A Question of Honor: A Bess Crawford Mystery

by Charles Todd

  “They never came into Petersfield as a rule. Sometimes for Sunday services, of course, but even that was rare. The Caswells had a chapel in their house, and services were conducted there. But I saw the children from time to time. Out on the Common, or walking in the woods. Down by the stream. Never near enough to speak to.”

  “I have a photograph of them that my brother sent to us out in India. Perhaps you could put names to the faces there.”

  “Oh, I doubt it after all this time.” He pointed across the churchyard. “Now that one I remember. The little Wade girl. Pretty as a picture. It like to broke my heart when she died. And such a small casket. She was the only typhoid case we had that entire spring. Sometimes it’s the little ones who can’t pull through. Too small, too frail.”

  “Was she frail?” I asked. “My brother thought she was in good health.”

  “They said she was frail. That’s all I know. The doctor of the time could have told you. He attended her in her last hours.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He moved from Petersfield at the turn of the century, I think it was. Up to Lincolnshire where his sister lived. She was the widow of a doctor and he took over that practice.”

  That matched what we’d been told before.

  “How many children did they have living there at a time? The Caswells. Do you know?”

  “The most at a time was eight, as I remember. Mr. Caswell’s money ran out, so rumor had it, although some thought it was bad investments. And they were gentry, they couldn’t very well go out to work or take in boarders, could they? At any rate, they began to take in these children from India whose parents wished them to be properly educated. There was a governess and a tutor to prepare them for boarding school, with lessons in deportment and the like.”

  “Were they still taking in children at the time they were killed?”

  “It had stopped by then. Well before then, in fact. After the governess died.”

  “When was this?”

  “After your brother’s day, I’d say. We were told she was never able to regain her spirits after her fiancé died in South Africa. Killed by the Boers, he was. Bloody business. She drowned herself in the little stream. But the doctor said he couldn’t be sure she killed herself, she could have fallen and hit her head, then drowned before she came to again. I don’t know. But that allowed her to be laid to rest in hallowed ground. She’s over there, near the wall. She had wanted to leave, to find another position. She told me that herself. But she couldn’t get up the courage. She said it more than once. Mrs. Caswell told me it was a great pity, that she’d tried to convince Miss Grant to go. But it was too much on top of her loss.”

  “Have any of the others come back?” Simon asked.

  “If they did I’d have no way of knowing unless I was in the churchyard and seen them wandering about, looking at the stones. This is a favorite walk of mine. Most of my family and many of my friends are here, around me. Don’t grow old. It’s a lonely business.”

  “I’d have liked to learn the children’s names. Perhaps they could tell me about my brother.”

  “You were too young to be sent to England with him, I daresay. Now Mabel Gooding might know. She was hired as a nursery maid, but it was usually Mabel who was present when the doctor was called in for an illness, not Mrs. Caswell or the governess. No training, you understand, Sister,” he added, turning to me. “But if you were sick, now, and needed a cool hand on your brow or a soft voice in your ear telling you you were going to be just fine, there was no one like her. Even after she left the Caswells, she never lacked for work.”

  Many villages had such women, skilled in caring for the sick, sitting with them at the doctor’s suggestion or just appearing on the doorstep when word reached them that a woman was in labor or a child had croup or a man had cut himself in the fields. Sometimes they were the only medical care for miles. But Petersfield had a doctor.

  “Where can we find her?” I asked.

  “She lives in that small cottage near the Common,” he said. “Well, my back is tired, I need to start out for home.” He nodded, and turned to walk away.

  “Wait,” I said, putting out a hand to stop him. “Who killed the Caswell family? We were never told. Does anyone know who it was? Was someone taken into custody?”

  “One of the boys, that was what Scotland Yard had to say about it. But we knew better.”

  “How better?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm and interested.

  “It was bound to be someone who wanted what they had, but they wouldn’t give it to him. And nobody has found it since then.”

  “What did they have?”

  The old man smiled. “It was one of the lads who told the tale. That there was a statue or some such in the house. One of the children had brought it with him from India, and it was filled with diamonds.”

  “Who was this boy?”

  He scratched his chin. “I couldn’t tell you his name if my life depended on it. Besides, he called himself something foreign, and claimed he was a prince in disguise. Always running away from The Willows. We’d find him in the post office or the ironmonger’s or even in the churchyard, telling anyone who would listen about this hoard. He was very earnest about it. Perhaps he even believed it. But most everyone thought he was taking us for fools. Well, then. Good evening.”

  And he was off, leaning heavily on his cane, and I felt guilty for keeping him so long. “An Indian idol filled with diamonds?” Simon was saying. “It’s an old tale, old as the first Englishman’s arrival in India. Diamonds in the foreheads of idols. Solid gold gods you could carry away in your pocket. Maharajah’s rings or turban ornaments with rubies the size of hen’s eggs. Many of them connected with a curse for good measure.”

  “But the boy’s audience didn’t know better. I wonder why he did it? For attention? Or was he trying to cause trouble for the Caswells in the only way he could think of?”

  “He couldn’t have been very happy there, if he ran away from The Willows so often.”

  While we’d been talking the wind had risen. I said, glancing over my shoulder at the advancing clouds, “Let’s find Miss Grant before we go. There’s time, don’t you think?”

  “If we don’t have to search too long.”

  But we didn’t. The headstone was low and without distinction, as if it were all the poor woman deserved. Just her name, Phyllis Anne Judith Grant. And the dates. No sentimental line of poetry or scripture, no Beloved Daughter of or Promised Wife of. Not even a rosebush or patch of pansies in the grass. Forgotten like the little Wade child. But then Miss Grant had possibly been a suicide. . . .

  It was when we were hurrying back to the motorcar, the wind bringing drops of rain in its wake, that I stumbled over another low gravestone. Simon caught my arm to steady me. I reached down to massage my shin and as I did I saw the inscription on the stone.

  “Simon. Look.”

  He bent down to clear away the grass that obscured part of what was engraved there.

  GEORGE MURRAY ALBERT MAYFIELD, BELOVED SON OF HENRY M. A. AND MARGARET ANNE V. MAYFIELD, and then the dates. Hardly visible in the thick edging of grass below that was carved an elephant, of all things.

  “Captain Harry Mayfield, by God,” Simon said. “I didn’t know he’d lost a son. It must be Captain Mayfield. Wasn’t his wife named Margaret?”

  “I’m sure of it. But Mother will know.”

  By this time rain was sweeping in a curtain across the fields and the rooftops. We couldn’t make it to the motorcar, and so we scrambled to reach the door of the church, dashing inside and pulling it to just as a torrent burst against it. We could hardly hear ourselves think as it beat on the roof above us.

  Simon handed me his handkerchief and I dried my face, laughing as I did so. “If we don’t die of pneumonia from the chill in here, we should be all right.” For the shoulders
and arms of my uniform were wet. Simon gave me his coat, and I was grateful for the warmth.

  Lightning lit the stained-glass windows and seemed to roll around the beautiful wooden roof over our heads. “It came up so fast. It shouldn’t last too long.”

  But it was nearly forty-five minutes before the rain stopped and we could leave the sanctuary of the church.

  Simon, pacing the flagstone floor, said, “If these children were neglected or abused, why didn’t one of them tell the doctor or the rector?”

  “Remember what Mr. Kipling said, when I went with Melinda to see him? He never told anyone how wretched he was. He was afraid he wouldn’t be believed, and that would make life even more unbearable.”

  “You think this lad telling tall tales was Lieutenant Wade?”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it? There’s no way of guessing whether he was actually mistreated or simply hated being at The Willows, away from his parents. He might even have been having troubles with his studies and rebelled.”

  “I shouldn’t think that would lead to murder.”

  He said something else that was lost in the next clap of thunder, which seemed to come from directly overhead.

  “I’m sorry. I missed that.”

  “When this stops, we’ll try to find that nurse. She ought to remember more than the former sexton does. She was in that house every day.”

  We sat there in silence for a time, listening to the storm move away, and after a bit the rain stopped hitting the roof like pebbles thrown against it. Simon went to look out, and stood there, a silhouette, holding the door open.

  “Another five minutes,” he said.

  We drove out toward the Common, on the outskirts of Petersfield, and after asking at the first house we came to, we soon discovered where Miss Gooding lived. It was a tiny cottage, the front of it nearly overrun with wisteria vines and roses turned wild. All the same, I couldn’t help but think how lovely it must look in the spring, when both were in bloom. There were flagstones leading up to the door, and I managed to keep my skirts out of the puddles that were everywhere and hard to see in the gray twilight.

  The woman who opened the door was much older than the former sexton, her hands gnarled and twisted, her back bent so badly she had trouble looking up at me.

  “Miss Gooding?”

  “Yes, my dear. What is it you need?”

  “Just to speak to you for a moment, please? Sergeant-Major Brandon and I have come a long way and must leave shortly.”

  “Do come in, Sister Brandon,” she said, and I didn’t correct her. “Mr. Brandon as well. Is he your brother? Such a tall one. Mind that beam, sir.”

  Cozy was the word that came to mind as we stepped into the front room of the cottage. Chairs and a table, a work box filled with mending, and a low shelf filled with books and knickknacks, even a window seat where a gray tabby was curled up asleep gave it a peaceful air. A fire was burning on the hearth, and the room was very warm.

  Turning to Simon, she asked, “Would it be forward of me, sir, to ask you to fill the coal scuttle for me?”

  “Of course,” he answered and carried it through the kitchen and outside to look for the coal pile.

  She smiled at me. “That’s very kind of him. Old bones feel the weather, and it’s a struggle bringing it in. The coal. Now, then, what’s troubling you, Sister?”

  “I’ve come to ask you about the Caswell house, The Willows. I understand you took care of some of the children living there.”

  She rubbed the palms of her hands on her apron, looking away. “Best not to speak of the past,” she said, her reluctance evident.

  “It was the former sexton of St. Peter’s who thought you might be able to help us. He told us where to find you.”

  “Did he, now? Well, then, it will be all right.” Her gaze came back to me. “Mrs. Caswell didn’t care to summon the doctor unless she had to. She left it to me to take care of them unless it was very bad. She didn’t want him reporting what he saw there.”

  “What would he have seen?”

  “Pinches and bruises mostly. A burn or two. Scratches. She didn’t want the children there, cluttering up her house. She blamed her husband for making it necessary to take them in. There were other things you couldn’t see the scars of. Miss Gwendolyn—the Caswells’ daughter—would take something of theirs, then swear she hadn’t. And the object would turn up in the most obvious place. The child would then be punished for a liar. Or Miss Gwendolyn would tear a page from their schoolbooks and claim she saw them do it. Hide letters or pictures. Steal food and swear it was one of the others. I told Mr. Caswell, but he wouldn’t do anything to stop it. He couldn’t see that his daughter was a spoiled, mean-spirited little girl.”

  “But the governess—someone—the tutor—must have seen what you saw? The other servants. And who else? The rector. The local constable.”

  “The other servants hated the extra work the children made for them. The rector never saw the children except when they were scrubbed and warned to keep their mouths shut. They were always well chaperoned if they went outside the gates. What’s more, the tutor and the governess were browbeaten. They too had nowhere else to go.”

  “But surely interviewing parents saw what was happening. Saw that the tutor and the governess were worthless.”

  “Mr. Melvin had a First in mathematics. He had Greek and Latin. Miss Grant was shy, but she had been to the finest schools, paid for by her godfather. Parents didn’t see how many days in a month Mr. Melvin was drunk, or that Miss Grant was afraid of her shadow. It was her first position. I think that’s why she killed herself—after her fiancé died, she lost hope of a different life, for the Caswells would never have given her a decent reference.”

  “Where is Mr. Melvin now?”

  “He was sacked when the last of the boys went away to school. Someone said he’d emigrated to Canada, but I heard later that he’d died of his liver. And that was good riddance. He enjoyed the cane too much for my taste.”

  “Tell me a little about the children.”

  “Every Sunday they would sit in the parlor and write to their parents in India. Those that could. They were told what to say, mind you, and the letter was read before it went into the post, to make certain there was nothing extra in there, like a plea for help. For the little ones, a letter was written for them, and they were taught to sign their names to it. Photographs were taken showing smiling faces. Or they went to bed without their dinner. During the week, they studied long hours. I’d find them asleep over their books and Mr. Melvin droning on. The other nursery maid left, not wanting to look after so many children. After that, I took over their care, saw that they bathed and had their tea and went to bed on time. It was such a dreary life for them. There was one little girl, pretty as a picture, and I enjoyed brushing her hair at night. Even Mr. Caswell made over her. It near broke my heart when she died.”

  She was talking about the Wade child. I was sure of it.

  “How did she die? Of measles or scarlet fever?” I asked, one nurse to another.

  “I never knew. They said typhoid, but I couldn’t believe that. I went over it again and again in my mind.”

  “Instincts are often right,” I reminded her. “Were there other cases of typhoid that spring? Trouble with the well? Of course if that was the source of infection, someone else would have fallen ill, surely.”

  Miss Gooding shook her head. “I’ve no call to speak ill of the dead.”

  “It will go no further,” I assured her. “I’ve come here because I’m uncomfortable about the way the Caswells treated their charges.”

  She looked at me, and I could see that her eyes were beginning to cloud over with age.

  “I don’t mind telling you I’ve wondered the same. I did speak to the doctor about the child’s illness when he came to sign the death certificate. He laughed at me, telling
me I had no training.”

  “If it wasn’t typhoid, what was it? This was the little Wade girl we’re talking about?”

  Miss Gooding didn’t seem surprised that I knew the child’s name.

  “I even spoke to the constable. But he’d never been called to the house, had he, or seen the frightened eyes or the bruises? We only had one lad who was troublesome, and I heard the constable lecture him on being grateful to have such a fine family to give him a home.”

  I gently brought her back to what I was most interested in. “The little girl?”

  “I did wonder if Miss Gwendolyn had given the child something to make her so ill. I kept telling myself that she couldn’t have known what would happen. But I couldn’t think what it could be. I saw her face when the doctor came out of the sickroom and told us the child was dead. She turned white as her nightdress, and she ran out of the room and up the stairs. I started after her, but her mother called me back and told me to leave Miss Gwendolyn alone.”

  “But what reason could she have had?”

  “I thought about that as well. That she just wanted to make the child ill. The little one’s birthday was the very next week, and there were already packages that had come from India. I couldn’t help but think Miss Gwendolyn wanted to spoil it for her.”

  I remembered the shepherdess in the attic and the box that it came in.

  “The Mayfield lad died as well,” I said.

  “Now that was a fall down the stairs. He said he was pushed, but there was no one at the top of the stairs when Mr. Caswell reached him. I was called because the doctor was at a lying-in, but I could see at once it was his spine. He lived another four and twenty hours before he died.”

  “How sad,” I said as Simon came in with the coal scuttle, filled to the brim.

  “It was that, and I cried when they put him in the ground. Such a promising lad.”

  “Was young Wade mistreated?”

  She nodded her head. “But then he was trouble from the start, young Thomas was. Everyone said so. Still, the truth was, it wasn’t until after his sister’s death that he was difficult. They sent him away to Shaftsbury School as soon as they could. He told me as I was packing up his things that he would come back one day and make the Caswells tell him how his sister died.”