A Duty to the Dead

by Charles Todd

  He frowned. “I was given my meals in my room. As I always was. I saw the staff only in passing.”

  “Peregrine. Was your tutor attracted to Lily Mercer?”

  “Mr. Appleby?” He smiled. “I can’t imagine him condescending to a flirtation with a servant girl.”

  Mrs. Gadd had said that the tutor was pompous. Still, anything was possible. London was a long way from Owlhurst.

  “I’ve changed my mind, Peregrine. I want to go to Chilham tomorrow, instead of London. To see if I can find your former tutor. To see what he could add to the story.”

  “I thought someone in Owlhurst had the rector’s journals?”

  “Yes, but think—if there had been anything in those journals that the police ought to know, Mr. Montgomery would have told me. He’d read them over. He said as much to me.”

  “Who is Montgomery?”

  “The present rector. No, I think it might be more helpful to speak to Mr. Appleby. Let me see if I can persuade Mr. Owens to drive me there tomorrow.”

  “This time I’ll go with you.”

  “You’ll be seen—recognized—”

  “Hardly. I doubt Appleby will know me. Not in this uniform. It’s been fourteen years, after all.”

  He had a point.

  We had a late tea in the hotel dining room, with me on tenterhooks that someone might see in the rather attractive young officer across from me a dangerous escapee from an asylum. But of course no one did. Peregrine complained of being shut up in his room all day and needing exercise, so we went for a short walk down the quiet street. Afterward Peregrine saw me to my door, and said, “Something you learned today disturbed you. Will you tell me what it is? I ought to know, if it has any bearing on my situation.”

  I tried to smile, but it faltered. “It was just something—odd, that’s all.”

  I opened my door, and he followed me into my room, shutting the door behind him. I tensed.

  He said, “Don’t look like that. I’m not going to hurt you. Have I? In any way?”

  “No.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “The housekeeper—Susan’s mother—showed the woman who was the family’s laundress a stain she’d found on the sleeve of Arthur’s nightshirt, and asked if it could be gotten out. She’d found the nightshirt in the valises as she unpacked after everyone returned from London. There must have been no time to do anything about it—or else no one noticed it. It was just—she said he was prone to nosebleeds. Arthur.”

  “Was he? I don’t know. Surely my stepmother was told about the blood. Or the London police would have seen it and questioned Arthur.”

  They might have, if he’d been wearing the nightshirt when Mrs. Graham called the police. Had he changed it before his mother got home?

  Stop it! I ordered myself.

  Answering Peregrine aloud, I agreed. “Yes. Of course. I’m tired. It was a long, cold journey. And stressful.”

  “I’m sure.” He nodded, and was gone. I stood where I was, listening to the sound of his own door opening and then closing.

  I wondered if he believed me.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE NEXT MORNING, Mr. Owens was there with his motorcar when we came out of the hotel after breakfast. He touched his hat to me, then shook hands with Peregrine—Lieutenant Philips.

  Eager to hear about the war firsthand, Mr. Owens was disappointed to find that Peregrine’s wound had affected his memory. We were silent, watching the rain clouds build over Dover. In the distance we could see Canterbury Cathedral as we climbed the hill to Chilham and came out into the wonderful square with its Elizabethan buildings. The gates of the Jacobean manor house marked one end of the square and the churchyard of St. Mary’s the other. Where to find Mr. Appleby?

  I decided to try the flint church first, walking through the gates to the arched west door. It creaked as I opened it, and the interior was icy, as it must have been for centuries. But I had been right to come here. There was a woman on her knees by the altar, arranging green boughs in bronze vases. At this time of year the arrangement was mostly sprays of holly, its red berries bright among the greenery.

  She turned at my footsteps, and smiled. “Hello. Are you looking for Rector?”

  “Actually, I’m looking for someone who may have lived here some years ago. He was a tutor, his name was Appleby.”

  “Mr. Appleby? Yes, of course, he tutored the Laurence boys. But he’s no longer teaching.”

  My spirits sank. “Do you know where he might have gone from here?”

  “Oh, he liked Chilham so much he stayed on. He married one of the Johnstone girls. Mary, the eldest. Go back to the square and the little lane that runs down to your right, just after you leave the church gates. The third house is his.”

  My spirits rose again. “Thank you. I’m very happy to hear that.”

  “Do I know you?” she asked. “Your face is familiar.”

  “I was here some years ago. My father was returning from India, and we were traveling with him, my mother and I. Colonel Crawford.”

  She stood, her smile widening. “Colonel Crawford. The handsomest man at the dinner party. Of course, I remember now.”

  That was the Colonel Sahib. In his dress uniform he was quite remarkably handsome. And had the charm to match.

  “Let me finish here, and I’ll show you the Appleby house myself,” she offered. “I’d like to hear how your parents are faring.”

  “They are both quite well,” I answered. “But I have friends waiting. If you don’t mind—”

  “Of course. Give my regards to your parents. Tell them Sarah Cunningham was asking for them.”

  I promised, and made my escape.

  Peregrine was pacing beside the motorcar, a frown on his face. Mr. Owens had walked up to The White Horse on the corner, to wait for us. I told Peregrine what I had learned, and together we walked down the curving lane past a lovely stone house where I’d had cookies and milk when we called there, my mother and I. The tutor’s house was easily picked out, and I went up the short walk to lift the knocker.

  “Peregrine. Whatever he tells us, promise me you won’t—”

  At that moment the door opened. Peregrine sucked in his breath but said nothing.

  Appleby was of medium height and thin build, his long face marked by a scar on his chin. His hair was graying, but his short mustache was darker, like his eyebrows. A scholarly man, at first glance, but his eyes were weak and his mouth was small. My father had always held a theory about small mouths—that they indicated spitefulness.

  “Mr. Appleby?”

  “Yes, indeed. How may I help you?” He looked from my face to Peregrine’s, without any sign of recognition.

  I introduced us and then said, “I was one of Arthur Graham’s nurses when he was wounded, and he entrusted me with messages to his family just before he died.”

  “I read that he’d died of wounds. What a tragedy that was. He was a fine young man.”

  “May I spend a few minutes talking to you about him?”

  He was surprised. “To me? Er—what information can I give you about Arthur?” He seemed confused.

  I said quickly, “I spent a few days with the Grahams, as Arthur had asked me to do. But there were questions I felt uncomfortable bringing up—”

  “You’re here about Peregrine Graham, aren’t you?”

  “I—yes.”

  “Why are you prying into the past?”

  “I’m not prying, Mr. Appleby. I was very close to Arthur Graham at the time of his death. I can’t help but believe he died with something on his conscience—”

  “You had better come in.” He stepped aside, and we followed him into the parlor of the house. It was prettily decorated, a woman’s touch with floral covers on the chairs and small china figurines on tables and the mantelpiece. I could hear someone humming in another part of the house.

  A small dog was curled on the hearth rug. She lifted her head, considered us, and went back to sleep.

>   Appleby offered us chairs and then said, “Look, I’ve put the past behind me. It was a fearsome situation, and I felt somehow responsible because the boys were in my charge while we were in London.”

  “Yet you continued to work with them for several years afterward.”

  “Of course. Continuity is what children need when their world has been turned upside down. Mrs. Graham begged me to remain there until her sons were sent to public school.”

  “Did you know Lily Mercer well?”

  That took him aback. “Well? Of course not. I’d never seen her before we arrived in London,” he answered indignantly. “She was a member of the temporary staff.”

  “I understand that. But you must have spoken to her in the servants’ hall—”

  “I never took my meals with the servants. I ate in my room or with my charges or in the small room off the study.”

  I recalled that someone had told me the tutor kept to himself.

  “I’m not trying to stir up the past, Mr. Appleby. But if Arthur had doubts about what happened in London, I’m honor bound to put the matter to rest.”

  “You are honor bound to do no such thing. Peregrine Graham did a wicked thing, and he was put in a place where he couldn’t hurt anyone again. We feared for the family, if you must know—there was no other choice but to send him away. No one wanted a trial, it would have been devastating for the other boys. That they had a brother in prison for murder would have damaged their lives beyond measure.”

  I glanced at Peregrine, whose face remained impassive. It was as if he accepted everything that Mr. Appleby was saying.

  “What did Lily Mercer’s family want?”

  Mr. Appleby opened his mouth to answer me, then shut it smartly. After a moment, he said, “I have no idea.”

  “Were you satisfied that Peregrine Graham had done what he was accused of?”

  “Miss Crawford. I know you mean well. But let me tell you this. I only saw the body briefly, but the girl was covered in blood. Mrs. Graham told me later that Lily Mercer had been disemboweled. I also saw Peregrine Graham kneeling there beside her, splattered with her blood. What conclusion would you have drawn, in my place?”

  Peregrine Graham flinched, shutting his eyes for an instant.

  “But I understand that Arthur also had blood on his nightshirt.”

  I could tell from his reaction that this was something he was unaware of.

  But he said, “You can’t change history, Miss Crawford, however good your intentions. I think you should go now.”

  “Mr. Appleby, I’m not trying to change history. I’m trying to get to the truth, and decide in my own mind what the message Arthur charged me with really meant. I have given this message to Jonathan Graham. But I bear some responsibility in seeing that Arthur’s wishes are carried out.”

  “That’s your personal choice, my dear. If you cared anything for Arthur Graham, you will put this behind you and move on with your life. Arthur was a fine young man, and it is to his credit that he was concerned for his brother. He went to the asylum one year, learned that Peregrine was not allowed either books or writing implements, and complained to the doctors. They refused to give him either pen or pencil, but they brought Peregrine books to read. I was surprised that he even grasped what was in them—he had shown no aptitude as a child.”

  “What do you mean, no aptitude? Was he—mentally incapable of reading?”

  “No, Miss Crawford. I’m surprised no one has told you that Peregrine Graham was unable to focus his attention on anything for more than a few minutes at a time. His father’s death had been a great shock to him, and by the time I arrived when he was seven, he was nearly unmanageable. We felt it best, Mrs. Graham and I, to separate him from his brothers and try to keep him as calm as possible. I made every effort to teach him, but I was never sure how well he had comprehended his studies. He wouldn’t answer my questions, he wouldn’t write out an examination, and he refused to accept my guidance.”

  And yet the man that Peregrine had become could read.

  “Did you like Peregrine Graham, Mr. Appleby?”

  “As to that, there was little likable about the child. Mrs. Graham had warned me that I would find him difficult, a liar, and given to throwing tantrums. I was not surprised to discover that she was correct.”

  “And for this reason you were able to believe that a boy who had been kept from his family for—what? Seven, eight?—years was capable of murder?”

  “Miss Crawford. The boy’s father had given him a very nice pocketknife as his last birthday gift. It was a man’s knife, Peregrine’s grandfather’s—and Mr. Graham insisted that he be allowed to keep it. The boy used it incessantly—to carve any wood that came to hand, whether the table at which he sat or a bit of tree branch that he found in the garden. He wished to use it to carve his meat but was forbidden. It was taken away, but he managed to find it again, and hid it. But he took it to London with him, and that knife was in the body when it was found.”

  “Yes, so I was told—”

  “And his only remorse was that the knife was taken from him for good. No feeling for that pitiful young woman.”

  “I’m a nurse, Mr. Appleby. I can’t believe that a pocketknife could do the sort of—butchery—that you described.”

  Appleby’s face was unfriendly. “I’m not a fool, Miss Crawford. There was of course another knife, one from the kitchen, that did the butchery as you called it. But it was Peregrine’s knife in Lily Mercer’s throat that mattered. She couldn’t have screamed if she’d wanted to.”

  No one had told me such details. I felt a surge of nausea but collected myself and said, “Everyone knew that this knife was a favorite of Peregrine’s—”

  Appleby was on his feet.

  For an instant, I thought Peregrine, also rising, was going to strike him down.

  And then Peregrine had taken my arm in a firm grip and said, “Miss Crawford. You’re getting nowhere. I suggest we leave now.”

  I thanked Mr. Appleby, for manners insisted that I should. But I was furious with him.

  He didn’t say good-bye, nor did he see us to the door. We were outside, shutting the door behind ourselves, and standing in the street before I could say anything.

  Peregrine spoke first. “I took that knife to London,” he said in a tightly controlled voice. “But I gave it to Arthur when I got there, in exchange for a promise that he would speak to his mother and ask her to allow me to go with my brothers to the Tower.”

  I stared at him. “Peregrine? Are you certain?”

  “I hadn’t remembered what happened to it. I saw it in Lily’s throat and wanted it back. I told you, I don’t remember much about that night. It comes in bits and pieces, like a puzzle. But I gave that knife to Arthur. I’d swear to it. On my life.”

  I could feel my heart turning over in my chest. It was medically impossible, and yet I felt it.

  He was a murderer. He had every reason to lie. Even Mr. Appleby had told me that Peregrine lied.

  And yet—and yet. I looked into his eyes and knew he was telling me the truth.

  “You’ve had years to remember this. Why now?”

  “I shut it all out of my mind for years. When I refused to talk to the doctors, and they finally decided that I was mute, that shock had robbed me of my voice, they left me alone. If I couldn’t answer their questions, how could they judge my progress? They tried for the first two years to bring me to a sense of my own guilt, but I’d had that drummed into me by the London police, everyone in Owlhurst—my own family. I was dazed when they found me. I admitted to everything, to make them leave me alone. You don’t seem to understand—I could smell drying blood, it was everywhere, all over my hands, me, and I couldn’t escape it. But no one would let me wash my face or my hands. They hired a carriage and drove me back to Owlhurst, still covered in blood. I would have agreed to everything in the hope that they would let me go to my own room and shut the door.”

  “You’re saying you didn’t ki
ll her.”

  “No. I’m saying that there must be more to this than I’ve remembered so far. Something happened that night. Something appalling. I can’t think why I walked into that room and killed Lily Mercer. But there must have been a reason.”

  He turned to look up at the church, his face hidden from me. “I want there to be a reason. I want to believe that I didn’t suddenly run amok, striking down the first person who got in my way. What if it had been Arthur? Or Timothy? That’s madness of a different order, don’t you see?”

  “It never happened before that night. Or since that night.”

  He turned back to me. “Since that night, my dear Miss Crawford, I was locked in a room, put into a straitjacket to be taken to the offices where my doctors examined me, and given nothing sharper than a spoon. I was handed a sedative as soon as I’d had my tea, because my history of violence occurred at night. I couldn’t have killed again. They saw to that.”

  “Did you ever want to—to kill?”

  “I spent most of my childhood alone. I saw my brothers sometimes, Mr. Appleby, the housekeeper, my stepmother, Robert. And that was it. It never occurred to me to hurt them.”

  “Have you felt the urge to do violence since you left the asylum?”

  He smiled suddenly. “Just now. Speaking to that fool. I was afraid of him as a child. He could decide whether or not I’d deserved my dinner or was to be denied it. He could allow me to sit in the garden for an hour every afternoon, while my brothers were at their lessons, or leave me locked in my room. It was Appleby who refused to take the responsibility for me to accompany my brothers to the Tower. I heard him tell my stepmother that the night before. He was a bully, but I wasn’t to know that, was I?”

  He walked on, and I hurried to catch him up. “If it had been my tutor who was found butchered, I could understand it. I would have reveled in it.”

  Mr. Owens was waiting for us, stamping his feet and clapping his hands together to keep warm.

  “This is a pretty town,” he said as we came up the lane and into the square. “Look at those houses, now. If old Queen Bess was to walk through here this minute, she’d feel right at home.”