A Bitter Truth

by Charles Todd

  Roger looked up as his wife stepped out to join us. I don’t know who had persuaded her to come, but I suspected it was Mrs. Ellis. She was wearing a lovely black hat with a long veil she had pulled down to her chin.

  “You’re not to wear that veil,” he told her. “You’ll have people thinking you’re in mourning for Hughes, for God’s sake.”

  “What will they think when they see the bruise on my face?” she retorted.

  “Yes, well, you didn’t seem to mind that when you went yesterday into Hartfield.”

  She stared at him, and then turned to me. “Did you tell him?”

  “No,” I said. “I expect it was the police.”

  Angry, she flung back her veil.

  Mrs. Ellis said, “We’re getting wet through. Lydia, come with me. Miss Crawford, you will ride with Roger, if you don’t mind.”

  We were sorted out in no time, and on our way to the church in Wych Gate.

  We left the motorcars along the road and joined the rest of the congregation as it moved toward the west doors. Even so, I could see the trees that overhung the grassy dell and the path where George Hughes had been found.

  The church was rather full, in spite of the rain, and those who hadn’t yet taken a seat parted to let the Ellis family pass. Some greeted Roger or his mother by name, and others simply stared. Roger kept us moving, shepherding us toward the seats still vacant in front. The choir was singing, but those who could see us were looking at us rather than at the notes on the pages of their hymnals. The organ came to a crescendo, and there was a sudden silence, which caught a few people off guard, their whispers loud behind us.

  “ . . . face,” a woman’s voice was saying, and another was commenting, “ . . . the dead man’s nurse.” Someone else, louder than the others, as if he were slightly deaf, remarked, “ . . . police have no idea,” as if answering someone else’s question.

  Lydia, her cheeks pink, stared straight ahead while Roger’s lips were set in a straight line. I saw Mrs. Ellis put her gloved hand on her son’s arm, and the tension around his mouth lessened.

  The church seemed a more cheerful place this morning than it had the day before, despite the rain. Candles brightened the gloom, and the congregation contributed a little warmth. Still, I couldn’t help remembering walking down the aisle, into the choir, and then back again, while Mrs. Ellis’s footsteps echoed in the organ loft.

  The rector, mounting the steps to the pulpit, seemed not to know how to face us. I saw him glance at his sister, and then clear his throat before beginning the service.

  All went well until he returned to the pulpit for his morning homily.

  It was an unfortunate choice of message. Preparing for the approach of Christmas, the sermon dealt with the expected birth of a special child, and by extension the lives of children who faced the holidays without a father to care for and protect them, either because they were among the dead or still serving at the Front or on the high seas. It was well intended—I was all too aware of the long lists of casualties and the fact that each one represented a family in mourning for a father, a son, a brother, a husband. It would be a bleak Christmas for them, and Mr. Smyth was pointing to the need in his own parish to see that the widows and orphans were remembered with gifts of food and clothing and above all sympathy for their loss.

  Ordinarily it would have been received in the spirit in which it was intended.

  Instead the words seemed to echo around the stone walls, loud in our ears as we listened. Captain Ellis’s long fingers drummed a tattoo on the knee of his trousers, and Lydia kept her eyes on the stained glass windows in the choir, their colors muted by the cloudy day. Mrs. Ellis was biting her lip to keep herself from fidgeting, and Janet Smyth, the rector’s sister, looked stricken.

  It was clear that the rector had not expected the Ellis family to attend morning services, and his prepared remarks and the choice of hymns must have seemed innocuous enough. But he had been there on the evening Lieutenant Hughes had brought up the missing child, and he could not pretend otherwise. “What Child Is This,” sung by the choir, was the final blow.

  I looked across to where the doctor and his wife were seated, and I could see that they too were feeling some distress. For themselves or for the rector or for the Ellis family, I didn’t know.

  Finally the ordeal was over and we could rise and walk out of the church. And standing at the main gate where the motorcars had been parked, was Inspector Rother, looking like the wrath of God. I found myself thinking that at any moment he would storm the church doors and brand us all as heathen murderers and heretics.

  As it was, I was a little ahead of the family and I happened to see him first, just as the rector quickly shook my hand and murmured a few words, as if eager to get his duty over with before someone brought up his sermon. Roger Ellis simply nodded briefly, ignoring the rector’s outstretched hand, which Mrs. Ellis took in her son’s stead and wished Mr. Smyth a good morning. Roger had just retrieved his umbrella from the stand and was about to open it when he saw Inspector Rother.

  There was the briefest of hesitations, and then he handed the opened umbrella to his mother, and picked up another to share with his wife. With that, he moved toward the gate, as if nothing had happened. Lydia, huddled under his umbrella, trying not to touch him, stumbled and then recovered her balance. He took her arm and tucked it beneath his, for all the world the loving husband. Lydia glanced at him but had the presence of mind not to pull away. Mrs. Ellis, sharing her umbrella with me, said something under her breath that sounded like a prayer as we neared the gates, her arm tense in mine as she watched to see whether the Inspector was intent on stopping her son.

  But Inspector Rother let us pass without a glance. It was clear that he had someone else in mind, and looking back over my shoulder, I saw him stop Janet Smyth as she came out of the church, drawing her to one side, out of hearing of those still leaving the service.

  I could also see her face turn pink and the curious stares of her brother and everyone else.

  Just beyond them, in my line of sight, was the white marble statue of the kneeling child.

  She looked cold and lonely in the winter rain.

  Roger Ellis said as he began to turn the motorcar back toward Vixen Hill, “The fool should have had the decency to change his sermon.”

  “I expect he didn’t have another one prepared.”

  Ignoring my answer, he said, “And what does Rother want with Janet Smyth? She hardly spoke two words to George that whole evening.”

  “Still, she was there—”

  “What angers me most,” he went on as he slowed to make his way through a flock of sheep barring the road, “is that he should show his face at St. Mary’s, just as the service was finished. Taunting us, that’s what he was doing. He could always find Janet at the Rectory.”

  But I thought Inspector Rother had something on his mind, and he wasn’t the sort of man to stand still when he was on the scent. It made him all the more worrying, even to those of us without a guilty conscience. But why indeed had he come?

  I had looked for Simon at St. Mary’s, thinking he would take the chance of speaking to me. But he wasn’t there, and I didn’t know if it was because he didn’t expect us to attend, or if something had come up.

  The same something that was on Inspector Rother’s mind?

  We had turned into the lane that led to the house, the distances seeming shorter as I grew accustomed to them. Still, if I had been George Hughes, I wouldn’t have wished to walk to the church.

  Had he gone of his own volition, to avoid having to face Roger Ellis at breakfast? To see Juliana’s grave? Or had he gone with someone—been asked to meet someone there?

  Suddenly, in my mind’s eye, I saw Mrs. Ellis pausing to set the marble kitten back in its proper place by her daughter’s outstretched marble fingers.

  Had that lovely bit of stone been the murder weapon that the police—so far as I knew—failed to find? The way the kitten sat on its ha
unches, it would fit in the hand well, and it was solid enough to knock a victim unconscious, and possibly even kill him.

  We had arrived at the door, and Roger Ellis switched off the motor before going to help his mother descend from the other vehicle. I opened my umbrella, preparing to hold it over Mrs. Ellis’s hat. As I did, something white fluttered past my hand, caught first by the wind and then beaten to the ground by the rain.

  I stooped and picked it up, mostly my nurse’s sense of tidiness. And then I realized there was writing on it.

  Damp as it was, I quickly stuffed it into the glove on my left hand and took Mrs. Ellis’s arm as Daisy held the door wide for us to hurry through.

  We went our separate ways to change out of our wet coats, and in my room I carefully removed my gloves, setting them on the chest by the door.

  The scrap of wet paper lay in my palm.

  A message from Simon? I thought it might well be, but how did he know which umbrella I was using? And where had he been, because I hadn’t seen him?

  Unfolding the limp square of paper with care so as not to tear it, I saw that the ink had begun to run from its exposure to the rain.

  I couldn’t make out the handwriting, much less the two words.

  eet m

  Meet me?

  When I held it under the bright lamplight, I thought I was probably right about that. The missing M and the missing e were so faint I had to squint to make them out.

  If it wasn’t Simon—then who had sent that message?

  Was it for Lydia? And if it was for Lydia, what should I do now? Say nothing? Or take it to her?

  The question was answered by a tap at my door, and Lydia walked in.

  “I’ve never been so mortified in my entire life,” she said, going to the fire and holding out her hands, as if chilled to the bone. But I thought it wasn’t a chilling from the winter cold. “I should never have let Roger persuade me to go. Everyone—everyone!—stared at me as if I had two heads, wondering how I came by this bruise. And then the rector’s sermon was inexcusable. And I could hardly believe it when Inspector Rother arrived.”

  “The sermon was probably written several days before he dined here.”

  “Well, then, have the good sense, and the good manners, to change it. He saw us sitting there.”

  “He was as uncomfortable as you were.”

  “It was a mistake to go. What’s that in your hand?”

  I was still holding the scrap of paper. “I’m not sure,” I began, but she came quickly across the room to where I was standing by the lamp, holding out her hand.

  “Where did it come from? Was it here, in the house? Surely not—”

  “It was in the umbrella Mrs. Ellis and I were using. I don’t know why it hadn’t fallen out before. But as I was opening it again when we arrived at the door, it must have shaken loose.”

  She took it from me. “The ink has run. Can you read it?” She peered at the letters, sounding them out. “Meet me. Is that what it says? Who wrote it?”

  “I don’t have any idea.”

  “Then it must have been for me. Davis? Was he in church, do you know?”

  “I didn’t see him. But he could have been there,” I said doubtfully. Simon had told me that the police were interested in speaking to him, and he had disappeared.

  Was that why he wanted to meet Lydia? To tell her what had happened? But then why not tell her where this meeting should take place?

  Unless of course she knew already.

  She began to pace. “I must go into Hartfield. If this is from Davis, he must know something—heard something the police haven’t told us yet. You must want to leave here as much as I do. And it’s my fault, really, that you’re here. Help me do something to free both of us.”

  She was persuasive, but I shook my head. “Um—you don’t want to draw him into this inquiry. You’ve done enough harm already, seeing him yesterday morning.” I couldn’t tell her he was under suspicion without giving Simon away.

  “If you asked to go in to The King’s Head to speak to Simon Brandon, I could go to show you the way. You wouldn’t care to be lost on the roads around the Forest, would you?”

  I refused outright to be a party to such foolishness. But when she finally threatened to go alone, even in the rain and on her bicycle, I relented, against my better judgment.

  And if Davis wasn’t at the cottage, then she wouldn’t see him anyway.

  When I asked Mrs. Ellis for the use of one of the motorcars, she said, “Lunch will be served in a very few minutes. Afterward, I’ll be very happy to go with you.”

  I couldn’t argue that Lydia ought to be the one accompanying me.

  Lydia, waiting in my room, turned anxiously toward the door as I came in. “What did she say?”

  “She asked me to wait until after lunch.”

  Relief washed over her face before I could add, “Lydia. She suggested that she go with me. I didn’t know what to say.”

  The relief vanished. “No, I was supposed to go. Why didn’t you try to convince her that I should drive with you?”

  “I was asking a favor. How could I press her?”

  She turned and paced to the window. “We have to do something. Tell her—tell her you don’t wish to put her out, that she’ll want to spend the time with Margaret and Henry.”

  “Wait until after lunch. Then I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I should have asked her myself,” she said pacing back.

  “I think,” I said slowly, remembering the way Roger’s mother had scanned my face, “she believes this is a ruse. That you’re still intending to leave for London.”

  “Well, I’m not. Much as I’d be tempted to do just that. But I know the police would just find me and send me back, and that would be worse. Convince her if you can.”

  In the end, we ate our meal in a stiff silence, and then the problem of Mrs. Ellis accompanying me was resolved when Inspector Rother arrived and asked to speak to her.

  Lydia, almost giddy with relief, said, “Oh, thank God,” as she hurried out the door after me, and all but leapt into the motorcar.

  I didn’t tell her that I’d had to promise Mrs. Ellis to bring her back with me.

  “I trust you, Bess, to see that Lydia doesn’t do anything rash,” she’d said, lines of worry already etched deeply around her eyes.

  I drove with care, not knowing the tracks, expecting sheep to block our progress around every bend, and remembering too George Hughes’s trouble with something in the road. But this time I came upon a line of cows moving stoically through the rain, as if they knew precisely where they were going and how long it would take to get there.

  The rain had left deep puddles on the unmade road, and there were times when I could almost believe I was driving in France, we bounced and shuddered so ferociously.

  We came into Hartfield in another shower of rain, and I made my way through the town toward the inn. I said, “You can hardly march up to Davis Merrit’s door and ask him if he sent you a note.”

  Lydia had been quiet the last mile or so. “I don’t know. It seemed so easy at Vixen Hill. Do you see him walking along the street? It would seem natural if I got down and spoke to him then.”

  “I haven’t seen him so far.”

  She was craning to look first this way and then that. “If he did send a message, where do you think he meant for me to meet him?” She turned to me in alarm. “You don’t suppose he was waiting near the church, or in the churchyard?”

  “Hardly there, in full view of the entire congregation, not to mention Roger,” I reminded her. “It would have attracted even more attention and gossip.”

  “Yes, of course, you’re right.”

  We could see the inn just ahead. “Would Simon go across and ask Davis to come to the inn? If you asked him?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Do you want me to knock on Davis Merrit’s door?”

  She bit her lip, then shook her head. “No. He doesn’t know you. He might deny e
verything.”

  “He doesn’t know Simon either,” I pointed out.

  “But Simon’s a man. No one will think twice if he calls on Davis. Please, ask him, Bess.”

  I left the motorcar in the inn yard, and we hurried into The King’s Head under our umbrellas, leaving them by the door as we stepped into Reception. I walked to the desk and asked if someone would kindly tell Mr. Brandon that Miss Crawford was here.

  The young woman working on accounts looked up with a smile. “Certainly, Miss Crawford, I’ll send someone to his room.”

  She suggested that I wait in a parlor just down a passage, and I thanked her. We opened the door to the small room. It was a little stuffy but otherwise quite pleasant, with windows overlooking the side street. It was furnished with comfortable chairs and a table for tea. I said to Lydia, “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

  “Yes. I’m here. There might not be another chance. We’re so isolated at Vixen Hill. I’ll go mad waiting.”

  The door opened and Simon walked in. “I saw you drive up,” he said. “What’s happened?”

  “That’s what we came to ask you,” Lydia said at once. “Inspector Rother was at St. Mary’s this morning. He wished to speak to Janet Smyth, the rector’s sister. Now he’s talking to my mother-in-law at Vixen Hill.”

  “Is he?” He glanced at me. I couldn’t read the look. “I’ve tried to find out what the police are looking for. But even in the pubs, truth is thin on the ground, and gossip is feeding on itself.”

  I took the scrap of paper from my pocket. “Did you write this?” I asked.

  “No. Where did it come from?”

  I told him about the umbrella. “Lydia thinks it might have come from Davis Merrit. She’d like to ask him. But it isn’t that easy. Could you step across to Bluebell Cottage and ask him to come to The King’s Head?”

  Simon hesitated. Then to my surprise, he agreed.

  “I’ll feel like such a fool if Davis didn’t send the message. But then who else could have?” Lydia asked.