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

by Charles Todd

  “Vera, in God’s name, what possessed you to do such a mad thing?”

  “I was sick of the way Mrs. Travis and Mr. Ellis ignored James’s will. It was his will, you see, not yours or theirs. It was the disposition he wished to make of his estate, and he provided for his mother and for all the staff and the church, and the poor. His estate, Michael. What would you say to him, if by some miracle it was discovered that he hadn’t been killed, that he was a prisoner of the Germans or some such, and the Army had made a mistake? What would you have said to him, when he came home at last, only to find that his will had been set aside? How would you have justified supporting his mother instead of seeing that right was done?”

  “He’s dead, Vera. He won’t be coming back.” It was almost a cry.

  “You don’t know that. The war has just ended, there hasn’t been an accounting. You are putting your own comfort ahead of what is right.”

  We were just coming into the village now. The streets were empty, save for a single figure hurrying homeward under his black umbrella. Lamps were lit in the houses and cottages, but the shops were dark. It was well past the dinner hour, and people were snug in their homes.

  We had nearly arrived at The George when Mrs. Caldwell reached out to touch Simon’s shoulder. “Sergeant-Major, will you stop at the inn, please. I don’t feel that I can go home tonight. Perhaps in the morning, when I am stronger.”

  Her husband began to protest, but she stood firm. “Tomorrow we will talk. Tonight I need silence.”

  Simon did as he was told, and she got down, turning to me and saying, “Shall I ask for a room for you? You’ve no place to stay.”

  It was Simon who answered. “Yes, please. I’ll be in directly, as soon as I’ve taken the Vicar home.”

  “Yes, do that, please.” And she turned resolutely and walked through the rain to the inn door, opening and closing it without looking back.

  Mr. Caldwell, distressed and embarrassed that we had been witnesses to his confrontation with his wife, said, “That was wrong of you, sir.”

  Simon answered him. “She made her wishes known. If you disagree, you can come down to The George and reason with her.”

  We drove on to the Vicarage, and Simon left the motor running as he got down to unlash the bicycle from the boot. Mr. Caldwell took it from him, gave him a curt nod, and disappeared up the walk to his door.

  It would be a cold homecoming, I thought.

  I didn’t know the right or wrong of their disagreement, but I could understand both sides of the issue, to some extent. The Vicar was beholden to Mrs. Travis for his livelihood. And Mrs. Caldwell was emotionally tied to James Travis, because he was her son’s friend, his surrogate.

  As Simon pulled away from the Vicarage, I said, “Should we stay here? Or return to The Swan?”

  “Here, I think. It’s closer to Bury. And I don’t think we should leave Mrs. Caldwell alone.”

  We had settled into our former rooms and were dressing for a late dinner when there was a commotion on the stairs. I hurried to my door to see what it was about. My first thought was that Mr. Caldwell, finding his courage, had come back to demand his wife’s return to the Vicarage.

  But when I opened my door, it wasn’t the Vicar coming up the stairs, it was Mrs. Travis, followed by the inn’s owner, remonstrating with her.

  “She’s here, I have been informed that she is here. I will speak to her.”

  Mrs. Travis saw me, and her face flushed. “You. I should have known you were behind this.”

  I said nothing, and she arrived in the passage in almost a frenzy. “I will not have you or anyone else interfere in the affairs of my family. Mr. Ellis tells me that the Vicar’s wife was taken into custody for trying to keep the police from arresting that madman. It was your doing. She would never have crossed me like that if you hadn’t put her up to it.” I flinched at the fury in her face.

  Simon had come to his door, standing staunchly behind me, and she stepped back to the top of the stairs.

  “I have been tormented by people since my son’s death,” she said, her anger crumbling into anguish. “I wish it would end. I have tried to do what my husband asked of me. I have tried.”

  Fearful that Mrs. Caldwell would feel it was necessary to come out of her room and face Mrs. Travis, I reached out and took her arm. “This is no place to talk. You don’t wish the staff to hear you.” Opening the door to my room, over her protests I gently led her in to the chair by the fire, and Simon followed us, closing the door.

  She stared into the fire, lost in a past I couldn’t know.

  And then she straightened. “You don’t understand how it was,” she said finally. “It was my husband’s grandmother who was at the heart of this quarrel. She was still alive when he was a boy, he knew what had happened. I never learned the whole of it, but she loved both brothers, you see, and had to choose. She married my husband’s grandfather, but they were never really happy. The shadow of the brother who left England was always between them, and Hugh told me his grandfather was never sure whether it was The Hall that weighed in his favor, or if she truly loved him best. Hugh’s father had an unhappy childhood, even though Nicholas, his grandfather, had prayed for a son. Always a son. And when James was born, you would have thought I’d delivered a prince of the realm, because it meant that the line continued. James knew this, he understood that his duty was to provide the next heir. And if this God-bereft war hadn’t started, he might well have done just that. I would have given anything to be spared his loss.”

  I remembered Captain Travis telling me about his great-grandfather leaving England to settle in the islands. I hadn’t got the impression that the same sort of black cloud had hung over his family for generations. Of course he might not have mentioned it to a stranger, but still, the way he spoke of the past never hinted at anything like this.

  Still, it was true that the winner in such a quarrel often found it hard to believe in his good fortune. Or found it harder still to believe he deserved to win.

  I wished I could see a portrait of the woman who had loved two brothers, to see for myself whether she’d suffered from her husband’s suspicions. Then it occurred to me that it was her husband, the man she had chosen, whose likeness might tell me more. Instead I had only Mrs. Travis’s version of events.

  But there was that plain stone in the churchyard . . .

  This branch of the Travis family must have suffered more than the one that had made its way to a Caribbean island. Easier for them to forget a house in far-off England.

  There was no comfort I could offer.

  She sat there, wrapped in her misery, refusing to break down, and yet at the end of her strength to fight battles that had never been hers but had been forced on her.

  It was Simon who broke the silence.

  “If not your son—if not Captain Travis, who should inherit the estate? Who would you be satisfied to see in your son’s place?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, her voice infinitely sad. “There is no one. Oliver Masters, perhaps. I can’t even be sure that the connection is real. Hugh never found a common ancestor. And I haven’t seen Oliver since he was a boy. I’ve tried to keep up the pretense that there was someone else.”

  She drew her dignity around her like a shield and rose. “Did Captain Travis kill that man? The one in Dr. Harrison’s surgery? Rumor says he’s been taken up by the police.”

  I hesitated a second too long before answering her.

  Simon moved away from the door, where he’d been standing. “I think Inspector Howe was relieved to find a suspect. Any suspect. And Mr. Ellis was certain that the Captain was guilty. I wonder why.”

  Mrs. Travis shook her head, weary now. “He knows how strongly I’ve felt about Alan Travis inheriting. He’s given me his support from the start. As he should—his family has served ours for generations.” She walked out like a queen going to the guillotine, back straight, chin high.

  Concerned about her, I caught up my coat and
followed her to the door, walking down the stairs with her to see her to her motorcar.

  Miss Fredericks was standing beside it, her face anxious, a bicycle by her side.

  “They’ve sent me from the house to find you, Mrs. Travis. There’s an officer, just arrived. He’s asking for you.”

  Mrs. Travis turned to me. “Dear God. They’ve set Captain Travis free,” she said. “I don’t want to see him again, I can’t bear it. Not now, not tonight.”

  “I’ll ride with you, and ask him to leave,” I told her, striving to conceal my relief that Inspector Howe had come to his senses and let the Captain go. I could take him to Melinda in Kent now, and let her deal with the clinic. I heard footsteps behind me. “Simon, will you drive out? You can bring me back to The George.”

  He was already moving toward his own motorcar.

  I got in beside Mrs. Travis while the heavyset chauffeur dealt with the bicycle as if it were a child’s toy, and Miss Fredericks got in next to him.

  I was very tired now, and I only wanted this to be finished.

  We rode in silence, Mrs. Travis picking at her gloves, her face tight with something I couldn’t read in the dimness.

  It wasn’t a very great distance back to The Hall. I could hear Miss Fredericks speaking to the chauffeur in a low voice, but I couldn’t make out the words.

  We turned in through the gates and followed the drive to the door. A cab from Bury was already there, the driver obviously told to wait.

  Mrs. Travis got down, moved reluctantly to the door, and took a deep breath as it opened and one of her maids, an older woman I hadn’t seen before, stood there.

  “Madame,” she said, and something else that I didn’t hear.

  Miss Fredericks had touched my arm just as Mrs. Travis had turned her back. Standing on tiptoe, she leaned toward me. “There’s something wrong. I’m frightened.”

  And then she was gone, taking her bicycle from the chauffeur and disappearing around the side of the house.

  That galvanized me, and I hurried to the door before the maid could shut it after Mrs. Travis. In the hall, we gave up our coats and prepared to go into the drawing room. Simon, arriving on our heels, opened the outer door in time to join us.

  Mrs. Travis stopped in midstride and turned away. “No, I won’t do this. I won’t see him. Just—take him away. Please.” And she moved swiftly to the stairs and began to climb them, leaving us to stare after her.

  The maid, confused, said to me, “He wished to see Madame. He told me she knew him.”

  “Yes, I understand,” I told her, finding a smile. “But she’s given me instructions. It will be all right.”

  I could see the doubt in her eyes, but she led us to the drawing room door and opened it for us.

  Only one lamp had been lit, although a fire was blazing merrily on the hearth. I could hear the crackle of the flames as I came through the door. He was standing in the shadows by the long windows, his back to us, looking out into the darkness.

  His name was on my tongue, I was already preparing to ask him please to go back to The George with us, when I realized that it wasn’t Captain Travis.

  The two men were similar in height and coloring, and I could see only the back of his uniform, not his rank or regiment.

  He turned in the same instant. “Mrs. Travis? I’m so sorry about James—” He broke off with a frown. I was clearly not the mistress of the house. “My apologies,” he said at once.

  “Lieutenant?” I asked, noting his rank. “I’m Sister Crawford.”

  The frown deepened. “Have we met?” He looked beyond me. “Sergeant-Major. I was expecting to speak to Mrs. Travis. Don’t tell me—she’s not ill, surely.” He moved forward, into the fire’s glow, holding out his hand. “My name is Martin Bonham.”

  It was my turn to be surprised. My first thought as he’d faced us was that this must be Oliver Masters. Mrs. Travis and I had just been talking about him, and this man was telling us he’d known James. My second was the fleeting feeling that he’d been a patient of mine. But it was gone in an instant, and I wasn’t even sure I’d seen it.

  Behind me, Simon stirred.

  “Lieutenant,” I said again, trying to recover. “It’s my turn to apologize. Mrs. Travis has just come in, and she went to her room to rest. Perhaps I can take a message to her for you?”

  “I didn’t intend to disturb her,” he said contritely, with a smile. “I served with James, you see. I wrote to his mother after he was killed, and we’ve corresponded a time or two since then. She wanted to know everything I could tell her about him. I’d like to think it brought her some comfort. I’m home on compassionate leave—my favorite aunt has been ill. I felt I should come and speak to Mrs. Travis in person. I liked James very much. He was a good friend.”

  Oh, dear, I thought. She’ll wish to see this visitor.

  “Let me go up and speak to her—to see if she feels like coming down. The maid only told us that someone had come to speak to her. We didn’t know who it was.”

  “Please, if she’s resting, I don’t want to disturb her.”

  “We’ll see,” I told him.

  I left them together, Lieutenant Bonham and Simon, and went to find the maid. That took me downstairs to the kitchen, where what was left of the staff had just finished their dinner. The maid rose at once, a questioning look on her face, and the other women stared. The only man was the chauffeur, and in the brightness of the servants’ hall, without his cap, I could see that he must be close to sixty. He rose too.

  “Please, could you show me to Mrs. Travis’s room?” I asked. “I must relay a message to her.”

  The maid came forward as the chauffeur asked, “Will she be needing me again this evening, Sister?”

  “I don’t know. I shouldn’t think so.”

  And the maid and I went back to the hall, climbed the main staircase, and came to a halt outside a room that must be above the drawing room, with the same floor-to-ceiling windows.

  I knocked and called, “Mrs. Travis, may I come in?”

  After a moment, she said, “Come,” in a cold voice, and I opened the door.

  It was a beautiful room, although it was lit only by the fire’s brightness. The walls were a pale lavender, trimmed in white, and there were slightly darker lavender drapes pulled across the windows. There was a rose coverlet over the bed, and the chair in which she was sitting was also covered in a rose fabric. All very feminine.

  “What is it, Sister?” she asked, anxious. “Is he refusing to leave? Please ask the Sergeant-Major to make him go.”

  “Your visitor isn’t Captain Travis,” I said. “It’s Lieutenant Bonham. He’s in England on compassionate leave from his regiment. His aunt has been ill. He’s come to see you.”

  Her face brightened in a way I had never seen, happiness erasing lines of grief and anger. I thought, This is the woman who loved her son, who had been mistress of The Hall before her world came to an end.

  “How thoughtful of him,” she said, rising. “Oh, dear, I must look a fright. Will you light that lamp over there, Sister? Maddie,” she went on to the maid, “you must help me with my hair.”

  It took ten minutes to satisfy her that she looked well enough to receive her guest. And her step was light as she crossed to the door and walked down the passage to the stairs.

  I couldn’t help but think about the contrast between her happiness over this visitor and her harshness toward Captain Travis, still in that cold and empty cell, so like the cold and empty room in the clinic.

  Her head was held high as she crossed to the door of the drawing room and reached out to open it. “My dear,” she said, walking in and greeting Lieutenant Bonham. “How very kind of you to come and see me. Have you dined? And you must stay the night. It’s a long drive back to London.”

  Someone had lit two more lamps, and the room was bright. The Lieutenant came to greet her, holding out his hands and taking hers in a warm clasp.

  “I am so glad to meet James’s
mother at long last,” he said, smiling. “I couldn’t go back to France without seeing you. It was late to call, but I couldn’t have got here any sooner.”

  “Sister Crawford told me your aunt has been ill, that that’s why you’re in England. How is she?”

  “Much better, I’m happy to say. She has a weak heart, and any prolonged illness is difficult for her. We feared pneumonia, but she appears to be herself again.”

  “I’m glad. You must tell her how much it means, your coming all this way to see me. She’s kind to spare you.”

  It was as if we didn’t exist, Simon and I. The Lieutenant led her to the chairs by the hearth, still talking about his aunt and then asking after her health, mentioning that I’d told him she had had a tiring day.

  “It was, but all the better for your being here.”

  I was reminded suddenly of Mrs. Caldwell, who had found in James a surrogate for her dead child. Was this man a surrogate for James? Someone from the war who had known him, fought beside him, and could tell her about the son who had gone where she couldn’t follow, the son she’d not been able to hold as he died?

  So many mothers had said much the same thing to me in letters. That their greatest sorrow was not being there to bring comfort to their boy at the end. However old he might be, he was still their boy . . .

  And how many young men had called for their mothers as they lay dying?

  I turned away, caught Simon’s eye, and sent him a silent message. He’d been standing near the door, and he quietly opened it. We left without either the Lieutenant or Mrs. Travis noticing.

  I took a deep breath as he closed the door behind us and led the way to the outer door.

  “I felt like an intruder in there,” I said as we walked out into the rainy night. “It would have been wrong to stay.”

  “Yes.” He opened the door of the motorcar, and I got in, shivering after the warmth of the house. He turned the crank and got in beside me. The cab from Bury was still there, waiting. I thought someone ought to have asked the driver to go to the servants’ hall for a hot drink. But he’d been forgotten, and it was not my place to suggest it.