A Casualty of War: A Bess Crawford Mystery (Bess Crawford Mysteries)

by Charles Todd

  Money and prestige and a long history. Designed to impress us with its lineage. Did this have anything to do with the difficulties over James Travis’s will?

  All in all, it was the strangest tea I’d ever been a party to.

  “This officer who shared a railway carriage with my son. Do you know him well?” Mrs. Travis was saying, and I had to bring my mind back to the present. Here finally was the main reason for our invitation.

  “Not well. He was my patient on two occasions.”

  “Indeed. And he survived the war?”

  “Yes. He has.”

  “And is he from Shropshire—or Gloucestershire?”

  “From neither,” I said. “He comes from Barbados.”

  There was consternation in Mrs. Travis’s face, and Mr. Caldwell cleared his throat suddenly.

  They hadn’t expected my response. That was obvious.

  Or was it that they hadn’t expected us to be quite so forthright about Captain Travis?

  All at once I realized what must be going on.

  Had people thought Simon was a Travis, using one of his family names rather than his real surname? And that he had come here to find out more about the inheritance? A man of the ranks?

  I wondered if this was the first time they’d had such suspicions about a stranger. It would explain why our conversations with Mrs. Caldwell and Mrs. Horner had brought us to Mrs. Travis’s attention.

  It would most certainly explain why she had invited a nursing Sister and a Sergeant-Major to tea.

  And the Vicar was here as witness, to support Mrs. Travis’s account when the police were summoned.

  To my surprise, she rose abruptly. “I fear entertaining has been more tiring than I had expected. Please forgive me.”

  The Vicar rose as well, taking his cue from her words. He thanked her for tea and hoped to see her at St. Mary’s when she was in better health.

  We rose as well, thanked her in our turn, and found ourselves being ushered out by the Vicar, leaving Mrs. Travis standing there in her pretty drawing room.

  As we emerged into a cloudy dusk, the Vicar apologized for having urgent business in the village. “I do try to come when she asks,” he said, “however inconvenient the timing might be.” He went to lift his bicycle from the post and prepared to mount it.

  “I do wish I understood what this invitation was about,” I said, trying to look offended by our sudden dismissal.

  He hesitated. “Mrs. Travis is a very proud woman. I won’t see her made unhappy by people who care only about her wealth.”

  Stung, I said, “I’ve asked nothing of her. You know that, you were present the entire time.”

  “Let it go, Bess,” Simon told me. “It isn’t worth discussing.”

  “But it is. Mrs. Travis invited us to come here. Your wife can tell you, sir, that we made no effort to persuade her to introduce us to Mrs. Travis.”

  “You questioned Mrs. Horner very thoroughly about the family and who the heir of Travis Hall may be.”

  “As I recall, we asked no favors of her, either. She simply gave us a little information about a family I’d already heard of and was curious about.”

  “Still, she acted rashly in telling you so much.”

  I shook my head. “I think Mrs. Travis is afraid that now the war has ended, the man who is next of kin will come to her door and ask to step into her son’s shoes. I can’t blame her. But that’s not what brought us here. We didn’t know about an inheritance, we wanted to—to see the plaque in St. Mary’s. And learn something about James Travis. For personal reasons related to the war.” The Vicar was looking skeptical. “I must return to my post in France in a few days. And Sergeant-Major Brandon will return to his duties. We don’t pose any threat to Mrs. Travis.”

  He said only, “The conversation ended before either Mrs. Travis or I knew what you really intended by coming here.”

  I took a deep breath. There was nothing more that I could say or do. Simon was holding my door for me, and I could feel his disapproval.

  “Sometimes our greatest fears are in our imaginations,” I said and turned to step into the motorcar. Simon closed my door and saw to the crank before he came around to the far side and got in next to me.

  The Vicar was still standing there with his hands on the handlebars of his bicycle, watching us as I looked back from the bend in the drive.

  We rode in silence until we were outside the gates and turning toward the village.

  “I wish I knew what was wrong here,” I said finally. “Something is. Mrs. Travis struck me as far too intelligent a woman to deny that her son is dead. Emotionally, I mean, not in fact. Yet it’s the only explanation I can think of for her to refuse to agree to James’s heir.”

  “Some people, mothers in particular, find it hard to accept such a loss. She lives shut up in that house, seeing no one, seldom crossing the threshold, leaving her affairs to be dealt with by others. It’s bound to matter who takes her son’s place. She’s already buried her entire family.”

  “I expect that’s it,” I said, and fell silent again.

  We were pulling up in front of The George. Simon asked, “Should we leave tonight? Or wait until morning? You still have nine days of your leave.”

  “Tomorrow. I expect a good night’s sleep will make everything look better than it does now.” Somehow I didn’t quite believe that. I turned to him. “We’ve finished what we came here to do. I don’t know of any reason to stay.” Staying wouldn’t help Captain Travis prove he shouldn’t be in that Wiltshire clinic.

  Simon must have known what I was feeling. “The Germans were retreating. Every day was different, and men had to cope with that in any way they could, in spite of the fact they were exhausted, rations weren’t keeping up with them, and they often didn’t know precisely where the Front was. Whatever Travis thought he saw, in the chaos of the retreat, it might not have been true.”

  “It must have been.”

  “I don’t mean it was a lie, Bess. The other officer might have been firing at someone behind Travis, at the same time that other man fired at him. Easy to misunderstand.”

  “Yes, I agree—or I would agree, if it hadn’t happened a second time.”

  He pulled off his driving gloves. “There’s that. On the other hand, what had the Captain done between the first and second wound? Had he been looking for the man he thought had shot him? And been unable to find him? Was he so convinced, so angry, he was prepared to believe that this officer had shot him again?”

  “On the other hand,” I echoed, “it could have happened just as he said it did, and a fellow officer tried to kill him. Just not James Travis.”

  “I know you’d prefer to believe that, Bess.”

  After a moment I said thoughtfully, “When a man is that sure—there must have been something to it.”

  “I’m not saying there wasn’t. But getting at the truth won’t be easy.”

  Simon got down and came around to give me a hand as I stepped out of the motorcar.

  Just then the door of The George was flung open, light spilling into the darkness of the yard, and the owner stepped out, beckoning frantically.

  “I thought I heard a motorcar. Sister? Could you come? There’s been an accident. I was just about to go for the doctor.”

  I hurried inside to find a man with blood on his face lying at the foot of the stairs. I went to kneel beside him, and Simon, just behind me, said, “What do you need, Bess?”

  “Water. Towels.” I turned to the owner of The George. “What happened? Did he fall down the stairs?” I half heard the answer as I felt for a pulse and lifted one of the man’s eyelids.

  “I don’t know. I heard something—crashing sounds, and when I came to see what the noise was about, there he was.”

  “Who is he?” Simon was back with what I needed, and I began to bathe the patient’s face.

  The owner, as pale as his shirt, said, “He just arrived—there was only the room under the eaves, but he was willi
ng to take it.”

  I could see that he’d cut his forehead rather badly, and his chin. And he was unconscious, not a good sign.

  Simon said quietly, “Bess.” And when I turned, he pointed to a rapidly swelling ankle.

  “He should see a doctor,” I told the owner. “I’d rather not move him until I know what other injuries there are. You said you were about to go for him?”

  “Um—yes—he’s not far from St. Mary’s. On the green.”

  Simon touched my shoulder as he went out to the motorcar.

  I’d got the worst of the blood off the man’s face, although both cuts were still bleeding. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, and healthy enough to heal if there were no other problems. One of the women who served in the dining room came down the stairs with a pillow for the man’s head, and the owner started to object, then nodded. I raised his head a little and slipped the pillow in place, then turned my attention to the ankle. I couldn’t be sure whether it was broken or badly sprained. If we were in France, I thought, we’d send him to Rouen for the X-ray machine.

  I felt his arms and legs, but there was no indication of anything broken there.

  He began to stir, then he moaned a little. After a moment his eyelids fluttered and he made an effort to focus his gaze.

  “What happened?” His voice was strained, shocked. I didn’t think he remembered falling.

  “You took a tumble down the stairs,” I said, smiling. “You’ll be all right, I think, but we’ll have the doctor look at you all the same.”

  My uniform bewildered him. “Am I in Casualty? I don’t remember—”

  “You’re lying on the floor of Reception at The George Inn. I happened to be staying here. We’ve sent for the doctor.”

  “The George?” He started to lift his head to look round, and quickly stopped, alarm in his face. “My neck—shoulders—”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised that they’re hurting. Lie down, please, until the doctor has a chance to look at your head. It’s still bleeding quite a bit.”

  This time, the fog in his mind seemed to clear, for he grasped what I was saying. “Yes—The George—I was coming down to find out if dinner was still being served. If there was time to go out to—I forget.”

  “That’s right,” I said encouragingly. “The doctor will be here any minute. It’s best not to move you until he’s seen you.”

  He lay back and closed his eyes. Five minutes later, I heard Simon’s motorcar pull up to the door again.

  The owner had gone away to attend to dinner preparations and so I was alone with the patient.

  The doors opened and a gray-haired man stepped into the room. He was tall and slender, and he walked with a limp as he crossed the floor to where I was kneeling beside the injured man.

  “Dr. Harrison,” he said, and took my place on the floor. “Hallo,” he said to the patient, and then as the man opened his eyes, he repeated his name. “Let’s see what we have here.”

  He set to work, and I stood to one side, watching as he slowly progressed down the man’s body. When he came to the ankle, he glanced up at me. “We’ll treat it as if it’s broken,” he said, “but it will hurt like the very devil either way.” He looked at the stairs. “I take it his room is up there? Well, we’ll have to find him another bed. He won’t be climbing for a while. At any rate, not those stairs.”

  Simon had come in and was standing with his back to the door. The doctor turned to him. “I’m going to tape this ankle. When I’ve finished, we can try to get him into a chair.”

  “I’ll help in any way I can,” Simon answered.

  We waited while the doctor closed the two cuts on the patient’s face, then began to work on the ankle. As he was finishing, he asked, “What’s your name, young man?”

  “Thomas Spencer. It feels as if every bone in my body aches.”

  “Not surprising. I count—what? Fourteen steps? You fell down fourteen steps and landed on a very hard floor. Oak, I’ll be bound. A thorough jarring. But if nothing comes of the blows to your head, and this ankle is only bruised, you’ll be fine in no time.”

  He’d removed Mr. Spencer’s shoe, taped the foot well, then sat back on his haunches for a moment to admire his handiwork. “You won’t be walking on that for a while,” he said finally, “but I have a pair of crutches you can borrow. How did you come to Sinclair?”

  “By train.” Mr. Spencer seemed dazed still, his eyes moving around the walls and then coming back to the doctor, as if he wasn’t quite sure yet where he was. But of course he’d only just arrived, he wasn’t familiar with the inn.

  Dr. Harrison nodded to Simon, and between them they lifted the patient and set him in the chair I pushed forward. He sat there, his head in his hands. I knew it must be thundering by now.

  By this time the owner had returned, nodding to Dr. Harrison but staying by the doors into the dining room, as if distancing himself from all responsibility.

  “We’ll not get Spencer up those stairs,” the doctor said, turning to him. “I don’t suppose he could take over the back parlor?”

  “There’s no one to care for him. I can’t spare any of the staff.”

  The doctor turned to me. “Sister?”

  “I’m leaving in the morning.”

  “Well, then, it’s the surgery,” Dr. Harrison said with a sigh.

  “I can’t possibly walk—” Mr. Spencer began. Then, remembering, “And my valise is in my room.”

  “I’ll drive you there,” Simon told him, “but first let me get your luggage.”

  “Yes, all right—thanks.”

  Simon disappeared up the stairs, and Dr. Harrison was asking Mr. Spencer questions about his health as we waited.

  The owner, relieved of responsibility, now tried to be helpful. “Is there anyone you’d care to notify?” he asked Mr. Spencer. “Any messages you’d like me to see to?”

  Mr. Spencer thanked him but said, “It will be all right. My firm will send someone else.”

  “Where is your firm?” the doctor asked.

  “London.”

  Simon returned, carrying a black leather valise, a hat, a coat, and an umbrella. He took them out to the motorcar, and I prepared to follow him. But the doctor was thanking me, adding that I’d handled the emergency well, and shrugging himself back into his coat.

  They managed to carry Mr. Spencer out to the motorcar, but it was more difficult getting him into the passenger’s seat. He grunted several times, and even cried out in pain once or twice, and I felt for him. I stood at the inn door, watching, knowing it was best if I stayed out of the way. When they finally had our patient settled and the door shut, I walked out to hand Dr. Harrison his bag. He thanked me again, climbed into the rear seat, and spoke to Simon.

  Simon started slowly, gaining speed with care so as not to jar Mr. Spencer.

  I took my coat and hat upstairs and sat by the window, waiting for Simon to return. It was a good half hour before I saw his headlamps turning out of the lane to the church and coming this way.

  Another five minutes and he was knocking at my door. As I opened it, he was removing his coat. “All’s well,” he said, stepping into my room and closing the door behind him. “We got Spencer into the surgery, and I helped the doctor put him to bed. He’s going to be very uncomfortable by morning. There were other bruises, the sort you’d expect from a fall, but no further injury that I could see. That foot is turning blue.”

  “Poor man, he’s going to have a difficult time returning to London by train.”

  “Is that what he told you? That he’d come up from London by train?”

  “Yes. The doctor asked him how he’d arrived.”

  “I can tell you he’s not come from London. He arrived by omnibus. There was ticket and a timetable in his coat pocket with this afternoon’s schedule marked. I took the liberty of looking in his valise before I brought it down. I suspect he must be from a solicitor’s chambers in Bury St. Edmunds. He was carrying papers with their letterhead, a
nd these reported that the solicitors have finally tracked down Captain Travis. That he’s in Wiltshire, in a clinic for men with mental conditions. He must have been intending to take them to Mrs. Travis.”

  Chapter 10

  I sat down, astonished. “That was clever of you.”

  He grinned as he took the other chair. “I’ve developed a very suspicious mind, following you into trouble.”

  “Why did Mr. Spencer lie about where he’d come from? I should think someone here in Sinclair would recognize him. I’m sure if the Travis family uses his firm, others in the village must have done. Still, we’ve learned that no one here knew where to find Captain Travis. Until now.”

  “Not too surprising, since he was wounded toward the end of the war and was no longer with his regiment. The real mystery is, what took them so long? James was killed in 1917. It’s been well over a year. Unless of course someone did inform him that he was named in the will, and then lost touch.”

  “I’m sure he knew nothing about a will. He told me he’d never visited this branch of his family. The way he said it left me with the impression he wasn’t interested in ever visiting them. He talked longingly about returning to Barbados, as if he wanted nothing more than to go home. I was a stranger, there was no reason for him to lie. It was the sort of conversation where he could easily have said that even after the war ended, there were affairs in England that would delay his sailing.”

  “He might not have told you for personal reasons. He’d only just met you.”

  “Then why did he swear it was James Travis who shot him, if he already knew James was dead?”

  “I can’t argue with that point,” Simon agreed. “All right, the problem might have been at this end, a problem with the solicitors not knowing exactly who he was, or that he was in France. Until James named him in his will, there might have been no real reason to keep informed about a distant branch. There’s even a chance that James might not have known anything more about him than his name and rank. I grant you, that’s an odd way of choosing one’s heir. But then James might not have thought it would matter. That he would survive. I rather think he might have made his own inquiries, and been killed before he could explain matters to his mother or the solicitors.”