by Charles Todd
Something from the past. Not the past of the Gates family but from the Caswells.
What was in this house that he wanted? I don’t think Miss Seavers—or even her cousin—had any idea.
I could hear footsteps on the stairs. I turned to Simon, whose color was better now, his face and hair cleaner, although there were still stains on his uniform and his hands.
Mr. Gates came to the doorway. “I think we have done enough to help this man. Please leave.” He was looking at me, not at Simon.
I thanked Miss Seavers as Simon put down the cloth in his hand and rose without a word. Mr. Gates stepped aside. I thanked him too as I left the kitchen and went up the stairs to the ground floor. I could hear Simon following me, but I didn’t turn. We went out the main door, and it was firmly shut behind us.
“What the hell is going on?” Simon asked quietly, catching me up and walking beside me now.
I told him.
He whistled under his breath. “What have we stumbled into?”
“I don’t know.” I looked at him. “Are you up to walking into Petersfield?”
“Yes,” he answered impatiently. After a moment he broke the silence that had fallen between us. “This doesn’t mean that Lieutenant Wade didn’t kill the Caswell family. There must be something else that would come to light if someone begins to look into the past.”
“Then that’s what cost Mr. Gessler and his daughter their lives,” I said.
“Why does someone else want that photograph? Does he know what it shows? Or is he taking no chances?”
“Sadly we can’t put names to those children. It might help if we could.” I cast a sideways glance at Simon, but he seemed to be managing well enough. And we had reached the outskirts now. “But how to begin?”
“God knows.” Simon put a hand to his head, and I realized it must ache abominably.
Why had he been attacked? What purpose would have been served if he’d been severely wounded—or killed? I didn’t want to think about that.
“Do you remember anything about the person who struck you?”
“There was no time, Bess. A man. Not as tall as I am. Slim. That’s about it. Could I recognize him again? I doubt it. I was too busy trying to stay alive.”
“Well, it wasn’t Mr. Gates, that’s certain. The sexton?”
“I don’t know.” Simon stopped and turned to me. “Is it too obvious that I’ve been bleeding?”
“Yes. Your cheek is beginning to bruise—very red, and raw. The lump at your hairline—”
I found my handkerchief and tried to blot the blood. Finally I shook my head. “It’s hopeless, Simon.” I looked around. “Let me find an apothecary shop and buy some cotton wool and plasters.”
“Yes, all right. I’ll stay out of sight.”
I hurried away, passed through the square and down the High Street until I came to an apothecary. I was just coming out with my purchases when I stopped short.
There was a motorcar parked not a dozen steps down from the shop, and I realized, looking more closely at it, that it must be Simon’s. I could have sworn under oath that it hadn’t been there when I went inside the shop. But then I’d been distracted. . . .
I turned and went to it for a closer look. I was right. And in the rear seat was a long cudgel.
Looking around, I could see no one watching. I set my purchases on the rear seat, then stepped around to the bonnet and turned the crank. Five minutes later, I was slowing beside Simon. He opened the passenger’s door and got in.
“Well, well,” he said.
“Look in the back.”
He did, and I heard him swear under his breath. “He meant to kill me.”
Would whoever it was have come next for me? Was that why the motorcar was left in plain sight, luring me to my own death? Or to frighten me into leaving? I felt angry suddenly. At Lieutenant Wade, at Mr. Gates and the Caswells, at whoever was behind this attack on Simon.
Picking up speed, I drove past The Willows, and as we came into the outskirts of the next village, where we could be seen by anyone looking out a window, I pulled to the side of the road and pulled up the brake. This was as safe as I could make it. As I retrieved the salve and the bandages, I asked, “Do you want to go to the Petersfield police? I think you should.” Trying to interject a lighter note to conceal my worry, I added, “I don’t know how you’ll explain this to my father.” I gestured to the bloody bits of cotton wool I’d been using on his face.
Simon ignored the last comment. “I’m not very clearheaded at the moment. And we don’t know who’s to be trusted in that village. No, much as I loathe retreat, it’s wiser to go on to Somerset. But I promise you, I shall find out who is behind this.”
His tone of voice warned me not to press.
He let me drive. I glanced his way from time to time, but his eyes were closed. I didn’t think he was asleep. After an hour or so on the road north he stirred and said, “Bess. I don’t like the direction this is taking. If Wade is in France, there’s more to this than we could possibly have imagined.”
I’d thought about that before, when I knew Lieutenant Wade had been wounded and at the Base Hospital in Rouen at the time the fire had been set.
“Simon. What if the photograph I bought in Petersfield is only part of the story? We showed it to the Gesslers. He couldn’t remember it, of course. All he could tell us was when it was taken and for whom. Not who the children were. But what if, after we left, those faces stayed in his mind. A photographer deals in faces. Or places. And in a day or two, let’s say, he begins to recall when he’s seen one of the children before. But as an adult, someone he photographed in another time and place. Like the racehorse or Queen Victoria in her carriage.”
“Go on.”
“I don’t know what happened next. Did he write to someone? Or did someone come to call? However it was, although our photograph was already beyond reach, there were still Mr. Gessler’s files. And his memory. Something that would mean trouble if connections were made. Kill Mr. Gessler before he or his files become a source of interest to the police. Or to someone.”
“You could be right. As long as that photograph was locked away in an attic, all well and good. But if whoever it is learned that the house was for sale, he would have a very good reason to worry that when the attics were emptied, the photograph and whatever else is up there might come to light. Even accidentally. As in fact it has.”
“This takes us back to the Caswells and the children in their care. Among them Lieutenant Wade. Simon, do you think you could persuade Scotland Yard to let you see the files on the Caswell murders?”
“I don’t know. It’s worth a try. The Army might also have copies of those files. I’ll have to come up with an acceptable reason.”
“The Gessler fire?”
“No,” Simon answered slowly. “Information that would have some direct bearing on the case. The Subedar is dead. He can’t be questioned. We could use his sighting as our excuse.”
“The Army might well contact the Colonel Sahib.”
Simon grinned, and I could tell at once that he was feeling a little better. “I’ll request the information in the Colonel’s name. Pull over just there, Bess. I’ll drive the rest of the way.”
Chapter Eleven
My next leave was only forty-eight hours, too short to travel to London, and Dover was crowded, noisy, busy.
I found a telephone in the office of the Port Commandant, and called Melinda Crawford.
I was told she was staying with friends in Canterbury, and they were on the telephone. And so my second call was to the Russells.
When Melinda was brought to the telephone, she was excited at the prospect of seeing me, and promised to send her chauffeur straightaway to fetch me.
“I don’t want to interrupt your visit,” I said, trying to keep the disappointment out of m
y voice. I had hoped to ask a favor of her. I’d had a little time to think about matters while waiting for the connection to go through.
“Nonsense, my dear. I was leaving for home this noon. I’ll just make it a few hours ahead of time. Jessica will understand.”
“Cousin Melinda? Do you think we might call on Mr. Kipling? I have a few questions about India I’d like to put to him.”
“I don’t see why not. I’ll telephone him at once. He invited me to lunch with him the last time I was there. I’ll offer to take him somewhere for his tea.”
And she rang off.
Fifteen minutes later, she called to say that she was on her way and would be in Dover as soon as may be.
Knowing how her driver handled the motorcar, I took that with a grain of salt and went to find breakfast. Afterward I walked along the shore and listened to the guns in France, across the Channel. They seemed to be pounding the sectors on both sides of the line, without regard to rumors of an armistice.
I had started up the hill to Dover Castle, where I hoped to find an officer I knew, when a motorcar came barreling toward me and slowed. A trunk and two valises were strapped to the boot, and I could see two other boxes in the seat next to Melinda’s driver.
I greeted him in Urdu, for he was one of her Indian staff, and he returned the greeting as if I were a Maharani. He had always spoiled me.
Melinda poked her head out the window. “Well, this makes it so much easier, my dear. I thought we might have to scour the port.”
Her driver was already opening the door for me. I got into the back beside Melinda and she gave me an enormous hug.
“It’s so good to see you. Still, you look tired, my dear. I expect we all do, with this war going on and on, no end in sight. I did put through a call to your mother, to tell her that I was going to be seeing you. She and your father send their best love. And she wanted to ask what you might know about Simon’s wounds. They didn’t see him until after you’d left, and he refuses to talk about what happened. Your mother says they’re healing but she’s quite worried.”
Simon had been least in sight after bringing me home from Petersfield. He’d left me at the door and disappeared into his own cottage. But he couldn’t hide forever, and the bruises would have been there for much longer than my leave.
“An unavoidable accident,” I said, and Melinda smiled.
“That’s precisely what the Sergeant-Major told your mother. He’s a dear man, our Simon. I hope he hasn’t made any . . . unexpected enemies.”
“I can promise you that all is well, and you can pass that on to my mother.” I sincerely hoped that I was telling the truth.
Melinda had been as fond of Simon as if he had been her own. Childless, she had never remarried after her husband’s death. I loved her as I would a favorite aunt, rather than a distant Crawford cousin.
We talked about the war most of the way to Bateman’s. It was well past four by the time we got there, and Mr. Kipling was standing in his doorway, looking at his watch, when we came down the drive and pulled up by the front walk.
He was alone this weekend, as it happened, Mrs.Kipling and their daughter Elsie having gone to visit friends in Torquay. It was too late to think of going anywhere and so we sat on the terrace overlooking the lawns and drank lemonade while Melinda and Mr. Kipling chatted like the old friends they were. She was the only person I knew who called Mr. Kipling by his first name, Joseph.
At length he turned to me and said, peering over his glasses, “Well, Sister Crawford. You’ve been patient for three-quarters of an hour. What is it you wish to ask me?”
I had to smile. “How did you know?”
“You stare out across the gardens with that faraway look of someone only half listening. Not bored—therefore, waiting your turn to speak.”
“I was never sent home from India to be educated. But you and your sister were. Can you tell me about that? What it was like—”
I stopped short. His face had darkened, his eyes narrowing in anger.
“I’m so sorry,” I began, stumbling over my apology.
He turned to me. “Not your fault, my dear. You couldn’t have known. And I can’t talk about it. Let me only say that it was the most shocking experience a child can suffer, short of the death of a parent. Helpless, afraid, abused, and no escape.”
I sat there, stunned. “I didn’t know,” I said after a moment, embarrassed to have given him such pain.
“How could you have? I have learned since that I was not alone in my suffering. There were good people who took in children to educate and promote. And there were others who did it for money, sadistic people who cared nothing for those committed to their care.”
The Middletons, who had treated their charges as their own. And the Caswells? How had they treated the children?
Mr. Kipling was frowning. “What brought this to mind, my dear? Something must have done.”
“There was a family in Hampshire. We think they also took in children. And it’s possible that many years later they were murdered by one of their charges, at that time a young man. I wondered what could possibly have gone wrong.”
It was his turn to be surprised. “I see. Rather drastic of him. Although to be honest I never spoke of what I endured. I knew that to do so would mean far worse suffering. There was my sister Trixie, you see. I couldn’t take the chance of putting her at risk as well. They were kind to her, in their own way. I never understood why I was singled out for torment. Who knows? If they had touched her, I might have felt murderous myself.”
I could see Lieutenant Wade’s face as he learned of Alice Standish’s death. And his question—Are they sure?—about the cause of death, and his insistence on traveling with Mrs. Standish all the way to the Middletons’ home, when he could have put her on the next train, once they had reached London.
Had he been suspicious about the cause of his sister Georgina’s death? There was the unopened birthday present, the little Dresden shepherdess. Had she died before she could be given it? Or had it been withheld maliciously?
I didn’t have to remind myself that it was on this same leave that Lieutenant Wade had been sought as the killer of the Caswell family—mother, father, daughter.
My thoughts were in a whirl.
Mr. Kipling reached out and touched my hand. “It’s in the past, Bess. Let it go.” And after a moment he said with false cheer, “You must come with me to the mill. I have sacks of flour the Army didn’t take away. Wheat flour! Can you believe it? You’ll take one home with you, Melinda.”
And so we got up and walked through the gardens to the mill, as once Simon and I had done not so very long ago, crossing the little bridge over the noisy little stream.
I listened to the two old friends talking, made an effort to take part, as if I had indeed let the past go. And my performance must have outshone anything on the London stage, because as we were leaving, Mr. Kipling took my hand for a moment and said, “I’m glad you’re all right. Don’t stir up what’s best forgotten.”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” I said truthfully.
His eyes behind the glasses were sharp, like his mind. “There were nursemaids and doctors and housekeepers and gardeners. They too held their tongues. One must ask why . . .”
And then we were moving down the drive, through the late Sussex afternoon, dust motes dancing in the sunbeams that picked out the meadows and stands of trees. Mr. Kipling had invited us to stay for dinner, but it had already been a long day for Melinda, and we had had to decline.
“I had no idea,” I said to Melinda in apology. “I would never have asked Mr. Kipling about coming to England as a child if I’d even dreamed he was—if such things had happened to him.”
She took my hand. “I shouldn’t worry, my dear. He knew that. We’ve been friends for many years, Joseph and I, and he’s never spoken to me about his chi
ldhood. I understand now why he wouldn’t. Or couldn’t.”
We were silent for a while as the motorcar reached the dusty main road and turned toward Kent.
After a time, Melinda said, “You’re thinking about that young Lieutenant Wade, aren’t you? What’s brought him to your attention after all this time?”
“I didn’t want my parents to know. You mustn’t tell them until we can be sure. But a dying Subedar from Agra told me he’d seen Lieutenant Wade in France. I believed him. He had no reason to lie, as far as I can judge. I’d been told very little about what had happened in 1908. I’ve only just discovered who his other victims, the Caswells, were, or that it was very likely that they’d taken in children like Mr. Kipling and his sister. I expect I’m trying to understand why anyone would kill five people, two of them his own parents. This was a man I knew. That my mother and father knew and trusted.”
“I read about the murders, of course. And the hunt for the Lieutenant. I keep up with any news of the regiment. It was in the London papers, but also in the Indian papers that are sent to me regularly. No motive was given for any of the murders, except perhaps that he’d killed his parents before the news of the Caswells’ deaths could reach India. They were shot in their sleep, as I recall. They must have died instantly. It would explain so much if what you suggest is true.”
It would. Drastic measures in the minds of most people. But for a man knowing that his time was short and that what he’d done would be catching up with him, and caring too much about how his parents would feel, shooting them in their sleep might have seemed to be a kindness.
Then why hadn’t we seen any tension or other signs of distress in Lieutenant Wade between the time he had returned from Agra and England and the time the Military Foot Police came looking for him?
On the other hand, perhaps he’d felt no distress. Perhaps he’d held his parents responsible for sending their children to England in the first place.
How cold-blooded. Or perhaps it was not even that, perhaps he knew that if he showed nothing, his chances of escape if he was caught out would be better.
