A Question of Honor: A Bess Crawford Mystery

by Charles Todd

  Simon was quiet for a time. “All right. I’ll come by for you at seven.”

  I wanted to say that that was far too early, that I would have to be up by six. And it would be close on ten o’clock before we reached my house. But if Simon was willing to go with me, I was glad of his company.

  The next morning, although the weather wasn’t very promising, Simon was there and helped me into the motorcar. When he joined me, the motor ticking quietly over, I could tell that there was something on his mind. And I was right. He turned to me.

  “I managed to find out a little more about the Subedar. His brother worked for the railway. And he was sacked for pilfering from the railway stores. Lieutenant Wade’s father refused to hear any appeals.”

  The railway was an important employer in India. Not only could one work there all of one’s life, but it was also possible to bring in brothers, sons, cousins. Security for an entire family for generations. To lose such a position was devastating, and it reflected on the entire family.

  “That explains why the Subedar recognized Lieutenant Wade after all these years. He had good reason to remember the Wades.”

  “Yes. His brother could also have joined that noisy wedding party, slipped into the house, and killed Wade’s parents.”

  “That’s an alarming thought. Anyone could have known that Lieutenant Wade was back from England, and about to rejoin his regiment. Simon, what if he didn’t murder his parents?” It was a shocking realization.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions. The police investigation was thorough. The Colonel looked into that.”

  And he would have.

  “Still . . .” I remembered the wedding processions I’d seen. Noisy, all the guests singing and dancing, music almost deafening as they passed. One man slipping out of the Wade house and joining in the celebration as the groom was carried to the bride’s home, then disappearing into the darkness a little distance away would hardly be noticed. And when the police came, not one of the guests would want to admit to seeing anything out of the ordinary. That would be a poor reflection on the groom’s family—and most of those people would be related to it in one way or another. The police would have no choice but to accept the truth of statements made to them, when so many tallied.

  On the journey we talked about other things, among them our time in India and memories we shared. And then the first houses of the town came into view.

  I said, “I’ll walk to the square when we’re a little closer.”

  “It isn’t a good idea, Bess.”

  “If you follow me, you might be able to tell who finds my return interesting.”

  “Yes, I see. All right, then,” he reluctantly agreed.

  I came into the square from the church, having walked parallel to the High Street, past the police station and through a side gate in the churchyard wall. I caught sight of the sexton, standing beside a grave the gravediggers had just finished. One was climbing out of the pit, dusting his hands after setting aside his shovel. I was reminded of the Gesslers, dead in Winchester.

  I ducked my head against the rising wind, and took the shortest way around the church, out of the sexton’s sight. I had hardly stepped into the square when a woman hailed me from the far side. She was coming out of one of the shops, and I didn’t recognize her at first. Then I realized that she had been in charge of the charity stall when I was here last. She was waving anxiously, as if afraid I’d not heard her.

  Surprised that she remembered me, I waited for her. Breathless as she caught up with me, she said, her words spilling over one another, “I thought it was you. You bought that box of odd bits donated by The Willows, didn’t you? I was so hoping to see you again. They need the items back, you see. The box shouldn’t have been donated, it was a mistake, and the family is quite upset. Could we have the box back, please? Of course we’ll return what you paid for it. We’ll be happy to.”

  “I don’t have it with me,” I told her. “I’m so sorry. It’s—” I started to tell her that it was in Somerset and thought better of it. “It’s in London, you see. Surely there was nothing in it that mattered to anyone.”

  “The photograph has sentimental value, I’m told. Of course if you wished to keep the frame, I’m sure no one would mind. Really, you could even mail it. The picture, I mean. It wouldn’t be a great bother, would it?”

  “Has the Reverend Gates been angry with his housekeeper about the items being given to the charity stall?”

  “Well—yes—that’s to say, I don’t really know. We were just packing away the items we hadn’t sold, and someone came up and asked about the donation. He said no one had known the box was missing, and then there was a great fuss searching for it. I had to tell him it was sold. Gone. He was that upset.”

  “Was it the chaplain? Mr. Gates?”

  “No, he said he’d been at the house, with an eye to buying it when the family noticed that the box wasn’t where it should have been. He volunteered to see if it was by any chance in the charity stall while they went on looking. He wanted to know if I remembered the buyer, if there was any way to get the box back. Sadly I had no idea who you were or where you lived. I had to tell him that.”

  “Did he ask about the photograph? In particular?”

  “No, just what was in the box. It was I who told him about the shepherdess, the photograph, and so on. He said that it was probably the photograph that the family was worried about. That’s why I asked you if you could mail it back to me. Or to The Willows, if you prefer.”

  “I’m not going back to London just now,” I told her, trying to seem concerned, putting off having to give her an answer.

  “That’s a pity. But you will look, won’t you, when you are in London again? I feel so responsible, you see. It was I who picked up the boxes at The Willows, and it could have been my mistake. So easily.”

  “What was in the other boxes?”

  “Linens. Tablecloths, some runners, pillowcases. Antimacassars and armrests for chairs. All hand embroidered, although not in my opinion by an expert hand. Still, there were no stains on the linens from being folded away so long. One could use them straightaway. There was one really lovely little piece. I kept it out for myself. That’s to say, I paid for it, of course.”

  “What was it?”

  “Just a child’s sampler. It was sewn for her birthday, with a Bible verse and her name and the date, and wisteria all around it. Still such a pretty blue. I’m fond of blue.” She caught herself, saying, “But that’s neither here nor there. Could you give me your name, Miss? And tell me when you think you’ll be in London again?”

  But I didn’t want to give her my name. I said, “That’s not important. Just tell me where to send the photograph.”

  “To The Willows, attention the Reverend Gates. I’m sure that will do.”

  “Who did you say the man was, the one who came looking for the box?”

  “He didn’t give his name, and I never thought to ask. He wasn’t asking for himself, you see. A rather nice-looking young man, I must say. Fair. Polite. He said he was from Peterborough. But I rather thought his accent was more West Country. My mother was from Cornwall.”

  I thanked her and went on my way. When I glanced over my shoulder, she was still there, that same anxious expression on her face.

  I was all the way across the square when in a bakery shop window I was passing I could see as far as the church, and the sexton was just coming out of the churchyard. He crossed the square as I watched. But I needn’t have worried, for he set off down the High Street. Two minutes more with the woman who had hailed me, and I’d have been in that man’s path.

  I waited until I was sure he was out of sight, and then turned and walked briskly back to the churchyard. The gravediggers had left too. The mound of earth had been covered with a tarpaulin.

  It wasn’t what I was interested in.

  I qua
rtered the churchyard as best I could, looking for an older grave. And I found it at last. It was in a corner, the stone sunk at an angle, but the name was clear enough to read easily.

  Here lay Lieutenant Wade’s little sister, Georgina. There were no pansies or other flowers planted here. She had been long forgotten. But it explained to me why Lieutenant Wade had been so upset over the death of little Alice Standish, why he had accompanied a grieving mother back to England and made certain she reached her destination.

  He had been reminded of his own loss.

  The question was, had Alice’s death brought him back to Petersfield before he sailed for India, and had that renewed memory of an old grief sent him to The Willows with murderous intent?

  There was no way of knowing.

  I thought about the boy. Alone in England and far from his parents in India. Losing his only sister must have been appallingly hard for a child. How had he coped? And had the Caswells given him the sympathy he desperately needed, or had they failed him?

  The more I learned about Lieutenant Wade, the more confused I felt.

  I left the churchyard and went in search of Simon.

  But there was no sign of his motorcar or of him. He’d intended to drive out to The Willows later, to see if it had been sold. I couldn’t imagine that he’d decided to do that while I was making my roundabout way to the church.

  Where, then, was he?

  I cast about in the streets leading out of the square. I even went back to the church and the side gate where I’d come in earlier. But he wasn’t there.

  It was unlike him to not be where I could find him. He’d been worried about me from the start. Then what could have delayed him? Had he encountered Mr. Gates and been held up longer than expected? It was very possible.

  I started walking out of Petersfield in the direction of The Willows. I’d passed the last house before Church Street narrowed into the road that led west. Though the afternoon was warm and dry, The Willows was farther away than I remembered. I had at least another half mile to go.

  And then around the bend came a motorcar, nearly sweeping me off my feet as it thundered past me, narrowly missing me.

  Simon’s motorcar.

  But that wasn’t Simon at the wheel. I’d swear to it.

  I broke into a run. Something had happened, and I wanted to find Simon, to be sure he was all right. He could look after himself as well as any man and better than most. Then why was someone else driving his motorcar?

  He wasn’t by the gates into The Willows, and he wasn’t on the drive. I cast about on either side of it, and the next thing I knew, the door of the house was flung open and Mr. Gates came roaring down the steps.

  I turned to face him, thinking he was angry about the box I’d bought at the charity stall. But then he couldn’t have known who it was, could he?

  “What are you doing here? I find you everywhere I look, I can’t escape you. Go away, in the name of God, and leave me in peace. I only want to be rid of this albatross about my neck, can’t you understand that?”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, standing my ground. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d attacked me. “I was expecting to meet someone in Petersfield, and he hasn’t come. But someone else was driving his motorcar just now, and I thought he might have come from here. I must find out if anything is wrong.”

  He stopped some five feet from me. “Why should he come here? What possible reason can he have for interfering in my life?” He was all but wringing his hands, his anger giving way to self-pity.

  “He’s not interfering. And I must find him. Won’t you help me? If not, will you allow me to look for him here on the grounds? He must be somewhere.”

  “I don’t care where he is. Get off my property or I shall have you up for trespassing.”

  The housekeeper came to the open door behind him, staring at us as we quarreled.

  “What’s happened? I could hear the shouting.”

  “We must send for the constable. At once,” he said, turning toward her.

  “My dear, there’s no one to send,” she said plaintively, and he closed his eyes, as if this was too much to bear.

  “I’ll leave,” I said, angry with him now, in spite of what I could see was a very disturbed man. “But if I don’t find my friend out there on the road, I shall come back, and I shall bring the constable with me, to sort it out.”

  I turned to leave and had just reached the gates when Simon stumbled toward them from the road, his face a bloody mask.

  “Bess?” he said, and I ran toward him, catching his arm.

  “What happened?” I asked as he leaned on me for a moment, shaking his head to clear it.

  “I’m all right,” he told me. “A little dazed still.”

  I looked around and Mr. Gates was staring at Simon as if he’d seen a ghost. And then I realized that it was the blood on Simon’s face, almost obscuring his features.

  I called to the housekeeper, “He needs help.”

  She hesitated, and I could see that she was torn between refusing me and helping Simon. Finally she said, “The kitchen. This way.”

  We walked past Mr. Gates, standing like a statue, his eyes unfocused as he looked into the past. Simon managed the steps somehow and walked into the house. We followed the housekeeper through the door beyond the stairs and down into the kitchen. What I’d seen of the rooms we passed was hardly what a potential buyer would find attractive. Janet’s mother had been right, the wallpaper was old-fashioned and dark, the furniture heavy and depressing.

  We reached the kitchen and the housekeeper pointed to a chair. “Sit there. I’ll find water and some cloths.” She disappeared down the passage as Simon sat down.

  “I’d bent over to turn the crank. There was no one else on the road, I’d have sworn to that. I think he must have come from the small copse—I’d left the motorcar there where it was half hidden, and walked as far as the gates of the house. No one was about, and nothing seemed to have changed. I went back the way I’d come. I don’t know what he had in his hand. I heard him just in time and ducked as he swung it, hard. Still, it caught me a glancing blow. I went down, and before I could roll, he hit me again. He got behind the wheel, and I managed to fling myself in the ditch before he could run me down. He tried twice, then gunned the motor and was gone. I think I must have lost consciousness—”

  He broke off before I could ask if he’d seen the man. The housekeeper was coming down the passage, her heels clicking on the stone flagging. I went to take the basin of water from her, and she put the clean cloths down on the table.

  Simon took one, dipped it the basin, and began to wipe the blood from his face. I could see the knot at his hairline and another on his cheekbone. He was lucky the bone wasn’t broken or his skull fractured. He winced as he touched the torn skin. It was bleeding freely, the way head wounds can, and I looked up to see the housekeeper swaying on her feet.

  I caught her and sat her down. “Mrs. . . .” I began, about to tell her to put her head between her knees.

  “Miss. It’s Miss Seavers,” she answered weakly, her gaze still on the bloody cloths and bloodier water in the basin.

  “No, look away. He will be all right. Please, put your head down, that’s it, and keep it there for a moment.”

  She did as she was told. After a moment she said, “We left my cousin in the drive.”

  “He’ll be all right.” I hoped that was true. “I need to ask you something.” Out of the corner of my eye I could see Simon holding a compress against his head, leaning back in his chair. “Have you been clearing out the attics?”

  “Yes.” She sat up too quickly, and I had to urge her to put her head down again. “We thought it might look—nicer. Cleaner and more inviting. I expect the Caswells never threw anything away. I sent several boxes of linens to the charity stall, and a box of children’s things as we
ll. I don’t know how long they’d been up there. I wanted to keep the Dresden shepherdess, but my cousin wouldn’t hear of it. Or the sampler. He wanted to be rid of them.”

  “Why?”

  She sat up, shaking her head. “It brought back the past, he said. He wanted nothing to do with the Caswells. I’ve taken down the family portraits and put them out in the shed. A pity, but he said they were not by known artists, and worth very little.”

  “The sampler. Do you remember the name of the child who embroidered it?”

  “Barbara, I think it was.”

  I felt a wave of disappointment. Simon was listening to the exchange, but he couldn’t know what I did.

  “It wasn’t Georgina, by any chance, was it?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. The box holding the shepherdess had Georgina, on her birthday written on the outside. I threw that away, because the charity stall didn’t care to have items identified. The sampler, of course, was different. But how did you know about these things?”

  “I happened to see them at the charity stall,” I told her. “Has anyone else come looking for them?”

  “There was a man here. Some time ago. He was collecting children’s toys and so on for the poor in London. I promised to let him have anything we didn’t want, but the box got collected with the other items for the charity stall. It didn’t matter, most of the items were not something poor children could play with very well. Like the shepherdess.”

  “Did you know this man?”

  “I didn’t. But he was very nice, and his concern for the London children was obvious even to me. He’d approached any number of people about this, he said. He was wearing the uniform of a wounded soldier, and his health wasn’t the best, he said. But this was a cause dear to him.”

  I wondered about that. Miss Seavers was a kindhearted woman. A man appearing at her door could take advantage of that kindness. Proper housekeepers would have sent such a petitioner packing. Miss Seavers, a cousin acting in that capacity, was easier to appeal to. But what was this man really after?