A Question of Honor: A Bess Crawford Mystery

by Charles Todd

  And then he was ready to go, holding the door wide for me to precede him, and then closing it behind us as we left. As it swung shut I had a last glimpse of Miss Seavers staring down at her cousin.

  “What brought you to Petersfield?” Dr. Collins was asking. And I had a feeling that he might know more than he was divulging.

  “I’ve been here before,” I said. “And this time I brought my mother. I’m on leave, you see.”

  We had reached the motorcar. My mother was sitting there, waiting patiently. Dr. Collins heaved himself into the seat beside her, and I took the rear seat.

  “Is that poor man all right?” Mother asked. “I thought it best not to come back inside.”

  “Better than he deserves to be. I have no patience with suicides when I have so many people who are fighting very hard to live.” He lifted his glasses and ran a hand over his face. I could hear his palm brush across his chin where he’d missed a patch of beard. “Back to the surgery, if you please, Mrs. Crawford. I must find two men with stretchers to take that fool upstairs to his bed.”

  I wanted to tell Dr. Collins what Mr. Gates had told me, but it was in confidence and I didn’t think the doctor would understand if I did.

  And then he surprised me by adding, “Mr. Gates isn’t suited to the cloth. It demands more than he can give. But then he’s not the first clergyman to come back from France disillusioned and tormented by not being able to turn the other cheek.” He sighed. “But then you’ve seen more of that than I have, Sister.” We had reached his surgery, down a back street on the other side of the church, and he was opening the door, preparing to get down. “That binding of the broken leg was well done, by the by.” And with that he was gone, striding briskly through the gate and up the walk to his door.

  My mother watched him go. As the door was shut behind him and she was certain that she couldn’t be overheard, she said in a low voice, “It was odd. Dr. Collins said something as we were coming up on The Willows. ‘The house is up for sale, I’m told. It would be better to burn it down. There’s been nothing but unhappiness there, according to my predecessor, and here’s further proof he was right. If I believed in such things, I’d say it was haunted.’ ”

  I said, “Then I’m surprised he had so little sympathy for Mr. Gates.” I got out of the rear of the motorcar and moved up next to my mother.

  “He’s a rather brusque man, Dr. Collins. And just now he’s overwhelmed. I did ask him who was handling the sale. Perhaps we should speak to them.”

  “Simon has called on the firm. But the agent couldn’t tell him anything new.”

  She smiled. “I don’t think Simon knew the name of the fourth boy when he went there. Hughes Estate Agents. Midhurst.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I sat there, trying to take in what my mother had told me.

  How often had I heard someone mention that The Willows was up for sale and that someone in Midhurst was handling the property. It was the reason Simon had gone there. He hadn’t thought it important to tell me the name, and he hadn’t connected it with the Sandy Hughes he’d been hunting. Most of the children had come from military or civil servant families, and the boys would have been of an age to serve King and Country when the war started. We’d concentrated our search in that direction because it was a reliable source.

  Mother smiled at my expression of disbelief. “Of course we aren’t sure he’s the Hughes you’re after. It really isn’t an unusual name.”

  “But Simon was there,” I said. “He’s thorough. He would have remembered.”

  “It’s possible the Hughes he spoke with was the wrong one. On the other hand,” Mother asked thoughtfully, “what better way to have access to that house without arousing suspicion?”

  I laughed. “All right, we’ll go to Midhurst, shall we?”

  As we drove toward the town, my mother asked about the man and woman who had come to the door of The Willows.

  When I finished explaining, she shook her head.

  “That was well done, covering up the rector’s attempt. He’ll find it easier to live down if it doesn’t become the topic of the day.”

  “It was frightening seeing him lying there. I thought surely he was dead.”

  “Yes, it was amazing the fall didn’t kill him.” She took a deep breath. “And Lieutenant Wade—Corporal Caswell? Would Gates’s death also lie at his door?”

  We were silent the rest of the way to Midhurst. The estate agent’s firm was halfway down the High Street. At first glance it appeared to be closed.

  After we’d found a place to leave the motorcar we walked back.

  “What shall we tell him? We can’t just walk in and ask if he’d been one of the children at The Willows.”

  She had a good point. “We’ll show interest in the house. That’s the ticket.”

  I put out my hand and tried to turn the knob, but it appeared to be locked. I was just about to try again when someone on the other side opened it for me.

  The man was tall and slim, and I recognized him at once. The boy was still there in the shape of his nose and the square chin. He was the right age as well.

  “The door tends to stick when the weather is damp,” he said, and stepped back to let us come inside.

  It was small, as places of business went, but carefully decorated to give it an air of success and style.

  There were chairs in front of a large desk, and the man at the door gestured toward them. “Do sit down, and tell me what I can do to help you.”

  “We’re interested in a comfortable property in the vicinity of Petersfield,” my mother said as she drew off her driving gloves.

  But my attention was on the man who must be Sandy Hughes. As he closed the door and turned to come back to the desk, I couldn’t help but notice that he was limping heavily.

  I looked away at once, but he’d caught my glance at his feet and he flushed. “I do have a property in Petersfield, but I don’t think it would suit you,” he said, hurrying around his desk to hide his limp. “There are other properties that should be a better choice.” Taking a sheaf of papers out of a drawer, he leafed through them, then chose one to hand to my mother.

  Looking over her shoulder, I could see that it was a handsome property on the road to Haslemere, with a small pond fed by a stream.

  Mother frowned. “Yes, that’s very nice, but beyond what I should like to pay. Is there anything else?”

  “Here is another house that might interest you. But you’ll find that what it requires in order to bring it up to your standards more than makes up the difference in cost.” He went on to offer her several more properties, one a lovely estate near Peterborough, but she managed to find a flaw in each one.

  I said, now that we’d established our bona fides, so to speak, “Are you by any chance related to the Alexander Hughes who lived in The Willows during the time the Caswell family was in residence?”

  He froze in the act of handing my mother another sheet of paper, staring at me in horror quickly supplanted by anger.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” I said gently. “It’s only because you look so much like one of the boys in a photograph I happen to have. And his name was Hughes. There are the two Wade children, the Bingham and the Mayfield boys, Gwendolyn Caswell, and another boy and girl—I’m afraid I can’t remember their names.”

  “Is that why you’ve come here? Because of the past? I’m not this Alexander Hughes. I’ve never had anything to do with the family you’ve mentioned.”

  “You lived in India, didn’t you? I did as well. That’s how I came to know about the Caswells.”

  My mother was saying, “Yes, I was looking for just such a family for my daughter. That’s how we happen to have the photograph. Mrs. Caswell gave it to us. But in the end we decided to keep Bess with us instead of sending her to England.”

  “Get out,” he s
aid, rising from his chair. “Just—get out and leave me alone.”

  We had no choice but to go, and he followed us to the door, shutting it firmly behind us. And I heard the tumblers in the lock turn as well.

  “Well.” My mother walked to the motorcar, then looked up and down the street.

  “I’m famished. We’ve missed our lunch, and I think we should stop for something.”

  I spotted a tea shop just a few doors down from where we stood, on the far side of the street. “That looks cozy. Shall we walk over there?” I glanced over my shoulder as we turned to go, and I saw Mr. Hughes at his window watching us. He stepped back when he realized I could see him there.

  “Do you think we’ve found the right Alexander Hughes?” I asked.

  “I’d say yes,” my mother agreed. “But for some reason he doesn’t want to admit it. Do you think he could have had anything to do with that fire at the photographer’s shop?”

  “It would depend on how much he had to hide, wouldn’t it?” We reached the shop and went inside, choosing a table near the window.

  A middle-aged woman came to take our order. My mother ordered for both of us, then turned to me when the woman had gone away. “We’ll both feel better when we’ve got a little food inside us.”

  I had to agree. I was very tired myself and knew she must be as well. We sat in silence as we waited. And then my mother put out a hand to touch my arm. “Mr. Hughes has just come out of his shop. And he’s locking up. We must have upset him more than we realized. Oh. Now he’s coming this way.” She watched him for a moment and then said, “I do think he’s coming in here!”

  “But he was watching—he knows we’re here.”

  After a moment, the tea shop door opened, but I didn’t turn around. Then I heard footsteps approaching our table. And the limp was pronounced.

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. Hughes said, and I looked up. His face was haggard. “I find it difficult—still, I need to know why you are here. Why you are asking questions about that family at The Willows.”

  I indicated the third chair. “Please join us, Mr. Hughes.” I waited, afraid he wouldn’t sit down after all. Others in the shop were staring, as if expecting a scene of some sort.

  And then finally he did sit, perched on the edge of his chair, as if he was determined to leave as soon as he could. The woman who’d taken our order came over to ask if he would care to have anything.

  He blinked as if he wasn’t sure just what she’d asked. “I—yes, all right, tea, please, Mrs. Thompson.”

  “I’m sorry if we troubled you, Mr. Hughes,” my mother was saying, keeping her voice down so that the others in the tea shop couldn’t overhear us. “But you see, we do have that photograph. And we’d like very much to know the names of those children.”

  “Their murderer was found. The Caswells. There’s nothing more to be said.”

  “And yet the man who took this photograph was killed in a fire that destroyed his shop—and with it all his negatives and papers. He was on the upper floor, asleep, when the fire started, and he never got out. Nor did his daughter. It happened just after my daughter and a friend went to see them to ask if Mr. Gessler could identify the photograph and when it was taken. He has aged, of course, and all he could tell us was that he had indeed taken that photograph. There was a mark, you see, that he recognized. But that was all. And so he died uselessly, and his daughter as well.”

  “You don’t know that the fire was set,” he told my mother, his voice tight.

  “Indeed I don’t. But the Winchester police believe it was. They called it arson.”

  He was silent for a moment. “We can’t talk here. Come back to the estate office.”

  But before he could stand up, Mrs. Thompson was behind him with his tea and our sandwiches.

  Sinking back into his chair, he looked cornered. My mother poured my cup and then her own, and began to eat one of the sandwiches. But I could tell that she was no longer hungry. It was mechanical. My own mouth was dry, but I got the sandwich down with dispatch, and finished my tea. I don’t think Mr. Hughes had touched his. But as I watched, he gulped it down and got up.

  “I’ll wait for you in my office.”

  He turned and walked out the door,

  “Do you think he killed the Caswells? Should we go back there?” I asked.

  My mother put down her cup and said, “We really have to hear what he has to say. The two of us? I think we’ll be safe enough.” But as she rose and went to pay for our tea, I heard her say, “I do wish Simon was here.”

  We walked up the High Street and crossed over to HUGHES ESTATE AGENT.

  The door stuck again, but Mr. Hughes opened it and stood aside to let us enter, just as he had before. We walked to the chairs we’d occupied earlier, but this time he stood by the door.

  “I remember Mr. Gessler. He was quiet, gentle, and he managed to make us smile for him. He sent Mrs. Caswell out of the room and spoke sharply to Gwendolyn when she tried to make the little Wade girl cry. And so it was a suitable photograph of happy children preparing for Christmas.” His mouth twisted with pain. “I had blocked that out of my mind. I’d blocked it all out.”

  “Do you remember the names of the other children? The two we don’t know?”

  He shook his head. “I’d shut that out as well.”

  “What happened to make that such an unhappy house?” I asked.

  “They didn’t want us there. They needed the money our parents sent them and they punished us in small spiteful ways and made certain we told no one what was happening. They warned us the house was haunted, and that if we left our rooms at night, something unspeakable was waiting out there for us.” He broke off, looking down the street. “It’s what I never wanted to do. Go back to the past,” he said after a moment, and I saw the tears in his eyes.

  “Why did you agree to represent The Willows?” I asked, when he had mastered his feelings. “If it hurt so much even to think about the past?”

  “I’ve been ill, I had to ask an older cousin to help me for a bit. The truth is, I need the money.” He shrugged, and something in that shrug spoke volumes about his pain. “I’m in the same boat as the Caswells. How ironic is that?” He left the door, limped to the desk, moved his chair, but didn’t sit down.

  “You’ve noticed the limp. I try to cover it up, but when I’m tense or anxious, it seems to get worse.” He moved some of the papers around on his desk, but I didn’t think he had any idea what he was doing. “I was destined for the Army. My father and my grandfather had been in the Army. It was expected that I’d follow them. But one day Gwendolyn brought around her pony and told me I could ride it. I was pleased, I’d always liked horses. But as I started to mount, she pinched it hard, and it threw me off. Only my foot was already in the stirrup, and the damage was done. They wouldn’t call the doctor, they told me that I was making too much of what had happened. Miss Gooding did her best, but the foot was beyond her skills. So much for the Army. And I’m not fit for much else.”

  “There was the law. The church. Traditional alternatives.”

  “With this limp? Yes, I’m feeling sorry for myself. But the foot still hurts, and I can’t bear the pity I see in the eyes of strangers as I hobble down the street. The people I deal with here? Our encounters are brief and transient. I sit behind my desk, except when it’s damp and the damned door sticks. I talk to them, send them out to look at various properties, and they seldom see me do more than stand up to shake hands. Either I sell them a property or I don’t. Either way I never have to see them again.” He shoved the chair hard against the desk. “Even my parents were disappointed in me. My father was garrisoned in South Africa when I was born, and they stayed on when my father left the Army. I haven’t seen them since I came down from Cambridge.”

  It was self-pity, but I could understand how hard it must have been for Mr. Hughes. And I could also
see that festering resentment could have turned to murder.

  “So there you have the life of Alexander Hughes,” he finished bitterly.

  “To say I’m sorry is not enough,” my mother said. “I understand the pull of the Army. And I understand how you feel about your limp. But you walked into the tearoom.”

  “Yes, but they know me.”

  “Did they know you when you first came to Midhurst?”

  “Well, no. But I had to find somewhere to have my tea.”

  “It seems that your shame is rather selective,” my mother ended gently.

  His face flamed with anger, and for an instant I saw a man who could well have committed murder. But he managed to get his temper under control and tell her to mind her own business.

  I interrupted. “We must be going. Are you sure, Mr. Hughes, that you don’t remember the names of the other two children in that photograph?”

  “I remember one of the little girls. Hazel. Gwendolyn called her Witch Hazel. I haven’t thought about her in years. She could give as good as she got, small as she was. And after a while Gwendolyn left her alone.”

  “No last name?”

  “Simpson? No, Sheridan, I think it was. She came into a great deal of money when she was twenty-one. Poor as a church mouse before that. I saw in the Times that she married rather well. Her husband is—or was at the time—an equerry to one of the Princes. I forget which one.” He passed a hand over his face. “You see why I don’t want to remember. For God’s sake, take your questions and go away.”

  My mother rose. “Thank you, Mr. Hughes. You were very kind to help us.”

  And we left. As I was cranking the motorcar, I saw Hughes at his window once more, but this time he was placing a discreet sign in it that said CLOSED.

  My mother said as I got in beside her and took the wheel, “What a terrible legacy those awful people have left behind. I’m beginning to think that whoever killed them did Society a favor. If Lieutenant Wade is the guilty person, then I’m glad he escaped.”