by Charles Todd
Peregrine helped me into the motorcar, and then seated himself beside Mr. Owens.
“I’m sure she would,” I answered him, my mind elsewhere. The black and white buildings with their beautiful diamond-shaped windowpanes reminded me of the rectory in Owlhurst.
“It’s the oak,” he went on. “Good English oak, that’s kept them so fine. Nothing like it, I say. Would you care for a cup of tea to warm you, Miss, before we start back?”
I thanked him for his kindness and told him I was warm enough. All I wanted was to be back in London, a place I knew, where the world made sense.
We drove back down the hill, looking across the Juliberrie Downs toward Canterbury, and wove our way through the countryside toward Tonbridge. We made a stop along the way at a tiny village where the pub offered tea for me and ale for Mr. Owens. Peregrine took nothing, his face gray with fatigue. I saw Mr. Owens glance at him once or twice, concern in his eyes.
A rainstorm on the way delayed us, but we reached Tonbridge just before dusk.
After I’d settled my account with Mr. Owens, I went to my room but felt smothered there, as if the walls were closing in. A certain sign of fatigue and worry. Nevertheless I caught up my coat and went out to walk, past the boys’ school and up to the handsome gatehouse to what was once Tonbridge Castle. The gatehouse, part of the curtain wall, and a broken tower were all that was left, but I walked through and into the grounds, crossing to the cliff that looked down on the Medway and another part of the town.
I hadn’t been there long when someone came up behind me. It was nearly dark now, the dusk fading quickly in an overcast sky. I turned, and found myself face-to-face with Peregrine.
“You should be resting,” I said.
“I could say the same for you.”
We stood in silence, staring down at the lower part of the town, watching a pair of ducks paddling along the quiet river.
“Are you still afraid of me?” he asked.
“I wasn’t in Owlhurst. I was in London. You threatened Mrs. Hennessey, remember, and then any three strangers you met on your way out the door.”
“I was more afraid of you. I didn’t think you’d help me. And I needed that help. I had to trust you, and I wasn’t certain I could.”
“Would you have shot Mrs. Hennessey?”
“I’d have shot myself, I think, if the police came to take me away.”
“I haven’t had many dealings with murderers. Though there was one I knew in Rajasthan. An old man who would sometimes let me ride his camel around the market. He was hanged for killing his young wife’s lover. I didn’t know that until much later. I just wondered why he never came to market again.”
Peregrine was silent for a time. Then he said, “What next? I want to see those journals.”
“I’ve lost my nerve. I don’t want to go back to Owlhurst.” I straightened and turned back the way I’d come. Peregrine fell into step beside me.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to learn any more. About you. About Arthur. About the Graham family.”
“Arthur didn’t kill Lily Mercer. If that’s what worries you.”
But I couldn’t be sure. The way he had made me learn his message by heart—the intensity behind demanding my promise, the refusal to write anything down…It had seemed unimportant then, I’d been too worried to ask questions, prepared to do anything to bring him peace of mind at the end. The Arthur I thought I knew would have confessed, he’d have written it and had his letter witnessed, and sent it to someone—Lady Parsons? He’d have stood up to everyone and cleared Peregrine’s name.
Wouldn’t he?
Why had he told Jonathan that he’d lied? Surely Jonathan already knew about the pocketknife? And what had to be set right, if it wasn’t clearing his brother’s name?
Neither Jonathan nor his mother seemed to be disturbed by the message—that made me wonder if Arthur had tried before this to make his feelings known, and found his mother dead set against changing the status quo. That was a rather chilling thought. That they had made up their minds to ignore any protestations on Arthur’s part long before I’d appeared on the scene.
And where did Robert stand in all this?
It made sense that Mrs. Graham and Jonathan had agreed to let the matter end with Arthur’s death.
But when had she confided the truth to Jonathan? Or had it been Arthur himself?
Look, Jonathan—if anything happens to me…
No, it wouldn’t have been that way. There was too much passion in Arthur’s determination to set matters right. As Death came to collect him, he tried to clear his conscience in the only way left to him.
But when was Jonathan told the truth—and why?
All I could think of was that he’d known from the start, and said nothing.
It was more comfortable not to. Everyone looked up to Arthur, everyone called him a fine young man, even the tutor. After all, Peregrine had been found beside the body. Why look any further? Yet until the moment Peregrine had been taken to the asylum for testing, Mrs. Graham had been distraught with fear. Not for what was to become of him but because somehow the truth might slip out and wreck all her careful plans. I sighed.
Peregrine, a dark, looming shadow beside me, said, “What is it?”
“I was thinking that truth is a very illusive thing.”
He was silent for a moment, and then he answered me, his voice muffled. “I’m not sure truth exists. Perhaps we only think it does. But in reality it’s only what you believe and I believe and Mr. Owens believes—the rest is merely compromise.”
I couldn’t sleep that night. At every sound my eyes flew open and I waited—for what?
My door was locked. Peregrine couldn’t get into my room without waking half the guests on this floor. And yet I was on edge, unable to feel safe.
At one point, on the brink of slipping finally into a drowsy peace, I thought I heard Arthur calling me. It was so real my heart leapt, and I was wide awake again. That was the last straw.
It was nearly dawn by then, and I got up, dressed, and for a time walked the dark, silent streets of Tonbridge.
At one point a constable stopped me, asking if anything was the matter, if I needed help. I told him the truth—I was too troubled to sleep.
He said, “Aye, my daughter’s husband’s at the Front. I find her out and about at all hours. But mind where you go, Miss. There’s not much to worry you here, but one never can tell what’s lurking in the shadows.”
I watched the night turn into a gray dawn, I watched candles flicker into life in attics where servants dressed in the cold. I watched the milk cart making its rounds, watched as sluggard schoolboys made their way to their lessons, and then watched merchants unlock their doors and set out their goods for the day. I saw the gate of the castle rise above the mists of the river, and quiver there, like a disembodied vision.
It was nearly time for breakfast when, cold and courting sleep, I turned back to the hotel at last. I was just walking up the steps of The Checquers, when someone came bounding through the doors, nearly bowling me over.
“I beg your pardon, madam—” he started to say, and then broke off in astonishment.
Beneath the officer’s cap, above the scarf, I recognized the bandaged face of Jonathan Graham. Or to be more precise, I recognized the bandaging.
“Miss Crawford—”
“Good morning, Lieutenant Graham,” I managed to say. “How is your family?”
“My family? Yes, well enough. What—brings you back to Tonbridge?”
“A personal matter,” I replied. I wanted very much to ask him the same. We stood there, confronting each other, neither willing to give the other satisfaction.
Finally Jonathan said, “Will you be returning to Owlhurst?”
“I’ve considered it,” I said slowly. “Perhaps to call on Dr. Philips.”
The words lingered in the air like the morning mists, going nowhere.
Jonathan Graham frowned. I realiz
ed, too late, that it sounded as if I were pursuing the good doctor, a very bold thing for a single woman to do. My mother would have been appalled. I could feel my face flush as it was.
Trying to recover, I said, “We had a professional connection, in regard to Ted Booker and cases like his.”
The frown deepened.
I took the plunge. “You weren’t called at the inquest, and I can’t help but wonder why. You visited Mr. Booker, didn’t you, the night before he was found.”
I managed to make it sound like a documented fact.
“All right. Yes, I did. I felt—a fellow invalid’s compassion.”
He’d hardly shown compassion when he’d called Ted Booker a coward.
“I’ve wondered why you didn’t speak up at the inquest. It could have given all of us a clearer picture of his state of mind later in the evening.”
“I spoke to the police. I told them he was asleep when I got there. That I’d turned around and left straightaway.”
I couldn’t have said why, but I didn’t believe him.
And why had Ted Booker killed himself, if he could sleep?
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I truly believed he’d turned the corner. It’s heart wrenching, to lose a patient.”
“As you lost Arthur.”
Touché.
“Do you know when you’ll return to France?” I asked him.
“They remove the bandages tomorrow,” he said. “It should have been sooner, but there was concern about infection. Thank God, their worry was misplaced. Another week, and I’ll be declared fit.”
“I wish you well. Good-bye, Lieutenant Graham.”
I held out my hand and he shook it.
“Good-bye, Miss Crawford.”
I went upstairs and knocked on Peregrine’s door. He was dressed and shaved, preparing to meet me in the dining room for breakfast.
“Jonathan is here in this same hotel,” I told him in a low voice. “It would be best if we left for London as soon as we can find a train.”
“Jonathan?”
“Yes, he’s here to see his doctors. They expect to remove his bandages tomorrow. That means he’ll be in and out, and we’re likely to run into him.”
“I didn’t know he’d been wounded.”
“Across the face. It’s going to leave a terrible scar.”
“I’d have liked to join the army.”
“Be glad you were spared,” I said shortly. “I’ll go and see about tickets. But it might be best if you stayed here, in your room, until we’re ready to leave.”
“Jonathan won’t recognize me. Not after all these years.”
“I wouldn’t wager your freedom on it.”
“No.”
He closed his door and I went to the station, found that there were tickets for the morning train, and before Tonbridge was stirring, we were on our way back to London.
Once on the train, I drew a sigh of relief. It wouldn’t have done for Jonathan Graham to find me with Peregrine. It was dawning on me that the cost of helping this man could well be my reputation. Was there a law forbidding aiding a desperate fugitive from an asylum? I shuddered to think.
As we were nearing London, Peregrine opened his eyes and turned to me.
“Will your friend be at the flat?”
“Diana?” I felt a chill. “I—don’t know. Why?”
“She’s very pretty.”
Oh, dear.
He was saying, “The only women I’ve seen for nearly fifteen years are other inmates and matrons. I’ve noticed too how the world has left me behind. The women are dressed very differently, there are more men in uniform than in civilian clothes—only the very old and the very young aren’t, in fact. There are more automobiles, and very different ones at that. And this morning, while I was waiting for you, there was a flight of aeroplanes I could see from my window. I feel like a stranger in my own country. It’s daunting, frightening, and fascinating, all in one.”
I could imagine. Peregrine had managed remarkably well. I was beginning to realize the tragedy of his childhood. Mrs. Graham had done a cruel thing, whether out of maliciousness or out of an honest belief that he was different, I couldn’t tell. Mr. Appleby had aided and abetted her treatment of Peregrine, the fault was surely not entirely hers.
We were arriving in London. Back in the crowded, anonymous world of people who had things on their minds other than spotting my companion and taking him back to his jailers.
How do you make up for a lost life? I couldn’t think of a way.
Diana was delighted to see us, demanding to borrow Peregrine for an hour that evening, to escort her to a dinner party. He flatly refused, and she was hurt, saying to me later, “He’s the most attractive male I’ve seen in weeks, and the only whole one as well.”
“I’ve promised to see that he doesn’t overdo. Next visit, he’ll be well on his way to recovery.”
“I think you merely want to keep him for yourself.”
I laughed. Little did she know. But I didn’t want a blossoming romance on Diana’s side or any temptation on Peregrine’s. After all, by his own admission he’d killed one young woman. Whether it was true or not.
There was a knock at the door, and I went to open it, thinking that Elayne must be back and had forgot her key again. She’d find a man in her bed. But knowing Elayne, she’d be amused and not angry.
It was my father standing there on the threshold, concern on his face.
“I came to see you yesterday. Your mother was worried. Your friend told me that you’d gone to Kent. Back to Owlhurst?”
My mouth had dropped open at the sight of him. I shut it. Over my shoulder, Diana said, “Ah. I forgot to tell you that your father was in town.”
My father smiled. “I can see that you did. Er—am I to wait on the threshold, or am I allowed into your flat?”
“Come in, of course,” I said, but one part of my mind was praying that Peregrine, hearing a male voice, would stay where he was, in Elayne’s room. All my father had to see was that uniform, and Peregrine would be finished. “Is Mama with you?”
The Colonel Sahib stepped in, his frame filling the room in a way I hadn’t remembered before.
Guilty conscience, a voice in my head pointed out.
“She’s at home. I needed to be in London for a few hours and wanted to ask if you’d decided to come home again. We could travel together.”
I said in a distracted way, “I’m thinking of staying on a few more days.”
“Do you feel your social calendar might accommodate an elderly relative desirous of your company at lunch?”
I smiled in relief. “If the elderly relative is my father—of course.”
For an instant I thought he was about to ask Diana to join us. But she said, “I’ve things to do to get myself ready. Go, and leave me to see to them.”
And then I was instantly suspicious. Had she and the Colonel planned this between them?
I said, “Let me fetch my coat,” and all but ran to my room. I found paper and pen, jotted a brief message for Peregrine, telling him that I’d be back as quickly as I could, and was ushering my father out the door in short order.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MY FATHER HAD his motorcar waiting, with a familiar driver. I’d grown up knowing Simon Brandon. He’d been in and out of the house so often that my mother said that she felt he must be related. From lowly soldier-servant to my officer father, he had risen to the heights of his profession: regimental sergeant major. There were not many people who argued with him. My father was one, and I was the other.
Simon greeted me warmly, as if he hadn’t seen me in many months, though I’d had lunch with him in his cottage a few days before I’d left for Kent.
He helped me into the rear seat, and my father followed me. Simon closed the door, resumed his place behind the wheel, and my father asked, “Where would you like to dine, my dear?”
“Your choice. Most of the restaurants are struggling to survive these days.”
He gave Simon instructions, and we drove off. The streets were crowded, and the weather was fair for a change, though cold.
“In your haste,” my father was saying, “you forgot your gloves.”
I grimaced. So I had. Depend on the Colonel Sahib to notice.
“Tell me about the visit to Kent.”
“It went very well. I honed my nursing skills on a man with pneumonia—who lived—and another with shell shock, who didn’t.”
He raised his eyebrows at that. “And how did you find the Grahams? Did they take your message in the spirit Arthur had intended?”
“I don’t think they did,” I said honestly. “I was disappointed in that.”
“Perhaps they disagreed with young Arthur.”
“It appeared they did.”
“Bess.”
I knew what was coming.
“You don’t look well. I think Kent was perhaps too much too soon. How is the arm?”
“Healing. I can do a little more each day.”
“Then if it isn’t your arm that’s worrying you, what is?”
Oh, yes, I could hear myself now telling my father of all people that I was harboring an escaped lunatic in my flat and that we’d had a brief journey back to Kent in each other’s company to find out what had possessed him to do bloody murder when he was only fourteen.
Instead I said, “I’m learning that you can’t save everyone in this world. I thought that my shell-shocked patient was convinced that he could heal. And I was wrong.”
“Yes, well, sometimes there are miracles, and sometimes there are not.”
Peregrine surviving had been a miracle. And I was paying for it even now.
I said, “Let’s not talk about guessing wrong.”
He said nothing more until we’d reached the small restaurant not far from St. Paul’s. I’d been to The Regent’s Table only once, and the food had been good. That was before the war.
Women had been warned that they must do their part against the Hun. That they must sacrifice their men, their comfort, their necessities, and anything that brought them pleasure. That included most foodstuffs. God knew what even the chef at such a restaurant could do with the only cuts of meat available in wartime.
