An Unwilling Accomplice

by Charles Todd

  Simon went to Upper Dysoe to fetch the sergeant’s belongings and to bring back someone to drive the miller’s cart home. Then he went up to a room Mary prepared for him. I’d asked for another pair of cots so that Maddie and I could stay close by our patients.

  It wasn’t until late that same afternoon, after Jeremy Wilkins had been given something for his pain and was now lightly snoring, that his brother softly called my name. I got up, glanced at Maddie, who appeared to be asleep as well, and crossed to the sergeant’s cot.

  “What’s going to happen now?”

  “Sergeant-Major Brandon has sent one of Tulley’s people to find the nearest railway station. He’s to send a telegram to my father. Colonel Crawford.”

  “Yes, I remember. The King spoke of him. And when your father comes?”

  “We must get you both to hospital. That wrist is very nasty, and so is your brother’s leg. It’s really a miracle that both of you survived your fall.”

  “And then?”

  “We leave it to Scotland Yard to determine which of you is a killer.”

  “I’d wanted both of us to die, there on the stairs. Easier than hanging. And both of us will hang. One for murder, the other for desertion.” He turned his face away for a moment, looking at nothing.

  “How did you know your brother was here, at Chatham Hall?” I pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down.

  “I couldn’t think of any other place to look. Jeremy couldn’t go home. My parents are dead, the house occupied by others. The constable in our town is very much alive and would give him away at once. He never liked Jeremy. This was the perfect hideaway. Mrs. Chatham was in mourning, they never entertained. I went to the Chatham’s London house first, you know. Expecting to slip back into the hotel before you came to fetch me. The house was closed, mourning crepe on the door. A neighbor’s boot boy, on his way to the shops, told me Mrs. Chatham was in the country for the duration. That meant I had to go to Warwickshire. I couldn’t go back to the hotel after all. I’m sorry. I never intended to land you in hot water. Was it very bad?”

  “For a time, very much so,” I told him truthfully. “It was the worst thing possible, to be accused, to be suspended from nursing. And then I was questioned by Scotland Yard about Henry Lessup’s death. It was painful to be considered an accomplice to murder, however unwitting or unwilling.”

  He took a deep breath. “Corporal Benton knew Lessup had been put on extended leave. That meant that Jeremy could reach him, you see. I knew he’d try. He’d always been vindictive. He couldn’t act as long as Lessup was a serving soldier. That’s when I decided to disappear. But the Palace made other arrangements, which meant I’d be in London. The Monarch Hotel wasn’t all that far from the Chatham house in London. If I was late getting back to the hotel, I could claim my friends insisted on taking me to breakfast. You’d have scolded me, but no harm done. Only it didn’t quite work out that way, did it?”

  “It would look very bad, in the newspapers. A hero disappearing—a mad search for you, and the dawning suspicion that you’d deserted. Didn’t you think about that?”

  “I did, but where could I have turned? Not to the Army. I even thought about asking you to speak to your father, but for all I knew, he’d think me mad and do nothing.”

  “Who killed Lessup?” I asked then.

  “I won’t stand up in a courtroom and testify against my own brother. Would you?”

  And yet Jeremy Wilkins had said before witnesses that his brother was a murderer.

  When I didn’t answer, he said, “What does it matter? Scotland Yard can take their choice.” He closed his eyes again and pretended to sleep.

  I said quietly, my voice not carrying beyond the cot where the sergeant lay, “The accident that injured your brother was two years ago. I know he was in hospital for a time. Why didn’t he look for Miss Percy after he was released? He didn’t address that gap, did he? He left the impression it was only recently that he could search for her. Where has he been all this time?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. For that matter, I didn’t know they were engaged. He liked her well enough, but she was only seventeen when he first met her.” He sighed. “He’s always been popular with women. She was lonely, she believed he was dead. I don’t think she asked many questions.”

  But that didn’t make Jeremy Wilkins a murderer. Except that when he’d appeared, exhausted, in pain, it was dreadfully close to the time Henry Lessup had been killed.

  I studied the man in the bed. The cleverest thing he could do was refuse to accuse his brother.

  On the other cot, Private Wilkins stirred, then was quiet again. But the light snoring had stopped. I glanced in his direction. His eyes were closed.

  It occurred to me that I could play a trick of my own. Not as well planned as the one Sergeant Wilkins had played on me, but it would do.

  I said, pitching my voice so that both men could hear me, and at the same time appearing to be speaking to the sergeant privately, “There was someone who saw the killer speak to Henry Lessup. This person overheard what they said to each other. And I know what it was. I was told, you see.”

  “Were you, by God.” He waited.

  “If you intend to tell Colonel Crawford that you murdered that man, you’ll have to know the right answers. If you didn’t kill him, then I’d be very careful if I were you, trusting anything your brother has to say about it. Oh, and I nearly forgot. I shouldn’t tell you this, but Scotland Yard hinted that one of you dropped something on that bridge.” I smiled. “That’s why Sergeant-Major Brandon went to the hut to retrieve your uniform. We’ll be looking at both tunics as soon as Colonel Crawford arrives.”

  I made to rise; then, almost as an afterthought, I said, “Why would Jeremy blame you last night for Lessup’s death, when you’d risked your life to kill Lessup for him? He’ll do it again, you know. He’ll offer to testify against you, if it will save him from charges of desertion.”

  He said, his voice weary. “Why are you taunting me? Is it to pay me back for what I did to you?”

  “That’s something you’ll have to worry about, isn’t it?” I asked, and walked back to my cot.

  It was a little after dark when Miss Percy discovered her door was locked, and banged on it for nearly a quarter of an hour. Mary took her dinner up to her, with Simon to stand guard. Mrs. Chatham didn’t appear, although she must surely have heard her sister calling to her to help, pleading with her to unlock the door.

  Simon and I went for a walk in the garden, wrapped up against the chill wind, and I told him about my conversation with Sergeant Wilkins.

  “You don’t want him to be the murderer,” Simon responded. “Even after what he did to you.”

  “I don’t think that’s true,” I said, defending myself. “I watched Jeremy Wilkins’s face there in the bedroom. He would happily have let his brother hang. While Jason did his best to kill them both and put an end it. I don’t know what Miss Percy sees in that man. He let her walk nearly every day to Upper Dysoe. Alone.”

  “How many eligible young men has she met since her sister brought her here? He’s attractive enough, she’s lonely. She wanted to believe him. Besides, he’s been pleasant to Mrs. Chatham and he’s promised to make her sister happy.”

  I was happy once, I know how it feels to be happy. Mrs. Chatham’s words.

  “I won’t see the end of this, Simon. I must leave soon for London.”

  “Trust your father to find a way.”

  And he arrived that night in the middle of a cold downpour, Inspector Stephens in the motorcar with him. The Inspector looked a little green, as if driving with the Colonel Sahib when he was in a hurry had not been the happiest of experiences.

  They found both brothers sleeping under Maddie’s watchful eye. We adjourned to the library, where Simon and I told them everything we’d done and what we thought we’d discovered.

  My father listened impassively, occasionally casting a glance in the Inspector’s direction.
Stephens, braced with a small brandy, heard us out before asking a number of questions.

  “There’s the problem with the Army,” I ended. “Both men are deserters, of course. Will the Army take precedence?”

  My father glanced at me, as if he could read my mind. Then he cleared his throat. “I defer to Scotland Yard.”

  “Thank you, Colonel. I’d rather see a charge of murder and attempted murder brought. I’d like to question both men, as soon as possible. Just the Colonel and myself, if you don’t mind.”

  Simon and I waited in the library while my father as witness accompanied the Inspector to speak to the two brothers. We said very little, neither of us wanting to speculate on the outcome of Inspector Stephens’s inquiries. Neither of us felt like rejoicing. We had done what we’d set out to do, that was all that mattered now.

  When they returned to the library two hours later, Inspector Stephens said, “I have formally charged Private Jeremy Wilkins with the murder of Henry Lessup, and the attempted murders of Fred Warren, miller, and of Sergeant Jason Wilkins.”

  “How did you know? How could you tell?” I asked quickly.

  “I brought out their tunics, telling them the same tale you’d told Wilkins. The maid fetched them for me, and the younger brother, Jeremy, was all afidget. I thought he was going to leap out of that bed and tear his tunic out of your father’s hand. The older brother lay there with the resigned look of a man knowing the ax was about to fall and unable to stop it.”

  “But is it enough?” Simon asked. “Do you have real proof?”

  “There’s the young woman, of course, who saw the killer on the bridge, and the man in the garage, where the killer was waiting for the lorry. The man will remember sharing his beer. There’s also the stationmaster in Wolverhampton, who can tell me which brother took the train and where.” He paused. “And Mary, one of the maids, has confirmed that Jeremy Wilkins was found on the road, passed out. She was on her way to Middle Dysoe. He came to, and she brought him back to the house, when he told her that was where he was headed in the first place. The maid also remembers the rather nasty wound on his forehead. He explained he’d fallen from a borrowed horse. And that was why she found him on the road, not on the doorstep. She kept an eye out for that horse. She knew the household needed one. She even asked around Lower Dysoe, but no one had seen it. Of course they hadn’t. It never got this far. Maddie can speak to the wound on Private Wilkins’s head. With the Sergeant-Major’s testimony, we’ve placed him at the hut. And both of you can describe how Sergeant Wilkins was attacked. The Warren wounding may be a little more difficult, but I’m sure Major Findley will be well enough to testify that he wasn’t the shooter. Yes, I think we’ll be all right.”

  “And the charges of desertion?” Simon asked.

  “We will tell the Army that the sergeant has been helping us with our inquiries. Which in a way he has.” Inspector Stevens turned to me. “I can’t condone what was done in London. It embarrassed the Palace and left you in a very awkward position as well. If I had my way, I’d charge Sergeant Wilkins with obstruction for not calling in the Yard at once. But there you are. The war is all but finished, they tell me. Neither man will have recovered from his injuries in time to serve again.” He paused. “The King is involved. We must tread with care.”

  Ambulances arrived not long afterward. One to take Sergeant Wilkins back to Shrewsbury, the other to take his brother to a private hospital under guard. I watched the brothers bid each other good-bye. It was strained, difficult on the sergeant’s part. Still angry on Private Wilkins’s side. He had expected his brother to stand by him, even in face of a charge of murder. Miss Percy was allowed to say farewell to Private Wilkins. She was in tears, promising to come to London as soon as possible to prove to the Yard they were wrong. She would see that he had the finest barrister in the country. No matter what it cost. She would appeal to the King.

  Mrs. Chatham never appeared.

  Simon and my father and I drove back to London. I was in my father’s motorcar, while Simon drove his own. Inspector Stephens had gone with the ambulance carrying Jeremy Wilkins. Before leaving, the Inspector had had something to say about our search for Sergeant Wilkins, reminding me that it was the Yard’s place, not mine.

  I refrained from reminding him in turn that we’d been successful.

  We dropped Maddie at his cottage in Upper Dysoe on our way to Biddington to retrieve my kit and Simon’s.

  As we turned toward Biddington, I said to my father, “Inspector Stephens is expecting Maddie to testify. He won’t. I know him too well.”

  “I daresay he’ll be willing.” In the darkness I could see the certainty in my father’s face. But I didn’t think even the Colonel Sahib could sway Maddie.

  He glanced across at me. “This is for your ears only, my dear. The man you call Maddie isn’t what he appears to be. It was the Second Afghan War. 1878. Your grandfather’s war. An Army surgeon by the name of Dr. Madison was serving in another regiment. Disease killed more men than battle did, and he worked tirelessly in appalling conditions, without regard for himself. God knows how many lives he saved. Your grandfather was wounded, as you know, and he’d have lost his arm if it hadn’t been for Dr. Madison. There was talk of a VC, but nothing came of it. And then, worn out by what he’d been through, the doctor was invalided home. He left the Army as soon as he could, and shortly afterward disappeared. My father searched for him whenever he was in England and was finally convinced that he was dead.”

  “But how could you know this man was Maddie?”

  “He always carried that leather satchel with the long strap. I noticed it at once. God knows my father described it to us often enough. And I asked him outright. I also made him a promise. He can remain anonymous. An elderly doctor tending the people of three small villages in the middle of nowhere? No one will recognize him as the hero of Kandahar. He’ll return to Warwickshire, and who will be the wiser?”

  “The newspapers—”

  “Inspector Stephens sees him as he is today. I’ve made sure of that. Why should the newspapers know any better? If Miss Neville were involved, it might be very different. Mrs. Chatham and her sister are of little interest in the popular press. Besides, the government will wish to keep Hoo out of the newspapers. They’ll not care for any additional sensationalism.”

  I had my doubts all the same.

  Two days after we reached London I was boarding my transport to France.

  As we sailed out of Portsmouth harbor, I waved good-bye to my parents, who, having seen so little of me, had been determined to enjoy every minute left of my leave.

  Simon had been called away.

  I had spent so much time in his company of late that I found myself missing him.

  A letter from the Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service found me in France soon after I’d arrived at my first posting. It informed me that all questions about the performance of my duties in the matter of Sergeant Wilkins’s activities had been permanently removed from my record. I carefully restored the letter to its envelope and tucked it in my kit. It had been a long journey, earning that restoration of my good name. It was possible that either the Army or Scotland Yard would have sorted out Sergeant Wilkins’s guilt or innocence eventually. But I wasn’t convinced of it.

  Much later my mother sent me the cutting. Jeremy Wilkins had been convicted on all charges, even as he denied any role in the events. His brother had refused to testify against him. Miss Percy was not there in the courtroom when the verdict was handed down. In spite of her promises of support.

  According to the newspaper cutting, Dr. Lawrence Madison had made an impression on judge and jurors alike with his clear, comprehensive account of events.

  My father had kept his promise to Maddie. No mention was made of Dr. Madison’s previous service. He’d been sick of war, and he’d found in the isolated world of the Dysoes a haven of peace. Villages that had escaped so many armies century after century hadn’t managed to
avoid the Great War completely. Major Findley, the Wilkins brothers, and how many others had brought the fighting closer than Maddie had ever dreamed.

  Still later, my mother sent another cutting. It was the brief announcement of the engagement of Miss Barbara Alice Mary Neville to Major Arthur James Clifton Findley.

  And I was back at the Front, where I belonged. For now.

  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 in Delaware and North Carolina, respectively.

  www.charlestodd.com

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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

  The Bess Crawford Mysteries

  A Duty to the Dead

  An Impartial Witness

  A Bitter Truth

  An Unmarked Grave

  A Question of Honor

  Other Fiction

  The Murder Stone

  The Walnut Tree

  CREDITS

  COVER DESIGN BY JAMES IACOBELLI

  COVER PHOTOGRAPHS: BRIDGE © BY VISITBRITAIN/BRITAIN ON VIEW/GETTY IMAGES;

  WOMAN © BY LEE AVISON/TREVILLION IMAGES

  COPYRIGHT

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.