, waiting for her. Yet she’d allowed us to drive to the entrance, so she isn’t watched. No one seems to mind if she disappears for several hours to go into Upper Dysoe.”
“And no one opened the door, exclaiming over how wet she was, ready to take the baskets from her. That was a rather vicious storm and she’d been out in it.”
The lightning had been fearsome. Surely someone would have worried about her? One of the maids or my mother would have met me on the drive, scolding me for risking a chill.
I said slowly, “She’s rather like Sister Hammond, isn’t she? The sort of person it would be easy to take advantage of.”
“Has this been going on for some time? Or has she recently begun to walk to Upper Dysoe?” Simon asked.
“Maddie might know. I remember him watching her. And I’m sure she hasn’t conceived a sudden passion for the Upper Dysoe greengrocer.”
Simon laughed. “Not at all likely.”
“If her sister keeps to her rooms, wrapped in grief, it would depend on where the loyalty of the staff lies as to how much Miss Percy could get away with.”
As we finished our dinner, I said, “There’s money in that house. I can’t imagine that the sister, however blinded by grief, would allow Phyllis to take up with a mere sergeant, much less one under some sort of cloud. After all, he’s not on leave, he isn’t in a clinic, and he’s not at the Front. The most likely interpretation must be that he’s a deserter.”
“Unless of course Miss Percy has concocted a tale that makes her the heroine of a romantic mésalliance.”
“Romeo and Juliet, star-crossed and unhappy?” I smiled. But then I realized that there might be a kernel of truth in all this speculation. “Miss Percy would have to convince the servants as well as her sister.”
“I think,” Simon replied, “that we need to learn more about Mrs. Chatham. But not here. I’ve asked enough questions for one day. It will seem odd if I begin to pry into matters that go beyond general gossip.”
“Who then?”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it? We really don’t have an entrée anywhere that would allow us to ask personal questions. We aren’t invited to dine or to attend an evening party. We’re the outsiders. But I think there’s a way to get to the bottom of one of our problems.” He rose and escorted me to the stairs. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
He strode off toward the nether regions of the inn, and if I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought he was on his way to the kitchen.
Five minutes later he was back, bearing a rather greasy packet, which he took directly out to the motorcar.
“Are you up for an adventure?” he asked as I started to follow him.
Mystified, I said, “Of course.”
“Let’s go upstairs. I’ll call for you a little after ten. Don’t wear your
cap or your apron. Too much white.”
I led the way up to the first-floor passage, thinking hard.
“We’re going to do a little late-night reconnaissance,” I said.
“Bess.” He raised his eyebrows in mock disbelief. “Would I lead you into trouble?”
I laughed. “Of course you would, if you didn’t wish to leave me here alone in this inn.”
Yet I’d spent several nights by myself in this inn while he was in Stratford.
It was nearly fifteen minutes past ten o’clock when Simon tapped very lightly at my door. I’d heard the case clock in the hall below strike the hour.
I wore my regulation coat over my uniform. It was rather chilly after the storm had passed, and so this didn’t seem unusual. Simon wore a dark jumper over his shirt, and dark trousers.
We went quietly down the stairs and out to his motorcar. He turned the crank, and we rolled out into the road.
It was dark here in this hilly part of the country, and the stars hadn’t appeared because of the light cloud cover left over from the storm. But as the wind picked up, it was quickly dissipating. Our headlamps slashed through the night, illuminating the road ahead of us with an almost blinding glare. Simon drove carefully, watchful for sheep and other denizens of the night.
Twisting and turning through the rounded hills, we passed through Upper Dysoe first. The houses were dark, no one on the streets. The only light I saw was in the low, thatched cottage belonging to Maddie, and I wondered if he was treating a patient. We reached the ruined barn, and I could have sworn that I’d caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. Surely it was just the wind stirring up the ashes from the fire?
The gates of Windward appeared on our left. The house too was dark, looming like a misshapen shadow tucked into its shallow bowl, its beauty hidden.
Middle Dysoe was shrouded in blackness, the huddled shapes of houses and shops silent and shuttered, dark, although a dog barked from a tanner’s yard. And then we reached Lower Dysoe. Our headlamps skimmed the broken wall with its covering of vines. They fluttered as we passed, as if ruffled by an invisible hand.
