A Bitter Truth

by Charles Todd

  “But Sister Marie Joseph allowed me to see her. I am leaving for England today, and I would like very much to know that all was well with Sophie. I—I know her father. The English officer. He would like to be sure, since he sends money, that it is properly used.”

  “He has sent no money for a very long time.”

  “Because he couldn’t find you. Please, let me be certain she is alive and well, and he will begin to pay again for her care.” I did a swift inventory of the money I had with me, remembering how Roger Ellis had had to borrow sums from George Hughes. There was no one I could borrow money from—unless it was Sergeant Larimore. “I have some money with me. I can leave it with you to show his good faith.”

  She relented finally. “Very well. But you will not speak to her. Only observe. This is the only home she has known. Do not alter that in any way.”

  “I promise.”

  I was taken to a small parlor heated by a coal fire in the grate. The rest of the house was damp and cold. The children were sitting on the floor, and I could see that the nun had been reading to them from a French children’s book. They looked up as I entered, their faces bright with curiosity. Visitors were a rarity.

  I greeted them, and my gaze swept the circle, stopping on the fair, blue-eyed child nearest the hearth. Although pale from her recent illness, I could see that the remaining scabs were dry and healing.

  She smiled at me in that way that some children have when meeting a stranger, and now I could see what George Hughes had seen, a likeness perhaps not as strong as he had wished to believe it was, but so pronounced that this child and Juliana could have been sisters. I wanted very much to speak to her, to hear her voice, to hold her on my lap and watch the play of emotions on her face.

  I’d never known Juliana, but now I understood why she had left such a void in her family. The portrait had done her justice, and even the memorial stone had captured something of the living child. But here was the warmth and the smile and the tilt of the head and the lovely blue eyes under fair lashes that gave life to the static reflections of her.

  I couldn’t understand how Roger Ellis could abandon her.

  And would Lydia be able to love her, when she was the image of Juliana?

  The nun touched my elbow, reminding me that I had had my brief glimpse and must be satisfied. I allowed her to escort me from the room, and I gave her what money I could, not nearly enough, but I needed sufficient funds to reach England and travel on to Ashdown Forest.

  “When I return,” I said, “there will be more. Keep her safe.”

  She thanked me gravely, and I could tell that even that meager amount was appreciated.

  Just as I was about to walk out the door, I asked, “What will become of her, if there is no family to take her and educate her?”

  “We have already spoken of this, Sister Marie Joseph and I. We will find her work out in the world, if that is what she chooses. Our girls learn to sew beautifully. They will be in demand for fine work. If she has a vocation, and we shall pray that God will be so kind,” she said, “we will welcome her into our house. Surely when the Germans have gone, we will be able to rebuild.”

  It was a very different point of view from Sister Marie Joseph’s, that Sophie’s beauty could be a curse. What’s more, I couldn’t imagine Sophie as a seamstress at someone else’s beck and call, or a nun, shut away from the world for the rest of her life. I wanted to argue vehemently against either possibility. But I had to remember that without the care of the nuns, Sophie might not have survived at all.

  I left then, and went back to my waiting taxi. We reached the harbor to find my ship already at the quay. I waited for the wounded to be taken aboard and then followed them.

  “There is no cabin for you, Sister,” one of the officers told me. “But there’s a chair in what used to be the lounge, if you care to sit there.”

  “That will do very well,” I said and went to the rail to watch our departure. The gangway was brought in, the ropes cast off, and we were free of the land, swinging with the tide, the engines rumbling under my feet.

  I was about to walk on to the lounge, when across the water soared the call of that Australian kingfisher. Loud and clear, heads turning to see what it was and where it was coming from.

  And there, behind the barriers on the quay was a tall man waving his distinctive hat, his face a blur, but I thought it was surely split from ear to ear by that cocky grin.

  He’d escaped Nurse Barlow again and come down to see me off. She would be exasperated with him, and he would blandly tell her he was feverish again and off his head.

  Still, I waved back, distinctly cheered.

  It wasn’t until the ship moved slowly out into the current, heading downstream toward the sea, that I finally went below.

  My orders were to report directly to Inspector Rother in Wych Gate. But they didn’t forbid finding a telephone as soon as we landed in Portsmouth, before I went on to meet my train.

  I put in a call to my parents.

  They were delighted to hear my voice and know that I was in England. But I had to tell them the reason why I wouldn’t be coming home.

  My father said, “I must be away tomorrow morning. But Simon is in London. Shall I send him to Sussex?”

  “Please, would you? I shall need a means of getting about.” And it would be a touch of home for me.

  We talked for a few minutes more, as I assured my mother that I was well and hoped to have leave again soon. A little white lie for her comfort, I told myself.

  The train to London met with the usual delays, and when I arrived at Waterloo Station, I collected my things and prepared to go in search of the next available connection to Hartfield.

  Instead I found Simon Brandon waiting to help me descend from the carriage, and then he reached inside to take up my valise.

  “The motorcar is this way.”

  A cold rain was falling, but as we handed in my ticket and went out into the fading light, he studied my face and said, “Your mother wished to know how you looked. Tired, but well enough. That sums it up, I should think.”

  I smiled. “Yes, very well. Simon, I’ve seen the little French child. Her name is Sophie.” And I went on to tell him how I’d managed to find her, and what I’d discovered.

  We had reached the outskirts of London as I finished the account. Simon nodded, “I was fairly sure you would search. Against all advice.”

  “There was so little opportunity to look for her. I despaired of finding her. But an Australian sergeant, his name is Larimore, put the word out, compiled a list of convents from the responses he received, and had it delivered to me by way of a wounded Scot. It made all the difference.”

  “And you say Ellis knows nothing about this?”

  “I don’t think he does. But running into him prevented me from speaking to the solicitor to ask how the child might be returned to her natural father.”

  “Hardly your place, Bess.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that. But I’d have liked to know if it was even possible. That would guide me in deciding what to do about telling Roger Ellis—or Lydia, for that matter—that I know where Sophie is. Which reminds me, I shall need some money before I return to France. I gave the sister at the orphanage all that I could spare. They have so little, and the children need so much. French law may be very different from English law in these matters. And there’s the fact that Roger was never officially registered at Sophie’s father.”

  “Leave it, Bess. You’re unwise to grow attached to this child.”

  “I’m not attached. But I have become aware of another side of this war, Simon. It’s difficult enough for us to make sense of it. Think what a child who has lost everything must feel, when the future appears to be so bleak and comfortless.”

  We drove on in silence, covering the miles of winter-bare England, and I wished we were heading in the direction of Somerset, on the other side of London.

  We stopped briefly for tea and sandwiches in a small s
hop in Sevenoaks, then drove on to Ashdown Forest. This time as we approached, I recognized the first signs of it now.

  “I don’t think I shall be invited to stay with the Ellis family this time,” I said ruefully.

  “No. I expect not.”

  “I can’t think of why I should be summoned from France for the inquest. After all, the police have my statement. Have you heard anything about the case since we left?”

  “Only what you already know, that the inquest was adjourned.”

  We drove through Hartfield, the street deserted, the houses already dark. I glanced toward Bluebell Cottage and saw that it looked closed and somehow forlorn. I was suddenly reminded of the cat I’d seen on a blue cushion asleep in the window.

  “Simon. What’s become of Davis Merrit’s cat? Surely it wasn’t abandoned, when he didn’t come back!”

  “You must ask the police.”

  We left Hartfield behind and soon came to the turning where the left-hand track went to Wych Cross and the right to Wych Gate.

  In the far distance, across the barren landscape, I could just see the lights of Vixen Hill as we passed the place where the lane ran into the darkness under the trees where Simon had left his horse one night.

  I’d been to St. Mary’s Church, but not into the village of Wych Gate itself. It lay on the far side of the trees that stood to the west of the church, over an ancient bridge that crossed the little stream where George Hughes had died. There was a cluster of houses that clung to the road in defiance of the heath that all but surrounded them. Half the size of Hartfield, it was neither bustling nor busy, and most of the inhabitants worked elsewhere in the Forest or just outside it. But once it had been a very wealthy village based on the wool trade, when sheep had replaced the deer and other game that had drawn kings and their courts to hunt. The church was a mark of its past, and of a time when a village could afford to build it.

  Inspector Rother lived on the corner of one of the two side streets in Wych Gate. We found him there after going to the police station, once a gaol for poachers and other village miscreants, that stood foursquare between the bakery and a solicitor’s chambers. He had left a note on the door directing me to his house.

  He must have been watching for me. He came out of his door almost as soon as we pulled up, and said, peering into the vehicle, “Sister Crawford?”

  “Yes, Inspector?”

  Reaching for the handle to the rear door, he said, “I’d rather speak to you in the police station, so as not to wake my family.”

  He wasn’t the sort of man I’d associated with having a family, a home life. He had seemed to be wedded to his work. I’d never quite pictured him at the breakfast table, his children around him, as I could Inspector Herbert, whom I’d known in London.

  Simon turned the motorcar and drove back to the station. We hurried through the rain in Inspector Rother’s wake and waited for him to light a lamp.

  In his office the furnishings were plain, with a narrow desk, a chair, and two others in front of it. Over Inspector Rother’s head as he took his seat was a photograph of the King in his naval uniform, staring at the opposite wall.

  I made the introductions.

  “I expected the station carriage,” he said sourly, “from Hartfield.”

  “My family sent Mr. Brandon to see me safely here,” I answered. “It’s rather late, after all.”

  “Yes, yes, I recall seeing Mr. Brandon in Hartfield before Christmas. You must be tired, Miss Crawford. I’ve taken a room for you at The King’s Head.”

  “Thank you.” I hesitated. It seemed very odd to have made the long trip here only to be told that he’d taken a room for me. Was there more? I added, “Have you found Lieutenant Merrit? The last news I had was that the inquest had been adjourned while the police continued to look for him.”

  He considered me, then glanced at Simon, standing behind my chair, leaning his shoulders against the corner of a tall bookcase. “There were questions that only the Lieutenant could answer. For example, why was a watch removed from the body of the deceased when other valuable items were not taken? What became of the murder weapon?”

  “You haven’t found it?” I asked, feeling a frisson of guilt when I remembered the marble kitten slightly out of its accustomed place.

  Although I had listened, I hadn’t heard the slightest sound from behind the cell door I’d glimpsed at the end of the passage some ten feet beyond Inspector Rother’s office. If Lieutenant Merrit had been taken into custody, he must not be held here.

  “So far we’ve been unable to account for it.”

  When he didn’t immediately go on, I asked, “When I was at The King’s Head using the telephone—this was before Lieutenant Hughes was murdered—I noticed a cat asleep in the window of Bluebell Cottage. Has anything been done about it?”

  “We brought Mrs. Roger Ellis to Hartfield and asked her to look through Bluebell Cottage. She was there very early on the morning of the murder, and we wished to know if the cottage appeared to be the same as when she saw it then. She found the cat and insisted on taking charge of it. We had no objection to that.”

  Lydia hadn’t told me that in her letter. “This was before the inquest?”

  “Yes, in fact, later in the afternoon of the day you left for London.”

  “And was the cottage the same?” Simon asked.

  “It was, as far as she could tell. There was no sign of a hasty departure. Lieutenant Merrit had changed into his riding clothes and gone out. He had a habit of riding out early in the morning. We believe that he had either intentionally gone in search of George Hughes or encountered him by accident. Constable Bates found signs of someone standing by a horse for several minutes. And then the two went on together. Where they went from there was lost when a flock of sheep moved through the same ground. A clever piece of police work, that. It placed Lieutenant Merrit not far from Wych Gate Church.”

  Suddenly I knew why I had been sent for. “I was told in France,” I began, “that I was required to testify at an inquest. But you haven’t caught Lieutenant Merrit, have you? And you haven’t taken anyone else into custody. Does this mean that Davis Merrit is dead?”

  I felt Simon stir behind my chair.

  Inspector Rother held my gaze for a long moment, then said, “Either you are quite perceptive or you have heard something in spite of our efforts to keep the discovery from the public.” He went on slowly. “Five days ago, we found the remains of Davis Merrit’s body. On the heath, in a dell that the locals call The Pitch. It appears that he died by his own hand, after returning to Hartfield long enough to pass the watch to the man we call Willy. He had taken great care to make us believe that he had then left the Forest.”

  I was shocked, in spite of my premonition. “But if he’s dead, why is it necessary for me to come back from France to give evidence? Surely my statement would be sufficient, if the case is already closed?”

  “I don’t care for loose ends, Miss Crawford. Why did Merrit feel it necessary to come back to Hartfield long enough to give that watch to Willy, when no one suspected him at that time and probably would not have done. If he intended to tell us that he was the killer, then why do away with himself here in the Forest? It would be more useful if he went to Devon, or Northumberland, where he could conceivably remain unidentified.”

  “I don’t know. Described that way, it seems rather odd.”

  “Yes. And so we find ourselves back to the beginning of the case. It’s late, and you must be tired. I hadn’t intended to speak of this tonight.”

  But I thought he had. Otherwise, instead of coming to the police station, he would have sent me directly back to Hartfield and asked me to return tomorrow. Today, it was now.

  And then he said meditatively, “Four men. Davis Merrit, George Hughes, Roger Ellis, and William Pryor. And now two of them are dead.”

  “Who is William Pryor?”

  “I don’t like murder on my patch, Miss Crawford. That’s why I have to wonder why you
never told me about the quarrel Roger Ellis had with George Hughes the night before he was killed. Or the jealousy that Ellis had expressed concerning his wife’s volunteering to read to the blind man. Oh, yes, the doctor has suddenly become very eager to help us in our inquiries. As has his wife. Now I think it’s time we all went to bed, and continued this discussion tomorrow.”

  With that he rose and ushered us out the door, bidding us a good night as he walked through the driving rain back to his house.

  Simon and I began the long dark drive back to The King’s Head. I was grateful for his quiet presence in the motorcar beside me. I didn’t believe in ghosts, I never had, but two deaths in this Forest had somehow left a haunting presence behind.

  I said, after we’d passed St. Mary’s Church, “An unexpected turn of events.”

  “I told you in the beginning, Bess, that I had a bad feeling about this business. From the start. From the time you found Lydia Ellis outside your door that December night and took her in.”

  “I could hardly have turned her away. But who is William Pryor? The Inspector never answered me when I asked.”

  “I should think it’s the man you know as Willy.”

  “Yes, of course.” I shook my head. “I must be more tired than I thought. But how did the police find out his real name? I was given the impression that no one knew who he was. And now Inspector Rother is adding Captain Ellis to his list of suspects.”

  “Or he wants you to believe he has.”

  “It would make sense. A clever way to rid himself of both men. Even Lydia wondered about that.” I considered what I had just said. “Simon, if that is true—and I’m not convinced that it is, mind you—why is Roger Ellis searching for Sophie? Is she in peril too?”

  We drove on in silence. And then the track through the Forest ended in what would shortly become the High Street of Hartfield. Ahead of us, the inn loomed out of the dark, and across from it Bluebell Cottage, standing empty.

  “I’m glad Lydia took the cat,” I said as we turned into the yard beside The King’s Head. “I wouldn’t have liked for it to be turned out into the winter cold. It had a cushion the same color as the cottage was painted. He liked that cat, Simon, and it was cosseted.”