An Unwilling Accomplice

by Charles Todd

  Completely at a loss, I said, “Good morning, Mrs. Neville. Is the Major running a fever again?”

  “No, no, nothing of that sort. Maddie brought him crutches, and he’s trying them out. A foolish mistake, if you want my opinion. The poor man will break his neck. Now, if you’ll allow me, I’ll explain on our way to the house.”

  She reached for my door, and I had no choice but to step down and move to the rear seat while she took my place.

  Simon said nothing. I knew he didn’t care for her overbearing manner or the way she treated the Colonel Sahib’s daughter like a servant. But I was curious enough not to mind. I didn’t take my measure of myself from Mrs. Neville.

  “Now then, young man,” she said to Simon as she settled in, indicating that we could continue on our way.

  I smothered a smile. Simon was too well mannered to tell her he would do nothing of the sort, but I caught what he was saying under his breath in Urdu.

  She ignored him, turning a little to tell me over her shoulder, “You seem like a sensible young woman, and your uniform tells me that you’ve had more than your share of experience dealing with wounded men.”

  Not knowing where she was going with this, I simply nodded.

  “Here’s the problem, in my view,” she began, settling back, now that she knew she had my full attention. “My stepdaughter is a very wealthy young woman with a social position to maintain. Her father tried to see her happily settled, but she’d have nothing to do with it. And yes, I do know the war has taken a terrible toll of eligible men. In my opinion, now that she’s finally decided to marry, she’s made the worst possible choice. The Major has no title, no fortune, and no position. He was a solicitor before the war. No doubt a charming and eligible young man to many. But not a suitable partner for a Neville.”

  “I expect she loves him,” I suggested.

  “What has love to do with it?” she demanded. “A young woman marries as her father dictates.”

  Simon moved sharply and then was still.

  “Not in every case,” I said. Mrs. Neville clearly had strong opinions about a good many things.

  “Where there is a large fortune and immense property involved, it’s an arrangement between two families, not a match made at a dance party.”

  “Was your own marriage arranged?” I asked.

  “Of course it was. My father was a baronet and my dowry was substantial.”

  “What is it you wish me to do?”

  “Explain to my stepdaughter, if you please, that a wounded man with a damaged mind isn’t going to heal properly, no matter how much she insists it’s possible. I have the strongest feeling that he will never be any better than he is now, confused, intransigent, angry at the world.”

  It was a fair assessment of the Major, as far as I could judge. For now. What the future held was another matter.

  And then Mrs. Neville added, “You know why she’s done this, don’t you? To spite me. Her father left her in my care, and she’s done everything in her power to thwart me.”

  Daughters and stepmothers didn’t always get along.

  “I’m not qualified to judge how well he’ll heal. I doubt anyone is. So many things matter. With the right encouragement, who knows what he could achieve?”

  She didn’t want to hear this.

  “Nonsense. Her father would be appalled. Whether she likes it or not, she must do what’s best for her and for the family. Heiresses know this from birth.”

  But Barbara Neville never expected to be the heir to Windward or her father’s fortune. If her brother hadn’t been killed, who could say what her future might have been.

  It wasn’t just the head wound. To put it simply, the Major wasn’t suitable.

  This woman who believed that modern progress was anathema and land had only one use, to support an agricultural population returning to the ways of their forebears, had no liberal views on marriage. I wondered if she also believed in drowning witches or burning heretics at the stake.

  “I haven’t actually examined the Major,” I said, taking a different tack. “How can I possibly judge his case when I’ve seen him only once or twice?”

  She turned to look at me again. “Don’t be difficult, my dear. I need your help. You’re in the Nursing Service, it’s your duty to cope with the wounded.”

  After weeks of training and years of experience as a battlefield nurse, I had learned many things, come to understand more, and acknowledged my limitations. That was a far cry from offering medical opinions about a man’s future.

  We had reached the gates. They stood open, and Simon drove straight through. As we swept around the circle and came to a halt by the broad curve of the steps, I tried to stop this matter a last time.

  “Mrs. Neville, I’m aware of how trying this must be for you. But I really must insist—”

  She waited until Simon had helped her alight from the motorcar, then turned to me as I also got down. “I have friends in London, Sister Crawford, some of whom are connected with Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service. What’s more, my cousin is a high-ranking officer in the British Army. Shall I write to them and tell them that you were less than helpful in my time of need?”

  Simon stepped forward, brows drawn in anger, but I put my hand on his arm to stop him.

  “That’s blackmail,” I replied quietly, “not a request for assistance in a serious matter in which I am not trained to offer an opinion.”

  Before she could respond, the door behind her opened and Barbara Neville stopped short on her own threshold. Looking first at Simon, then at her stepmother, she turned to me.

  “I was told you’d left Upper Dysoe.”

  Mrs. Neville said, not allowing me to answer, “Barbara. I’ve brought Sister Crawford here to talk some sense into you.”

  “Indeed?” Her fair eyebrows went up, and I expect Queen Mary couldn’t have looked more imperious than the woman before me. “And why should you think Sister Crawford is qualified to advise me?”

  Mrs. Neville opened her mouth to answer, but Barbara Neville turned to look over her shoulder, inside the house.

  “This is not the place to discuss my affairs. Come inside.”

  We followed her into the dim, cool hall and down a passage to our left. Miss Neville opened a door halfway along and stood aside to let us enter. It was a large, beautifully decorated library. Shelves of books ranged round the central walls, there was a large fireplace with Dutch tiles in the surrounds, and long windows gave out onto a view of gardens. The ceiling was magnificent, intertwined garlands and musical instruments cascading into corners, a Tudor rose taking pride of place in the center.

  There was a table in the center of the room, a globe next to it, and several chairs were arranged in front of the cold hearth. We sat down, save for Simon, who stood by the mantel, as if showing he was not a part of what was happening, and yet he was still the commanding presence in the room.

  Barbara Neville studied him for a moment, and he held her gaze. Turning away, she said to me, “Explain yourself.”

  “Mrs. Neville insists that I inform you of the problems involving marriage with a man whose wounds are—” I cast about for the right words. “Whose wounds are of such a nature that it might be years before he’s well enough to make a decision as important as marriage. She’s insisted in such a way that I had no—”

  The door swung open and the Major came in, clumsily using crutches. His face was pale, his blue eyes clear but dark with pain. He swayed as he attempted to swing the door closed, and Simon stepped forward as we all watched in dismay.

  He managed to keep his balance and moved toward the only vacant chair. I thought to myself that Maddie must have given him crutches against his better judgment.

  “If you wish to discuss me, Barbara, I should at least be present.” He folded his crutches together and passed them to Simon.

  “Thank you, Sergeant-Major,” he said, then turned to me. “You were saying?”

  “I was sayin
g that Mrs. Neville fails to understand that I’ve never examined you properly, and I haven’t seen your hospital records. I’m in no position to offer a clear picture of your prospects.”

  Mrs. Neville opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it.

  “Nor are you,” Major Findley agreed. “The leg is much better, by the way. As you can see.”

  “I would have insisted on a longer period of bed rest.”

  “So has Maddie. But I’ll go mad sitting in that room with nothing to do but think.”

  Barbara was on the point of taking charge of the conversation again, but he forestalled her. “If this is about me, I should set the rules. You will leave the room, Barbara, Mrs. Neville. And give Sister Crawford an opportunity to decide whether her patient is sane or half mad.”

  An argument broke out at once. I glanced at Simon and he shook his head very slightly. Let it play out, he seemed to be saying.

  It was fierce, vituperative. All the underlying dislike between stepmother and stepdaughter came out into the open, while Major Findley insisted that if he was to be judged, he must have it his way.

  And then as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Mrs. Neville rose and stalked from the room like an insulted tigress. Barbara turned to the Major and said, “I will not allow it.”

  “You will, or I shall declare here, before these witnesses, that I have no intention of marrying you now or ever, and I will instruct Sister Crawford to use her authority to have me returned at once to Dorset.”

  Barbara Neville looked as if she’d just been slapped. Her face flamed and then went pale almost at once. She cast an odd look at the man she must have thought she knew well, and without speaking got up and walked steadily out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

  Silence fell. I really had no idea what to say to the Major. He eased his bad leg, stretching it out before him, grimacing at the pain.

  “You ought to be in your bed,” I told him. This close, looking at him in the sunlight pouring through the long windows, listening to his voice, no longer tight with pain, I wondered how I could ever have suspected he might be Sergeant Wilkins. And yet—there was something about the two men that made me wonder, even now.

  I thought it must be a strong sense of purpose. Something driving them to the exclusion of everything else.

  The Major took a deep breath. “When I first came here,” he said, keeping his voice low in case there were ears pressed to the library door, “I hated it. I hated her.”

  “Why?” It was Simon who spoke.

  “Because I couldn’t keep two thoughts swimming together. My head felt as if it would burst, hurt like hel—the very devil, and there were parts of my past that were completely blank. Even after I was told my name, it meant very little to me. I didn’t know if I was married, promised to someone, or a widower. I didn’t know if I could practice law again, or must find a way to support myself. I remembered France, the war, some of the men under me, but not my own father and mother. There were blackouts, confusion, tremendous bouts of anger. At one point a doctor informed me I’d very likely wind up in an institution. Another told me that if I put my mind to it in a quiet setting, I might, with time, heal. I was depressed enough to look for ways to kill myself, but they were very careful, at the hospital. Sister Hammond told me one day that I was selfish and uncaring, that because I hadn’t come back from France whole, I wanted to find the courage to die rather than the courage to live. And she told me too that it took far more courage to live. I think I needed to hear those things. I looked around and saw men far worse off than I. It was shocking to realize I’d been such a fool.”

  He glanced up at Simon, as if seeking agreement, then turned back to me.

  “It was at this stage that Barbara appeared at the hospital. I don’t know how she’d found me, and I couldn’t have told you why she would have wanted to. She would sit and talk to me. Day after day. And gradually I began to remember her. I can’t tell you how miraculous it was to piece a little of the past together. We’d met a few times at various parties before the war. I liked her, I enjoyed her company. We were paired several times for doubles at tennis. She’s a strong player and we usually won. She was a good dancer and so was I. It never went beyond that. I was no fool, she wasn’t likely to marry a solicitor from a small town. When the war came, of course, I was glad to be fancy free. It was safer. Still, I thought about her more than once while I was in France.”

  He stared at the cold hearth for a time, struggling to collect his thoughts. “She came more frequently. I was afraid she pitied me and sought my company as an act of charity. A good deed for the wounded hero. It began to rankle. Then she broached the subject of my coming here to finish healing. The doctors—overawed by her, in my view—tried to persuade me to accept. It was clear I wouldn’t be going back to France before the fighting was over. They were probably just as happy to give my bed to someone else. I refused. They asked if I had anywhere else to go, and I told them I did not. Finally they suggested a trial period of a month or two, and to stop them from badgering me, I agreed.”

  He shifted his leg again, then glanced toward the closed door. “And they were right, the peace and quiet helped. I could sleep at night, I began to read a little, and some of the dizziness was fading. There were still gaps in my memory, still some confusion, but on the whole I could see the doctors had been right. I hadn’t been here three weeks when I overheard a conversation between two of the maids. They were saying that I was Barbara’s fiancé, here to recover before the wedding, and they were debating whether they would take on a man in my condition. I grant you, I was taking medicines for my head and I wasn’t always the brightest penny in the purse, but it had never occurred to me that I was anything more than a good deed to Barbara. When I broached the subject, she told me she hoped that more might come of our friendship, given time. But I was looking straight at her when she said this, and there was nothing in her face or in her eyes that gave me to believe she’d fallen in love with me. Soon after that Mrs. Neville made it clear that I was to be the reason Barbara wasn’t going to marry anyone else. The damaged suitor she couldn’t honorably turn her back on.”

  Trying to conceal my shock, I said, “And so you wrote those letters to Sister Hammond. Did you smuggle them out?”

  “She was the only Sister whose name I could recall. There’s a boy who works in the gardens. He was brought in sometimes to help lift me from the bed to a chair or back again. I paid him to post the letters for me. I couldn’t give this address. I used Maddie’s instead. But she never answered. That’s when I tried to escape.”

  “But she did,” I told him. “Only not in the way you’d expected. You hadn’t signed them, you see. And so we thought you were someone else in need of rescue.”

  There was alarm in his face now. “Don’t tell me Barbara’s got another officer here—in the event I won’t go through with whatever it is she wants?”

  “Sadly, this is a man who is also wanted by the police.”

  I explained that Sister Hammond had transferred to Shropshire, where a private soldier had gone missing. “You may have seen him,” I said. “One of the days when you managed to escape. He was also trying to get away. Walking across the hills. I’d asked before. Do you remember?”

  Major Findley frowned. “Sometimes I can’t remember things. When you cleaned my leg, I thought I was back in the hospital. I couldn’t understand why Maddie was there as well. When my head was clearer, I realized that I’d been wrong. That I’d seen you here the day the goat was brought in. I gave one of the maids a note for you.”

  “Why did you shoot Mr. Warren?” I asked. “You’d been roaming the grounds, firing your revolver. You’d tied the goat out by the old barn. Why turn to murder?”

  “I never shot anyone!” he said, taken aback. “Yes, I’d fired at trees, yes, I took the goat out. And tried to escape. Anything I could think of to get out of here. I wanted Barbara to believe I was hopelessly mad and send me back to Dorset. But I
never shot anyone, I don’t even know who this man Warren is.”

  “The miller,” Simon put in. “He was on the road just beyond the gates. Someone fired at him from the old barn.”

  “My God, I wanted to leave, not to find myself in the hands of the hangman. I only used the revolver well out of the way of hitting anyone. I swear to you.”

  “Perhaps you thought you were back in France,” I suggested.

  “I was never shell-shocked.” He leaned forward and parted his thick hair. “Do you see? It was a head wound.”

  I could see the line of the scar, still raised and red. I believed him. The shock in his face was real. And he was right, killing Mr. Warren would see him in prison.

  I said before I could stop myself, “Do you care for her? At all? I must know if I’m to do anything to help you.”

  His face changed. “I could. Given the chance. But not like this. Not as a prisoner here. I hardly see her. I think she knows how I feel. And still she won’t let me go.”

  “Is she in love with you?”

  “How could she be? I’m a convenience, like a new carpet sweeper or motorcar.” He saw my expression. “If she marries a man who isn’t right in his head, she won’t lose this house, her fortune, anything. She’ll control him, and through him, her money.”

  “On the other hand, if you weren’t right in your head—and it got worse—you could take the opportunity for a little revenge, and shut her up here. Who would stop you?”

  “Dear God, that never occurred to me.” He rubbed his forehead, taking in the possibility I’d outlined. “I just wanted to leave here, I’m not interested in revenge.”

  “Do you have any family, Major? Anyone we could call to come and take you with them?”