“Certainly not,” Edith said.
Leo laughed. He couldn’t help it. “I think you’re all mad,” he managed. “Positively barking.” And for a moment he felt like it wasn’t Leo Page, fictitious enthusiast of church architecture, who was speaking, but rather some authentic version of himself that he hadn’t yet realized existed, and he knew he had to get out of here before that person emerged again.
Wendy still had not returned, and he couldn’t stretch this visit out without seeming suspicious, so he rose to his feet to leave. But when he stood, he realized he had unconsciously taken hold of one of the skeins of wool in Miss Pickering’s basket and wound it into a perfectly neat sphere.
JAMES WAS FINISHING up his rounds during his second weekly visit to the nursing home when he thought he heard an oddly familiar voice. Rather, the voice wasn’t just familiar but also out of context, a voice that belonged somewhere else. He followed the sound down a corridor into the room of Mr. Dempsey, one of the sadder cases in this establishment. Mr. Dempsey had suffered a head injury during one of the war’s later campaigns and hadn’t fully recovered. In fact, his recovery hardly even deserved the term: he could neither talk nor read, and there were entire weeks when he failed to respond to speech. When James entered his room, he saw Dempsey propped up in a chair, looking out the window, as he did most days.
Beside him was Edward Norris.
James knew he ought to clear his throat, knock on the open door, or do anything to let his presence be known. But he was so struck by the alteration in Norris that he could hardly bring himself to move. The secretary had always seemed cold and sneaky, but now he was talking animatedly to Dempsey.
“The place is a drafty old pile, but we’ve seen worse, haven’t we? The food is damned good. I can’t really complain.” Norris paused, as if giving the other man time to respond. “That’s right, old man, lucky to have the spot, I daresay. Don’t really know what I’d do otherwise.”
Dempsey remained impassive, staring as ever out the window.
“Is that a letter from your sister? I’ll read it to you.” Norris tore open the envelope. “Good God, long-winded as ever, Frannie is. Four sheets of paper, front and back. Surely the old girl knows you can’t read yet.”
That yet made James’s stomach clench. The groundless optimism of it, the casual cheer.
“Well I’m dashed if I’m going to read the whole thing,” Norris went on. “I’ll give you the salient details. Ah, she’s had the baby. It’s a boy and Markham is over the moon, as one would expect. The child is hale and hearty and quite fat and—” He broke off with a strangled noise, then recovered himself. “Looks like they’re naming the kid after you. I say, that’s awfully good.” He flipped through the remaining pages and then put them back in the envelope. “I read in the paper that my sister had another brat. She and Borthwick would crawl over hot coals before acknowledging that I’m the proud uncle, let alone naming the poor thing after me. Jesus Christ.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ah, well, that was the whole point of the thing, wasn’t it?” Norris lapsed into silence and James backed away.
After turning a corner, James leaned against the wall and composed himself. That was a side of Norris he hadn’t ever seen. Hadn’t wanted to see, if he were honest. If Mildred Hoggett had been murdered, he wanted to believe that Norris, the person at that dinner party he liked least, had been responsible. But surely even murderers did good deeds. Even murderers visited the sick, even those too sick to know they had visitors. Even murderers could get teary-eyed at the news of a friend’s new nephew. But that scene had rearranged James’s notions of Norris.
He found the nurse who was on duty. “Sister Reynolds, who is that man with Mr. Dempsey? He looks familiar.”
“The handsome, fair fellow? That’s Edwin Nesbitt, an army friend of the poor man. He visits once a week, like clockwork.”
James digested the fact that Norris was using an assumed name. “I’ve never seen him.”
“His usual day is Sunday, Dr. Sommers. I couldn’t say why he came today instead.”
James thanked her and proceeded to the office of the nursing home’s administrator, a small, dark man in wire-rimmed spectacles. After a preamble of small talk about weather and golf, James cleared his throat. “I’ve been looking into foundations that provide for patients who might need permanent nursing,” he said, trying not to blush at the lie. “And it occurred to me that our Mr. Dempsey might be eligible.”
“Dempsey?” the administrator said. “He’ll certainly need nursing for the rest of his life, barring a miracle, but he’s quite well provided for. My impression is that his parents are rather well-heeled. They arrive in an enormous Rolls Royce.”
“They visit often?”
“Weekly. So do his sisters. They all fairly dote on him.”
As James walked to the station and boarded the train that would take him home, he wondered two things. First, why on earth had Norris been using a false name? Second, what had he meant when he said, “that was the point of the whole thing” in reference, presumably, to his estrangement from his sister. It hinted at a skeleton in Norris’s closet, an idea that James found darkly comforting. God, if only it really could be that simple. If the blame lay with Norris—a stranger, an interloper—then maybe James would know some peace.
Chapter 10
Leo finally found Wendy Smythe in the graveyard, propped up against a headstone that faced the bare patch of earth under which Mildred Hoggett had been buried earlier that week. She was wearing what appeared to be men’s trousers, a pair of ancient wellingtons, and a pea coat that had seen better days. Her head was bare, revealing a pair of black plaits that didn’t seem to have been combed any time recently. In one hand she had a battered steel flask.
“Is this a private party?” he asked, sitting on the headstone next to Mrs. Hoggett’s grave. He had his sketchbook and a few sharp pencils in case he needed to look busy. “I’ve been looking for you since yesterday. Led me a merry chase, didn’t you?”
“Oh, hello. I ought to remember who you are, oughtn’t I?”
“Leo Page,” he said. “I saw you at the vicarage after the funeral, and then in passing at Little Briars, but we weren’t introduced.” The girl’s eyes barely focused on him. “Are you very drunk or is there any hope of me catching up?”
“I’m not drunk at all, more’s the pity. I’m just sort of working myself up to it. It’s gin, though, and very nasty. Would you like some?”
“No thank you,” he said politely, tamping down an uncharacteristic urge to snatch the flask out of her hand. Surely fifteen-year-old girls should not be drinking out of flasks in the middle of the day. “But if you’d like to come with me to the Rising Sun, I’ll stand you a pint. It’ll be warmer and less damp than a graveyard. You’re probably chilled to the skin. But if you’d rather stay out here and you don’t mind company, I have to sketch this side of the church.”
“Early perpendicular,” Wendy said with an air of great authority.
“Are you quite certain you aren’t drunk?”
“Dead sober. Early perpendicular Gothic. That’s what the church is.”
“Duly noted. It’s a large church for a village this size.”
“Wychcomb St. Mary used to be quite the place round about 1400 or so. Quite the thriving metropolis.” She took a tentative sip of the gin, wincing. “And no, I don’t want to go to the pub. I’m committed to discomfort. There’s room on this headstone for two.” She shifted over a few inches, and Leo sat on the grass beside her. “Besides, you’re maybe the third person to come talk to me today. I shouldn’t leave. What if somebody else pays me a visit and I’m not here to receive them? Rude.”
“Who else has been here?”
“James stopped by on his way from the train station to the church. And Sally Bright passed me on the way to the post office.” With apparent effort, she turned her head to face him. “Mr....whoever you are, no don’t tell me, it’ll just fall out again. Did you k
now you can leave a person money just to make mischief for them?”
Leo raised his eyebrows. “A nasty trick. Did that happen to you?”
“I have no idea, more’s the pity. She—” Wendy gestured broadly at the grave opposite them “—left me a bit of money. And I don’t know whether she did it out of kindness or because she wanted to make trouble for me. Which is dashed irritating, because I don’t know whether to remember her as friend or foe, and that sort of thing wreaks havoc on the brain.”
“How is the money making trouble for you,” Leo asked, trying not to sound as curious as he was.
“Because the lawyer says that I’ll need to prove that I’m Wendy Smythe. Mrs. Hoggett knew I’d be able to do no such thing.”
“Are you Wendy Smythe?” Leo asked mildly.
“Of course I am, you ninny. But I haven’t any papers saying so.”
Sommers had told Leo that the vicar’s wife claimed to have lost them, which sounded like the purest claptrap. “You say Mrs. Hoggett knew this?”
“She’s the one who told me!”
“Told you what?”
“That Mary fudged the whole thing.”
“How so?” It was not pleasant to think of, but Mary Griffiths was just barely old enough to have a fifteen-year-old daughter.
“Oh, my mother was useless. Always leaving me alone in the flat and going off with men after my dad died. I don’t remember much, but I do remember that. I suppose somebody took pity on me and called upon Mary to find me a better home, as one would do with an ill-treated kitten,” she concluded miserably.
“You’ll beg my pardon, but I’ve met Mrs. Griffiths. If I wanted anything done at all, she’s the last person on earth I’d ask for help. Yesterday she had on a pair of mismatched stockings. I’d hardly trust her to spirit away a neglected child.”
That got a sleepy smile out of the girl. “That is reassuring.” Then her brow furrowed. “But you see, she’s just the person who would forget to arrange for proper paperwork.”
Leo decided it was time for a different line of inquiry before the child fell asleep. “Did you find what you were looking for in the shrubbery at Wych Hall the other evening?”
Wendy stared blearily at him for a moment. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m not asking what you were looking for. That doesn’t matter right now. But if it gets about that you’re doing some amateur sleuthing, you might not be safe.”
“If I were a more sensitive type, I might be quite cast down. Who are you?”
“A benevolent spirit?” he suggested, deciding not to even pretend to give a direct answer. “Like the elves and the shoemaker.”
“Is that what you were doing in James’s house the other night? Making shoes?”
He took the flask from her hand and made a show of screwing the cap on tightly before handing it back to her. “We played gin rummy and discussed church architecture.”
“Wendy! What in heaven’s name are you doing?”
Leo turned to see Miss Pickering standing over them. Had she followed Leo from Little Briars?
“Talking to Mr. Page,” Wendy said with a yawn. She rose unsteadily to her feet, supported by Leo’s arm.
“I do have eyes and I can see as much,” Miss Pickering said, flicking a critical glance over both of them. “I meant what are you doing in the graveyard. You’ll catch your death, sitting on the ground like that. Come now. I’ll take you back to the house and get you warmed up. But first, I need to take this greenery into the church. They’re meant to be decorating for Christmas.” She had an armful of ivy and holly.
“I can take those in for you, Miss Pickering,” Leo offered. “I think Wendy needs a nap.”
Wendy stuck her tongue out at him, but made her slightly tottering way out of the graveyard. Miss Pickering deposited the greenery into Leo’s arms and then narrowed her eyes. “I think it’s time for your holiday to end, Mr. Page.” Then she nodded her head once and then turned to follow Wendy toward the path that led to Little Briars.
His arms loaded with greenery, he went through the front door of the church, where he was immediately pounced upon by a middle-aged lady who divested him of the leaves. In exaggeratedly hushed whispers, she thanked him profusely before bustling off in the direction of what Leo assumed was the vestry or wherever they kept those enormous brass pots for flowers and such.
He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of lemon furniture polish and candle wax, but it struck him as incomplete. He had come to England as a child and had never really thought of himself as a Catholic, but it still struck him as vaguely debased that the churches here tended not to use incense. This, he supposed, was as close to a religious conviction as he was ever going to develop. He had no inclination to linger in this foreign, wrong-smelling house of worship, and was about to turn on his heel and leave when he spotted Sommers. He was sitting about ten pews back from the altar, by all appearances deep in thought or prayer. Leo could slip in beside him, flirt, and finagle an invitation to the doctor’s house later that night. On the other hand, every minute Leo spent with Sommers made it harder to see the case clearly. Or, no: he could see perfectly clearly, but he didn’t want to, because the picture that was starting to take shape in his mind was not at all something Sommers would like in the least bit.
He carefully picked a holly leaf off his coat. He’d smell like yuletide cheer for days and resented it bitterly. Maybe it was the Christmas scent, maybe it was the ecclesiastical surroundings, or maybe it was just the solid presence of the man in the pew a few yards away, but for a moment Leo wondered what it would be like in a world where he could fill his days with things that were good and sweet and uncomplicated. He’d like to spend a few days in bed with James, but also having tea and doing crosswords and whatever else people did when they weren’t Leo Page.
“I see you’ve come to examine the Three Hares from the inside,” Sommers said, having come up beside him while Leo was lost in thought.
Leo followed the other man’s gaze to the window on the wall behind the altar. It was three rabbits or hares, chasing one another in a circle, and arranged so that their three visible ears formed a sort of triangle in the center. You couldn’t tell which ears belonged to which hare. No, Leo thought, looking at the window with narrowed eyes, that wasn’t it at all. Each hare had two ears, but it shared an ear with each of its neighbors. If you thought about it too long you were liable to have your eyes cross. He had seen this sort of optical illusion before. In the southeast of England, they were called Tinners’ Rabbits for some reason, but they turned up in churches in parts of France and Germany, too, and Leo had a dim memory of something similar on the wall of the church the sisters had brought the orphans to three times a week.
“Why three?” Leo asked, struck by the thought. “You could do the same trick with ten rabbits. Or even with two.”
“Past, present, and future. The holy trinity. Rebirth. Salvation.” He sounded almost wistful.
Leo rather thought it was dismal, this endless circle, but far be it from him to piss on another man’s comfort.
“I need to ask you something,” Leo started, then shook his head. He wasn’t going to question Sommers. Any answer Sommers could give, Page could find out from another source, and asking him would only create an opportunity for lies. And when Page looked back on this case, he didn’t want to remember that he had made James Sommers lie. “Can I buy you dinner? Is there anywhere to eat other than the Rising Sun?” It was too many questions all at once, a sure sign of nervousness, and Leo wanted to kick himself.
James opened his mouth and snapped it shut, then ran his hands through his hair. It was as if they were having a nervous habit contest. “The Rising Sun is fine.”
JAMES HAD NEVER BEEN a reckless child. Other boys had gotten up to trouble, but whenever James thought about what fun he might have sneaking out after dark or stealing ripe fruit from the neighbor’s orchard, he weighed it against the inconvenience it would cau
se his uncle. His increasingly infrequent letters from his mother always pointedly reminded him of the great kindness his uncle had bestowed on him by taking him in, and James had never let himself forget it. His uncle never said a word about it, and sometimes even seemed to enjoy having James about, but James had heard the whispers in the village: the vicar was such a good man, such a kind man, to do his duty by the son of his unfortunate nephew. And James figured that if Uncle Henry wanted James to spend a summer’s day cataloging his index instead of frolicking with the other lads, the least James could do was oblige him.
Now, sitting across a table from Leo Page, he felt the same sense of guilty anticipation he might have had as an adventurous boy. He tried to remind himself that it was a terrible idea to let himself care for a man like Page, if for no other reason than that Page would soon be leaving. But as he looked at Page, he felt like a man slipping in and out of a dream, in and out of a world where Page belonged here, with him.
As they ate, Page heartily digging into a pork pie and James distractedly picking at his own, no fewer than six people greeted Page by name.
“You work fast,” James remarked. He meant it as a commentary on Page’s charm, and only realized after the words had left his mouth that wheedling his way into people’s lives was indeed Page’s work. He felt his cheeks heat, but Page gave him a half smile and raised his glass.
“I’m irresistible,” Page said, and James felt his cheeks heat even more.
“Who do you think did it?” he asked, then watched as Page’s face shifted into a cautious mask. It had been the wrong thing to say. Any hope of easy flirtation was quite gone now.
“James,” Page said, and it was the first time either of them had used first names. James might have liked it more if it had happened a few minutes earlier. “It had to have been someone at that dinner party. Armstrong or his secretary. Wendy. The vicar or his wife. The two old ladies. The housemaid. That’s eight people. The simplest explanation is that Mrs. Hoggett found something out about one of them and needed to be silenced.”
Hither Page (Page & Sommers Book 1) Page 11
