by Rhys Bowen
“Justin, she bitterly regretted the way she spoke to you. We’ve been trying to locate you through your regiment, but they had you listed as killed in action. I would have gone up to London to look for you, but I’d just had a baby, and I was in no condition to travel. Won’t you please come to see her? I beg of you. I tried to visit her, but they wouldn’t let me in because I’m not family.”
She could see the indecision on his face. “I suppose I could do so,” he said. “I should do so. After all the dying that I have seen, I would not want her to die alone.”
“Thank you.” Instinctively, she reached out towards him. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”
He looked at her long and hard. “You really care about the old woman, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes. Yes, I do. My family has rejected me, and she took me in. She has been kindness itself, and she means a lot to me.”
He was still studying her with interest. “Your family rejected you?”
“They did.” She wanted to tell him the truth, but couldn’t, not in this public space. And, she also realized, she didn’t want him to think badly of her. “They did not approve of my choice of husband.”
“Then we are two of a kind, aren’t we?” he said. “Both of us are outcasts. Come on then. We’d better go straight to my grandmother.”
“I have her motor car waiting,” Emily said.
“Jolly good. I’ll just tell the fellows.”
“And I have to find my baby and the nursemaid.” She hurried off.
“Here we are then,” Justin said as the motor car pulled up outside the large red-brick hospital building.
Emily shook her head. “They won’t let me see her. Only family, they said.”
“Don’t be silly. Come on. You’re Cousin Emily. Nobody will dispute that.” He grabbed her hand. “You want to see her, don’t you? To say goodbye?”
“I’d really appreciate that.”
“Then let’s go.” He yanked her from the motor car.
The old lady was lying in a narrow white bed, her face as white and still as a statue’s. But her eyes fluttered open when the nurse said, “You’ve got visitors, my lady.”
“Justin?” she asked.
“Hello, Grandmother,” he said softly. “How are you?”
“Not dead yet,” she said. Her eyes opened wider. “And Emily. How lovely to see you. You found Justin for me. You really are a miracle worker.”
“It was pure chance,” Emily said. “He was one of a group of war poets reading their work at the cathedral.”
“War poets—what in heaven’s name are those?” Already the critical note had come into her voice.
“We need to talk about our experiences,” Justin said, “and the only way some of us can do it and let people experience what we went through is with poetry.”
“Do you have a book of these poems?”
“We’re not published yet,” he said. “We are touring the country, giving readings.”
She gave a snort. “I don’t know what your father would say.” Then her expression softened. “Still, I suppose to each his own. I can’t force you into being someone you are not.”
“Thank you,” he said. He reached out and covered her bony hand with his own.
They left her soon afterwards when she drifted back to sleep. Neither said anything as they walked down the hospital corridor. As they came down the stairs, Justin said, “Let’s get a cup of tea, shall we? I expect it will be foul, but at least it’s warm and wet, and my throat is parched after reading out loud.”
“Yes. Good idea.” They followed the signs to the cafeteria. Justin bought them two cups of tea and teacakes and sat beside her.
“I think she might pull through, don’t you?” Emily said tentatively.
“Probably, just to make sure I don’t have to claim my inheritance too soon,” he said.
She slapped his hand. “What a horrid thing to say. Justin, you have to give her a chance. You have too many unhappy memories. You must let them go. Think of the future. Be happy you are still alive when so many are not.”
He managed a little smile. “How come you are so bloody wise? How old are you?”
“Almost twenty-two.”
“I’m twenty-four. And we’ve both lost what should have been the best years of our lives.”
“You never know. They may still be ahead,” she said, wondering as she said it how she could possibly look forward to anything again.
“So how did you like my poems?” he asked, clearly trying to break the sombre tone of their conversation.
“Your poems were really good. They all were. So moving. Almost the whole audience was in tears.”
“Good. That is what we hope for—to make people realize the futility and horror and waste of war.”
There was another pause. Then he asked, “You say your family rejected you because they did not approve of the man you wanted to marry.”
She nodded.
“And you say he was killed. You keep telling me to make my peace and put the past behind me. Can you not let bygones be bygones and go back to them?”
“I didn’t tell you the whole story.” She toyed with the spoon in her saucer. “He died before we could marry. I have just had a child, and my parents made it very clear what they thought of girls who disgraced their family in that way.”
“I see.” He nodded. “You’ve been through a tough time.”
“But your grandmother made it easier for me. She took me in, even after I told her the whole truth. And the whole village has welcomed me—apart from the vicar’s wife.”
“Oh, she’s poison,” he said, and they both laughed.
“Will you be in the area for long?” she asked. “You said you are on a tour with your poet friends.”
“Yes. We’re in Plymouth tomorrow, then we’re staying with one of the chap’s families nearby for a couple of days before we go on to Bristol and then into Wales.”
“I see,” she said. “You couldn’t find a way to stay close to your grandmother in case she passes away, could you?”
He thought about this. “I suppose I should stick around, shouldn’t I? Yes. I’d like to stay with her. I’ll tell the chaps I’ll skip the Plymouth reading and meet them again when I can.”
“Will you let us know?” she asked. “Will you send a telegram to the house if . . . ?” She broke off, unable to utter the words.
“Of course.” He got up. “I’d better go and set things straight with the chaps, and maybe find a boarding house near the hospital.”
They walked together through the hospital and lingered on the steps at the entrance.
“I’ve enjoyed talking to you,” Justin said. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your first name.”
“Emily,” she said. “Emily Bryce. Not really Mrs Kerr. That was your grandmother’s suggestion.”
“There was a Freddie Bryce at school with me at Taunton,” he said.
“My brother.”
“Really? Good chap. A couple of years older than me. He was my prefect.”
“He died at the beginning of the war. Only lasted a couple of weeks in the trenches.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I am, too. But I’m finally coming to terms with it.”
He stood for a moment, just looking at her. Emily detected a wail from the motor car parked across the road. “It sounds as if my baby has woken up. I’d better go, and so had you.”
“What did you have—a boy or a girl?”
“A little girl.”
“That’s good, isn’t it? She won’t be called upon to fight.”
“Oh, Justin. This is the war to end all wars. Let’s hope nobody will be called upon to fight again.”
“I pray that you’re right.” He continued looking at her. She realized that he had grey eyes and a sweet smile. “I think I’ll go back up to the old lady for a little while. Just to sit with her, you know.”
Emily nodded. He held out his hand. “Good
bye, Emily.”
His hand lingered holding hers. She was unprepared for the current that she felt, and she blushed.
“Goodbye, Justin,” she said, a little breathlessly.
She felt him watching her as she ran down the steps to the waiting motor car.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
When Simpson deposited Emily outside the cottage, she was intrigued to see a big black car waiting nearby in the lane. When she had reached her front door, she heard footsteps behind her. She turned and saw two men coming towards her.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Are you the woman who lives here?” the older of the two men called. He was a hefty chap, middle-aged, with sagging jowls that gave him a bulldog look.
“I am.”
“The one who calls herself Mrs Kerr?”
Emily frowned. “Yes. What is this about?”
“We’re from the Devon County Constabulary,” the older one said. “Detective Inspector Payne and Sergeant Lipscombe.”
“Is it bad news?” she asked, holding baby Bobbie tightly to her.
“May we come in? We really don’t want to be discussing this where everyone can see.”
“All right.” Emily opened the cottage door and let them in.
Inspector Payne looked around. “Nice little place you’ve got here. Well-furnished.”
“Thank you,” Emily replied. “Now, if you’ll just tell me why you are here. Has there been a robbery?”
“Maybe.” He smirked then. Emily found it strangely unnerving.
He sat in her one armchair without being invited. Emily continued to stand, the baby in her arms. “I’ll just put the baby down in her cradle,” she said, and went through to the next room. When she came back, the two policemen were standing together and examining the objects on her mantelpiece.
“Some interesting things you’ve got here,” said Inspector Payne. “That compass—pretty impressive.”
“Yes. It came from Lady Charlton,” she replied. “Those are all things she picked up on her travels.”
“I bet they are,” the man replied.
Emily had had enough. She was tired from making the trip to Exeter and worried about Lady Charlton. “I’m not sure what you are implying, but I’d like to know why you are here and what you want.”
The big man sat again, while the sergeant continued to stand. “Let’s start with your full name. I take it it’s not really Mrs Kerr?”
“It’s Emily Bryce.”
“Miss Emily Bryce?”
“That is correct.”
“So not a war widow then?”
“Why should this be of interest to anyone?” Emily demanded. “I have not tried to obtain anything under false pretences. I have collected no widow’s pension. My fiancé was killed in France before we could marry, and I found myself with a child. It was Lady Charlton who suggested I call myself by his name. I see no harm in it. So would you like to tell me why you are here?”
“We’ve had a report of a most serious nature,” he said, “concerning you and Lady Charlton.”
“What sort of report?” She pulled up a chair and sat facing him.
“Yesterday, Lady Charlton fainted and was rushed to hospital, correct?”
“Yes.”
“This happened, so I am told, right after you forced her to drink some kind of concoction you had made.”
“It was a herbal tonic to help her heart,” Emily said. “And I didn’t force her to drink it.”
“She was heard protesting that she didn’t want it, and you were heard saying it was good for her.”
“Yes, that’s because it was too bitter. I went down to the kitchen and brought up some honey water to mix with it in order to make it more palatable.”
“And then she drank it, and immediately clutched her heart and fainted.”
“Yes, she did.”
He smirked again, looking rather pleased with himself. “Most fortuitous, wouldn’t you say?”
Emily was staring at him with disbelief. “Are you insinuating that I deliberately tried to harm Lady Charlton?”
“That’s what it looks like to me.”
“That’s utterly ridiculous, Inspector. I don’t know who told you this, but I can assure you that what I gave her was a perfectly harmless tonic with herbs that are restorative for the heart. A tried and true remedy from several old books. It contained hawthorn blossom, periwinkle, Viola tricolor . . . herbs from my garden.”
“And the foxglove? Did you forget to mention the foxglove?”
“There was no foxglove in the mixture.”
“And yet you were seen picking foxgloves that very morning. And lily of the valley . . . known to be quite poisonous.”
“Yes, I did. A lot of flowers are blooming right now. I picked several plants to dry them for later use. Lily of the valley can be efficacious in some herbal remedies when used with caution, but I did not include it in this mixture. I can make another batch to replicate it, if you like.”
“Leaving out the items that would have overstimulated an ageing heart this time, naturally.”
“I have just told you what I put in that mixture. And if you don’t believe me, there might still be some left in the glass on the bedside table, if the maid has not cleared it away.”
He was still smiling. “But you threw that away yourself, remember? As soon as the old lady fainted and you sent for help, you waited until everyone was running in all directions, and then you poured the rest of the mixture down the sink in her bedroom. You were seen.”
“That is completely untrue!” Emily shouted now. She heard Bobbie whimper in the next room. “Inspector, I don’t know where these lies come from, but I can guess. A certain member of Lady Charlton’s household has always resented my coming here. I suspect it is she who has fabricated these things.” She paused, taking a breath to calm herself. “Besides, what possible reason would I have for wanting Lady Charlton dead? She has welcomed me into her household and I have become very fond of her.”
“You must admit it’s all rather fortuitous, isn’t it?” he went on, glancing up at the sergeant for confirmation. “You arrive out of nowhere, as a gardener, so they say. Then you ingratiate yourself with the old woman and start helping her in the house, and suddenly things start going missing. Valuable objects that have miraculously turned up here in your cottage. I suppose you thought the old lady wouldn’t notice, being short-sighted and forgetful.”
“She is neither short-sighted nor forgetful,” Emily snapped, “and every object here was given to me by Lady Charlton as a present.”
“She gives a gardener quite valuable gifts then.” Another smirk. “Is that usual?”
“I helped her catalogue her books and artefacts,” Emily said calmly, “and I take no pay. The objects were small thank-you gifts.”
“Not very small gifts, if my eyes don’t deceive me. Quite expensive gifts. As I see it, this is how it all happened. You find yourself in the family way. You hear about a lonely, old widow . . . a rich, old widow. You turn up here, claiming to be a gardener. You start to help her in the house. You quietly help yourself to objects that take your fancy. And maybe she discovers your little game and wants to get rid of you. So you get rid of her instead.”
“This is beyond belief, Inspector.” Emily tried to sound assured and indignant as she fought down the knot of panic growing inside her. “And you couldn’t be further from the truth.”
“Or maybe you now have an even bigger motive,” he said, rubbing his hands together as if this whole conversation was giving him great pleasure. “The old lady had changed her will, hadn’t she? Including you in it.”
Emily went pale. “Changed her will? I had no knowledge of that. And even if she had, the house and estate were not hers to leave. There is an heir, her grandson, Justin.”
“But her personal possessions she can will if she wants to, right? I’m told she was leaving you the contents of her library . . . books and items that she and her husband
collected during their travels. A nice, little haul.”
“I had no idea of this,” Emily stammered. “Who told you of it?”
“One of the people who reported this to me had been called upon to witness the changes to the will. I’m afraid you are in big trouble, Miss Emily Bryce. If Lady Charlton dies, which seems very likely at this moment, then you might very well find yourself accused of murder.”
“This is ridiculous,” Emily said forcefully, but her insides were churning. She could see all too clearly how each of the things he had said made sense . . . would make sense to a jury.
“We’ll wait and see, shall we?” The inspector stood up. “Attempted murder would be a lesser charge, but probably easier to prove, since it’s not a hanging offence. Either way, I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us to the police station.”
“You can’t do that,” Emily protested. “I have a three-week-old baby, and I’m not going to be separated from her.”
She stood with her chin out, staring at him defiantly. “You can’t subject a tiny baby to separation from her mother, Inspector. Even you couldn’t be that cruel. Besides, I haven’t been charged with anything yet.”
A tiny whimper from the next room made him look across, then he turned back to her.
“Then I’ll be merciful and allow you to stay put until they send the big guns down from Scotland Yard. But you are not to leave this place. I’m putting a guard on your door.”
“I’m not likely to try to go anywhere with a young child, am I?” she retorted. “And let’s hope that the big guns from Scotland Yard, as you put it, are able to see that this is nonsense.”
She wanted to mention her father, but realized that this might not be helpful. If her family had rejected her, then that would be another reason to doubt her good character, making it seem even more likely that she had wanted to take advantage of Lady Charlton.
“We’ll be back, Miss Bryce,” said the inspector while pausing in the doorway, before ducking his head as he went under the low lintel.
Emily watched the black motor car drive away, feeling sick and scared. As she looked around the cottage, it came to her suddenly that she was fulfilling her role in the curse. She had become the wise woman, and the wise woman always came to a bad end. That’s what everyone had said, hadn’t they? Susan Olgilvy had been innocent, but that hadn’t mattered. Was she now destined to suffer the same fate?
