A Bitter Truth

by Charles Todd

  “And your father is . . .”

  “Colonel Richard Crawford.” And for good measure, I added his regiment.

  “I see. All right, if you will write out a statement beginning with the arrival of the houseguests on Thursday evening, then sign it, I’ll add it to the others I’ve collected.”

  He handed me paper and pen, and I sat down at a smaller table drawn up to a chair by the window and began my account.

  When it was finished, Constable Bates took it from me, scanned it quickly, and then set it aside.

  “Thank you, Miss Crawford,” he said, dismissing me as if I were a naughty schoolgirl caught in some mischief.

  I turned on my heel and left.

  Roger’s sister Margaret was in the passage, and she made a wry face. “I see you’ve met the unpleasant Constable Bates,” she said. “I thought Gran would strike him with a poker for what she called his insolence.” She turned to walk with me back to the hall. “I’ve never been involved in a police inquiry,” she went on. “It’s rather chilling. I have to stop and remind myself that I’ve done nothing wrong. But I can’t help but feel guilty. And George is dead. I can’t quite take that in, either.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t know him.”

  “George and his brother were in and out of the house all our lives. He lived near us—the house has since burned down—until his grandfather died. Afterward his parents moved to London. George was much younger than Malcolm—he often referred to himself as The Afterthought. But when his parents also died, it was Malcolm who took care of him, although we offered to keep him. I daresay it was because he was orphaned at a young age that he felt so concerned for that child he’d seen in France. Roger agreed with me.”

  Roger Ellis was being very clever. But I thought perhaps he might have a point here.

  “As soon as Juliana could walk, she followed Roger and George everywhere they went. They called her the nuisance. Afterward—well, afterward they were afraid God had punished them by taking the nuisance away for good. It was rather awful, to tell you the truth. Roger and George were inconsolable.” She hesitated. “I was very fond of Malcolm. My parents invited him here any number of times. I think they hoped he and I might marry one day. It was never spoken of, but my father would have been happy if we had. Malcolm was a little older than I was. Then I met Henry, and that was that.” She smiled. “Malcolm went abroad for a bit.”

  “Mending a broken heart?”

  “I doubt it. He loved France. That’s why he was so quick to enlist when the war began.” She sighed. “I wish now I’d done more for George—looked in on him in London, had him down to stay from time to time. It’s possible I could have done something about his drinking. But I was so wrapped up in my own worry for Henry, and my volunteering, I didn’t see what was under my nose.” Tears filled her eyes. “I can’t believe he’s dead, Bess. It hasn’t sunk in yet.”

  I had seen George’s body and still I’d found it difficult to believe. But then I’d been too busy—going for Constable Austin, breaking the news to the family, dealing with all the questions, talking to my father and then to Simon. When had there been time to think of the man, rather than the murder victim?

  Mrs. Ellis came just then. I thought, She’s aged in a matter of hours. “Have you seen Lydia? That awful constable insists on taking her statement.” Daisy had set a tray of tea on the small table by the fire, and Mrs. Ellis poured herself a cup, then grimaced as she tasted it, putting it down again. “I must ring for more tea.” Instead she sat down, the tea forgotten. “That man Bates even asked me if George and Lydia were lovers! His mind must run in the gutter, even to suggest such a thing. Roger would be furious, if he knew.”

  “The police must find a motive for murder,” I said gently. “A reason for the man to die, here, today. And they must look at each of us as potential suspects until they’ve worked out to their own satisfaction just what happened and why.”

  “How do you know so much about this business?” she asked, turning to stare at me.

  I said, not wishing to open doors into my past, “Simon Brandon explained it to me.”

  That made sense to her. Men knew how the world worked. She nodded, smiling a little. “That’s very reassuring, Bess. Thank you.”

  As if she couldn’t bear to sit still, she rose again and said, “If you do see Lydia, will you pass along the message?”

  We promised. After the door had closed behind her mother, Margaret said, “She can’t imagine this weekend ending in this fashion. It will be the talk of the county, and she will find it hard to look anyone in the face for months. I mean, the police. I could almost murder George myself for bringing this down on her. On us.”

  She got up and walked to the hearth, her back to me, as if she was studying the fire at her feet.

  “The afternoon Juliana was buried, my father came back to the house and burned everything. Her pretty clothes, her dolls, her toys, even the bedding she slept on, and the bedstead itself. Everything she’d touched, even her cup and spoon and the silver rattle he’d given her for her first Christmas. And I can remember his face, like a thundercloud, cursing God while my mother screamed, begging him to leave her something to remember her child by. We even gave her cat to the rector, for fear he would destroy it as well. My mother hid the portrait. He threatened her, but she refused to tell him where it was. He ransacked the house, looking for it. Alan and I were terrified that he would kill her, but in the end, he gave up, went out of the house, and we didn’t see him for weeks. When he came home again, he was different. He never spoke Juliana’s name again, nor asked for the portrait, nor even visited her grave. He stopped going to church services. He said God had forsaken him, and he intended to forsake God in his turn. And yet it was my father who ordered that lovely memorial of Juliana. Two years later, he was dead. We couldn’t fill her place, you see. Not Alan, nor Roger nor Mother nor me. I think we realized then, my brothers and I, that she would always be there. George, oddly enough, said it best, that we only had to shut our eyes and we’d remember.”

  I thought about this traumatic event marking the childhood of the Ellis children. It would have left such terrible scars, deep and unhealed for all time. And for George as well?

  “Thank you for telling me,” I said quietly. “It helps to understand, a little, what this family has suffered. And why Lydia wants children so badly, and her husband doesn’t.”

  She turned to face me, as if she needed to confess something that was on her mind. “Henry says that George wanted to believe a child he’d seen amongst the refugee children must be a second Juliana. He says George needed to believe that as well, because he was looking for something to cling to in the middle of this terrible war.”

  It was a very perceptive remark.

  She took a deep breath. “I expect I ought to go up to Lydia and tell her that the police want her.”

  I went on to my room, wishing I could talk to Simon. With a sigh I sat down by the window and stared out at the ordered, civilized knot garden below me, such a vivid contrast to the wild and gloomy heath. And then Lydia came into my line of sight, hurrying through the intricate maze of paths, looking over her shoulder, as if she was afraid something or someone was after her. She disappeared into the stand of evergreens at the end of the knot garden, the heavy boughs closing after her like a shield, protecting her from whatever it was she feared.

  Chapter Eight

  Not a minute later, I saw Constable Bates step out on the narrow terrace above the knot garden and scan it. He may have seen Lydia come through the house this way, but there was no sign of her now. I watched him debate whether to go through the garden and search the stand of trees, but after looking at them carefully from his vantage point, he must have decided that she wouldn’t be so foolish as to wait there for him to surprise her, and in the end he turned back into the house, and I could hear the distant slam of the door.

  It was then that I noticed Roger Ellis waiting in the shadow of a tall shrub—a rhodo
dendron, I thought, with those long, leathery evergreen leaves. When he was certain that the constable wasn’t playing a game to draw Lydia out, he himself went down the path between the beds, heading for the trees.

  I watched tensely, uncertain how this confrontation would end. I could hear nothing, but I saw Roger Ellis halt abruptly as he pushed aside the boughs guarding the end of the path, and then he disappeared among them.

  Braced for anything, including violence, I waited. Finally, Lydia reappeared, and even from my window, I could see that she was crying. Her husband didn’t follow her straightaway, but when he did step out from the sanctuary of the trees, his face was set, and he looked like a man who would like very much to break something.

  Whatever had happened, I thought, the breach in the marriage had not been healed.

  I was still sitting there when there was a soft tap at my door. On the heels of it, Lydia walked in. She had stopped somewhere long enough to wash her face, but her eyes were red rimmed and swollen.

  “Bess?” she said tentatively, and my first thought was, She wants something from me.

  “Are you all right, Lydia?” I asked, rising from my chair. “How is your head? Is it aching?”

  “No. Yes. The police want to speak to me, and I can’t let them see me like this.” She wiped her eyes angrily, as if commanding them to stop betraying her. “Gran says they believe I had an affair with George. Of all people.”

  “Come in. I’ll put a cool cloth across your eyes. It will help. As for the police, I shouldn’t worry. They like to probe, hoping to find a weakness. If you don’t respond, they move on to the next question.”

  Half reclining in the other chair, she turned her face up to allow me to set the cloth across her eyes. “How is the dizziness? And the headache?”

  Ignoring me, she said, “I’ve just told Roger he can sue for divorce, if he chooses. I shall have to find lodgings in London until I can decide what to do, or he leaves for France. That’s to say, if Mama Ellis will have me back again. I can’t face the questions if I go home to Suffolk. It’s too mortifying. Do you suppose your Mrs. Hennessey will know of someone who will take me in?”

  “I’ll most certainly ask Mrs. Hennessey,” I said after a moment. “Lydia. Are you sure this is the best thing to do?”

  She snatched the cloth from her face and turned to gaze at me with furious eyes.

  Before she could say what was already burning the tip of her tongue, I added without inflection, “How will you live? Has your husband agreed to support you while the divorce goes forward?”

  It hadn’t occurred to her. She had always been someone’s daughter and then someone’s wife. She hadn’t had to fend for herself, and to my knowledge she had no skills that would allow her to earn a living.

  Pulling the cloth back in place she said, “I have some money of my own. I have no idea whether it’s sufficient or not. You’re right. I’ve never had to think about food or clothing or a roof over my head.” After a moment, she added, “I could train as a nurse.”

  I changed the cloth for a fresh one. “It’s very difficult in the beginning. Sometimes it’s very hard to persevere when you’re tired and there is more work to do than you can bear to think about.”

  With a sigh she considered her future. The reality of her position was beginning to sink in. She was prone, I thought, to impetuous decisions, without regard to the practicality of the impulse she was following. Such as her haste to leave this morning. And fleeing to London in the first place.

  Had killing George also been an impetuous act, born out of her hurt, her anger? No, I wasn’t prepared to believe that. He hadn’t betrayed her—Roger had.

  But that brought me full circle to Roger Ellis, whose motive for killing George could have been to silence him before he’d destroyed Roger’s marriage completely. If he had acted, then it had been in vain.

  After a while, Lydia sat up, handed me the cloth, and said, “I suppose I ought to get the interview over with. What did they ask you?”

  “To describe the weekend. And when I’d last seen Lieutenant Hughes.”

  “Did you—were there any questions about the little girl in France?”

  “I didn’t feel it was my place to bring her up. And I rather think no one else has.”

  “Dr. Tilton will. Wait and see.” Her voice was bitter.

  I said nothing. After a moment she asked, “You’ll be going back to France soon, won’t you?”

  “Yes, I expect I shall. But my orders haven’t come through yet.” I thought she might be suggesting she could stay in my flat while I was away, and I was about to tell her that there were my flatmates to consider. But I’d misread her.

  “I don’t think they’ll let me go across to France. I’m not a nurse, I have no useful skills. But you could search for this child, couldn’t you? I want to find her. I want to see her for myself. I want to be sure she’s safe.”

  “There are my duties—I can’t go wherever I like.”

  “No, I understand. But there must be lulls in the fighting, when you could find an excuse to search? Please? I have to know.”

  “Lieutenant Hughes might well have imagined the resemblance. Have you thought of that?” I suggested to distract her.

  “I’ve thought of every conceivable possibility,” she said tiredly. “I’m so sorry to ask this of you, after all you’ve done. I intended to ask George, but he’s dead. And Henry will side with Roger. There’s no one else, is there?”

  When I didn’t say anything straightaway, she added, “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. If he’s refused to acknowledge her, or search for her, then she’s at risk. For all I know, he hopes she won’t survive. A child that young? Why else would he leave her to the charity of strangers?”

  “I can’t believe that he could be so callous. Think about it, if she looks like Juliana—”

  “All the more reason to shun her. You don’t understand, he doesn’t want a reminder of her. If it weren’t for his mother, he’d move that portrait out of the drawing room and up to the attics where he doesn’t have to see it.”

  “All right,” I answered her reluctantly. “I’ll do what I can. But I won’t make any promises, Lydia. And you mustn’t expect miracles.”

  Ignoring that, she said, “And you’ll keep in touch, so that I won’t make myself ill worrying about what’s happening? I trust you, Bess.” She crossed to the door.

  “Even if I find her, Lydia, what then? You have no claim on her.”

  “If Roger dies,” she said starkly, “this child will be all that’s left of him.”

  Thanking me for the cool cloths, she added, “I must go while I still have the courage to face this Constable Bates. He frightens me. I saw him arrive—I thought he was going to follow me into the trees when I fled to the garden. He won’t quit, Bess. He’s like a terrier, digging, digging, digging, until he gets what he’s after.”

  “He’s only a man with a very unpleasant job to do. Think of him that way.”

  “I’ll try,” she answered doubtfully and was gone.

  I stood where I was in the middle of the room, wondering how in God’s name I was to keep my promise. Still, by the time I returned to France, she could very well have changed her mind. It wouldn’t surprise me.

  We were preparing to go into dinner when the constable sent Daisy to ask me to return to the library. I found Inspector Rother with my statement in his hands.

  With a sense of foreboding, I sat down in the chair he indicated.

  “You haven’t been truthful with me,” he began.

  “On the contrary,” I replied, refusing to let him intimidate me. “I gave you the truth as I saw it.”

  “Hmmm.” He sat there, perusing what I’d written, as if he’d never seen it before. Which was patently not the case, if he’d already found fault with it.

  I had dealt with matrons in hospital wards in England and in France. Inspector Rother held no terrors for me. But he obviously found this method useful in frightening s
uspects into blurting out whatever was causing them to feel guilty.

  After a moment he set the sheet aside.

  “You didn’t tell me that Mrs. Lydia Ellis left the premises early this morning, before most of the family was awake.”

  “She did?” I asked, surprised. Where on earth had she gone? Not, I prayed, to the church at Wych Gate.

  “She was seen as she bicycled into Hartfield. A shopkeeper was washing his windows and noticed her.”

  “Then you must ask her where she was going and why.”

  “You didn’t sleep in your own bed last night.”

  “No. Mrs. Ellis wasn’t feeling well and she slept in my room. She has a mild concussion, headaches and dizziness.”

  “She cried herself to sleep there, according to what I’ve discovered. Why?”

  I remembered that someone had already been questioned about a love affair between Lydia and George Hughes. Was he suggesting that she had a broken heart, and that this was a motive for murder?

  “I’m not privy to her affairs. Ask her.”

  “And you slept in the sitting room. After your assignation with the deceased.”

  “There was no meeting,” I told him flatly. “The man came there in search of the brandy decanter.”

  “Why look in the sitting room for his brandy? Why not in the drawing room?”

  Because the portrait was in the drawing room, I wanted to answer, and didn’t.

  “I expect only the deceased can tell you why he chose the sitting room. He was embarrassed to find me in possession of it, and retreated.”

  “So you say. I can’t help but wonder if this—encounter—wasn’t the reason Mrs. Lydia Ellis was in tears, and why in the early hours of the morning, she felt it necessary to bicycle into Hartfield, rather than take one of the family motorcars. Noisy things, motorcars.”