by Charles Todd
The bracelet was round, the size of a small child’s wrist, and engraved with flowers in a pattern of entwined rosebuds. It was very likely gold, I thought, and had been an expensive gift. But the woman behind the counter had been happy to be rid of it at any price. I didn’t think she relished the idea of taking the contents of a box from The Willows home with her when the market closed.
The tea set was small, doll size, white with hawthorn blossoms, white on white, set among green leaves, a small bouquet tied with pale yellow ribbons.
The mirror was silver backed, and there had once been a comb to match, I thought, and possibly a brush.
Were these the treasures of Gwendolyn Caswell? Mr. Gates, the chaplain, and his housekeeper might not have recognized them as such. But there was no date here to help me identify when these might have come into the family’s possession—they could have belonged to Gwendolyn’s mother, for that matter.
I set these aside and opened the Testament.
There was an inscription on the presentation page, and the name there leapt out at me.
Presented to Thomas Edward George Wade
on the Occasion of His First Communion.
Beneath it was the date and the name of the church.
St. Peter’s Church
in the Parish of Petersfield, Hampshire
What was Lieutenant Wade doing in Petersfield as a boy? His family lived in Agra, and I’d believed that he had grown up there. Something he’d said on one of our rides had led me to think that he had, for he talked about seeing the Taj Mahal from an upstairs window of his house, and how it changed color with every variation in light. A cool distant blue in moonlight, opal in the first warm light of dawn, pink and gold at sunset, and the purest of whites at noon.
And yet here in my hands was the proof that he hadn’t been in Agra when he was twelve. Because of the date, it couldn’t have been his father—or even an uncle.
A cousin?
I thumbed through the tissue-thin pages, looking for anything else that might tell me more about who had owned this Testament.
There was nothing. Not until I came to Romans 12:19. And here a line had been marked through with a pen so viciously that two of the following pages had been scored through as well.
I couldn’t remember what this verse said, although the passage sounded familiar. Paul’s letter to the Romans . . .
Where could I find a Bible?
The church. The lectern.
I finished my tea, packed away my treasures in the box that I’d been given for them, and paid my account.
Carrying the box with me, for at this stage I dared not let it out of my sight, I walked through the marketplace and into the churchyard.
I had to set the box down to open the heavy door.
There was no one else in the church, and I left the box in the corner of the last pew before walking down the center aisle, listening to my footsteps echoing against the high stone walls and praying that the sexton didn’t find me here before I’d done what I came to do.
The Bible on the lectern was quite large, and a brocade bookmark embroidered with blue and gold thread lay in last Sunday’s lesson. I turned the richly colored pages with great care until I found Romans, and finally located the verse that I was searching for.
I read it with shock.
What the owner of the Testament had marked out with such force was a very familiar quotation indeed.
Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.
As I stared down at the words, I felt cold.
If it was young Thomas Wade who had marked through this passage with such fierce anger, signifying his vehement disagreement with leaving vengeance to God, then it could explain the murders of three people in 1908.
But what was he so angry about? And why had he nursed that anger until he was a grown man, until he could come here to this town and finally do something about whatever was driving him?
Here was proof of murderous intent, even at this young age.
A KC could make much of this evidence if Lieutenant Wade was ever brought to trial. If this Testament had indeed come from The Willows, it showed premeditation and motive.
I heard someone pushing at the west door, and I quickly turned the pages back to the lesson of last Sunday, moving hastily behind the pulpit where I was not immediately visible.
But it was only two women, walking together down the aisle. I could hear them chatting as they came toward me, discussing a christening service.
I moved around the pulpit and went up the side aisle, nodding to them as they turned, startled to see someone else in the church when they’d believed it was empty.
I collected my box and slipped outside into the warm sunlight, feeling it on my face as I walked quickly back to the square.
Just as I was passing the charity stall, the woman in charge beckoned to me.
“You might be interested in this,” she said as I came nearer. “Someone bought it earlier and brought it back. You can always take out the photograph and use just the frame.”
And she handed me a tarnished silver frame with velvet backing.
I turned it over to find a formal photograph of several children standing together in a parlor, their eyes wide, their faces tentative, staring up at the camera. Five boys and three girls of different ages.
“This was from the box you mentioned before?” I asked, trying to sound curious rather than excited.
“Yes, it was the only other thing I’d sold, besides the horse. But the woman who bought it said she didn’t want it after all, not even as a charity item.”
And so I took the frame as well, and as an afterthought, bought the pretty little chair with Ganesh reigning in the peak of the back.
For I had just glimpsed it in the background of the photograph.
“My goddaughter will be spoiled,” I said as I paid her. “I shall have to give these to her a few at a time.”
“You aren’t from Petersfield,” she said. “I know most of the people who live here.”
“Actually, I’m visiting in Midhurst. The family had other plans today, and I decided to explore a bit. They were going to a christening, and I didn’t know the people.” I realized that I was babbling, and smiled. “Have you tried any of the sausages for sale over there? I might take some back for our dinner.”
“They’re very good. Try the fatter ones. My husband is very fond of them.”
I thanked her, and knowing she was watching me, I stopped and bought two pounds of the sausages, then added a slice of cheese from the next tent.
And while I smiled and talked to the farmer’s wife about the cheese, I prayed that Simon would be coming back very soon. Or I’d be wandering around with my purchases long after the market closed at three, standing out like a sore thumb.
Retiring to another pub, I ate my lunch at a table in the back, my box stowed against the wall beside me, out of sight, along with the chair and the sausages and cheese. I’d had to buy a large basket, but still the chair didn’t fit.
As I remembered, the chaplain, Mr. Gates, had been sent to England again to recover. I didn’t know if he’d been allowed to come here and rest or if he was in a clinic somewhere. I just didn’t want him to walk in and spot me. Most of the tables were taken, which was a good thing.
I made my meal last as long as I could, pretending to dither over whether or not to try the pudding, and then letting the older man who had served me persuade me to order it. When it was gone, I had no excuse to linger. As I settled my bill, he asked where I’d come from—like the woman at the charity tent, he must have known half the village—and I trotted out my earlier excuse, exploring on my own because my friends had gone off to a christening.
He accepted that without any question, and I was taking up my purchases and preparing to venture out into the square again when I saw a fa
miliar face just coming through the door.
It was Janet Burke, Sister Burke’s brother’s wife. She was heavily pregnant, and there was an older woman with her, enough like her to be her mother.
We stared at each other, and I said, “Janet? You may not remember me. Sister Crawford. We met once when Sister Burke and I were leaving for France. Last May.”
She nodded, clearly uncomfortable to encounter an acquaintance. I wondered if she’d come to Petersfield because she didn’t know anyone here. Or perhaps the market had drawn her, as it had quite a few other outsiders.
“Yes, of course,” she said politely, and then introduced her mother, Anne Reston.
“Won’t you join us for tea?” Mrs. Reston asked, but in a tone of voice that indicated she’d prefer to hear me say I couldn’t.
“Thank you, but I had a late lunch,” I replied and watched her expression ease.
Janet said sharply, “What brings you to Petersfield?”
I could hardly use the same excuse I’d given the man who had served me. Janet had left her husband and was now living in Midhurst, where my imaginary christening was taking place.
“I’m visiting friends. They went to the dentist and I’m amusing myself meanwhile.”
“Oh.”
The waiter had come up behind us and was hovering, eager to seat the newcomers.
“We have just come from looking at a house near here,” Mrs. Reston said.
For Janet and her lover—soon to be her husband as well?
“I don’t know much about Petersfield,” I said, “but I did hear someone say that The Willows was on the market.”
As the waiter got their attention, Mrs. Reston changed her mind. “Do come and join us, if only for another cup of tea. I’d like to talk to you about that house.”
And so I followed them to a larger table, deposited my purchases, and sat down.
“You’ve quite a collection there,” Mrs. Reston said, eyeing the chair.
“A friend is setting up her nursery. I found a few odd bits she might like.”
She signaled to the waiter and ordered tea, and as an afterthought, sandwiches.
“It’s an ugly chair,” Janet was saying. “I don’t much care for that odd figure in the peak of the back. Enough to frighten a child, I should think.”
“It will be painted to match the nursery,” I agreed. “I was passing the time and it caught my eye. If she doesn’t like it, then I shall give it away.”
Mrs. Reston said, “We were just visiting The Willows. An extraordinary house. Quite Victorian, dark and grim. I doubt anything has been changed since 1890. Although I must say the wallpaper is still in good condition, which tells me there’s no damp in the walls. But I just couldn’t find it in me to like it. And it would cost a great deal to refurbish it. Still, the property is quite extensive, and the gardens could easily be brought back, with the proper gardener in charge.”
She was fishing for something, I could tell that. It was why she’d invited me to join them, when it was clear she’d have been happier to see the last of me. And I was just as certain it had nothing to do with damp or wallpaper. They were merely the opening salvos of her campaign.
“I know very little about the house or its history,” I told her truthfully. Our tea arrived and she poured my cup. “Thank you. I did hear that it was on the market. If you dislike The Willows, there must be other properties that would suit you better?”
She busied herself passing the sandwiches, an excuse for not answering me directly.
Was it a matter of money? Was that why she had looked at The Willows? Here was a house that was affordable, surely, having stood empty so long. Reverend Gates had said something about the house being handled by an agent in Midhurst, and that would explain how Mrs. Reston had come to hear about it. She lived there.
“The housekeeper who showed us around seemed very ill at ease. I asked her about the latest owner of the house, and she tells me that he inherited it from his uncle. They were both named Gates. But over the door to the garden is a scrolled C, and she couldn’t tell me who that was. And there was a C above the mantel in the master bedroom as well. You’d think she would know something about the history of the place. The oddest thing was the nursery. Not a suite of rooms but an entire floor. Were there that many children? A rector’s family, do you think?”
“I couldn’t say,” I replied, not wanting to bring up the Caswells or murder. “It does seem rather odd. Perhaps if you spoke to some of the local people, they could answer your questions.” And good luck to her there, I added silently.
“We tried. I did call on the rector of St. Peter’s. He told me that he didn’t know the history of The Willows, that he had come here in 1910, when the incumbent requested an exchange of livings, in order to be nearer his aging mother.”
“Then it might be best to speak to the estate agent handling the property,” I said.
“We shall have to. I’m annoyed with him, I can tell you.” She finished her tea and the last of the sandwiches. “Well. This has been a wasted journey. I dislike being misled. The description of The Willows left much to be desired.” She rose, and I followed suit, collecting my purchases.
Janet got to her feet with some difficulty, her hand pressing the small of her back.
“Are you all right?” I asked in a low voice, moving to her side.
“It hasn’t been an easy pregnancy,” she said, glancing at her mother, who was already waiting for us by the door of the inn. “But I shan’t have to wait too much longer.”
“I’m sorry you had to travel this far for nothing. I’m sure you’ll find a happier house, one that suits you better.”
“I hope so.”
As we turned toward the square, I thanked Mrs. Reston for my tea and said my farewells. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Simon just arriving from the Portsmouth road. He was searching the thinning market day crowd for me. He spotted me with the two women, and then his gaze moved away, giving me the opportunity to finish my conversation uninterrupted.
Leaving Janet and her mother, I walked on, thinking how awkward that encounter could have been if I hadn’t already spoken to Sister Burke. I’d have assumed that the child Janet was carrying was her husband’s and asked after him.
I stopped at one of the stalls, choosing a bouquet of late summer flowers for my mother, and then went on to where Simon was waiting.
He got out of the motorcar to open the door for me, taking the little chair, the basket of cheese and sausages, and the box from my hands. “This is an odd collection of purchases,” he said as I carefully set the flowers in the rear seat.
“I’ll tell you about it later,” I said. “The people I was with—Mrs. Reston and her daughter—have been looking at The Willows. They found it very old-fashioned and rather dreary inside. And the housekeeper, who took them round the house, denied any knowledge of the Caswells when Mrs. Reston asked her about the ornamental Cs she saw in several places. These didn’t match with the Gates name, and she was curious. She would have lost all interest if the housekeeper had given her a name. But she didn’t.” I went on, describing what Mrs. Reston and her daughter had seen.
“Victorian, dark, and grim? I’m surprised the uncle didn’t renovate the property. Gates told us he was glad of the chance to leave London. But then he could have been in financial straits and managed just to maintain it in good repair.”
“Yes, that’s possible. Which would explain why the nursery floor was unchanged. There was no need. He didn’t have any children, and the Caswells had only the one daughter. I wonder who had had such a large family. Which reminds me.” I went on to tell Simon how I’d come by the little chair and the items in the box, and when we stopped for dinner along the road, we took the box inside the inn with us, and spread the contents out on the table between us.
Simon went through them, ignoring the she
pherdess and concentrating on the photograph and the Testament. “This proves that Wade knew the Caswells many years before he came there with murder on his mind. So it wasn’t a random killing or even murder by mistake, walking into the wrong house. But how did he know them?”
“I’ve no idea.”
Our food had come, but Simon ignored it, feeling for the four latches that held the photograph in its silver frame. Finding them, he opened them, removed the velvet backing, and carefully took out the photograph.
There was nothing on the back, no names, no dates. But on the reverse of the velvet backing there was a stamp, pressed into the heavy paper.
Simon held it up to the light.
“Hard to read, but I think it says GESSLER’S FINE PHOTOGRAPHY.”
He passed it to me, and I nodded. “Yes, you’re right. And under it must be WINCHESTER. There’s W-i-n, and then it’s rubbed away, and it ends with t-e-r.”
“Could very easily be.” He glanced at his watch, then returned it to his pocket.
“Shall we make a detour?”
“Mother will be worried, if we’re late. She’ll think you forgot to retrieve me in Portsmouth.”
“Yes, we ought to look for a telephone.”
But the village had no telephone, and it wasn’t until Winchester that we found one.
It was set in a grilled closet, the seat buttoned velvet and very comfortable.
Iris answered the telephone, told me that my parents had gone to dine with the rector, thinking that Simon and I might stop along the way for our dinner.
“Yes, that’s right, we have,” I said. “Tell them not to wait up for us. It could be late.”
“The Colonel must be in London tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thank you, Iris, I’ll pass that along to the Sergeant-Major.”
Simon frowned when I told him. “That means I’m probably wanted as well. But we’re here, we’ll search out Mr. Gessler if we can.”
We found the shop on a side street just off the square where Alfred the Great stared down the hill toward the town gates.
