A Bitter Truth

Chapter Eight

Not a minute later, I saw Constable Bates step out on the narrow terrace above the knot garden and scan it. He may have seen Lydia come through the house this way, but there was no sign of her now. I watched him debate whether to go through the garden and search the stand of trees, but after looking at them carefully from his vantage point, he must have decided that she wouldn’t be so foolish as to wait there for him to surprise her, and in the end he turned back into the house, and I could hear the distant slam of the door.

It was then that I noticed Roger Ellis waiting in the shadow of a tall shrub-a rhododendron, I thought, with those long, leathery evergreen leaves. When he was certain that the constable wasn’t playing a game to draw Lydia out, he himself went down the path between the beds, heading for the trees.

I watched tensely, uncertain how this confrontation would end. I could hear nothing, but I saw Roger Ellis halt abruptly as he pushed aside the boughs guarding the end of the path, and then he disappeared among them.

Braced for anything, including violence, I waited. Finally, Lydia reappeared, and even from my window, I could see that she was crying. Her husband didn’t follow her straightaway, but when he did step out from the sanctuary of the trees, his face was set, and he looked like a man who would like very much to break something.

Whatever had happened, I thought, the breach in the marriage had not been healed.

I was still sitting there when there was a soft tap at my door. On the heels of it, Lydia walked in. She had stopped somewhere long enough to wash her face, but her eyes were red rimmed and swollen.

“Bess?” she said tentatively, and my first thought was, She wants something from me.

“Are you all right, Lydia?” I asked, rising from my chair. “How is your head? Is it aching?”

“No. Yes. The police want to speak to me, and I can’t let them see me like this.” She wiped her eyes angrily, as if commanding them to stop betraying her. “Gran says they believe I had an affair with George. Of all people.”

“Come in. I’ll put a cool cloth across your eyes. It will help. As for the police, I shouldn’t worry. They like to probe, hoping to find a weakness. If you don’t respond, they move on to the next question.”

Half reclining in the other chair, she turned her face up to allow me to set the cloth across her eyes. “How is the dizziness? And the headache?”

Ignoring me, she said, “I’ve just told Roger he can sue for divorce, if he chooses. I shall have to find lodgings in London until I can decide what to do, or he leaves for France. That’s to say, if Mama Ellis will have me back again. I can’t face the questions if I go home to Suffolk. It’s too mortifying. Do you suppose your Mrs. Hennessey will know of someone who will take me in?”

“I’ll most certainly ask Mrs. Hennessey,” I said after a moment. “Lydia. Are you sure this is the best thing to do?”

She snatched the cloth from her face and turned to gaze at me with furious eyes.

Before she could say what was already burning the tip of her tongue, I added without inflection, “How will you live? Has your husband agreed to support you while the divorce goes forward?”

It hadn’t occurred to her. She had always been someone’s daughter and then someone’s wife. She hadn’t had to fend for herself, and to my knowledge she had no skills that would allow her to earn a living.

Pulling the cloth back in place she said, “I have some money of my own. I have no idea whether it’s sufficient or not. You’re right. I’ve never had to think about food or clothing or a roof over my head.” After a moment, she added, “I could train as a nurse.”

I changed the cloth for a fresh one. “It’s very difficult in the beginning. Sometimes it’s very hard to persevere when you’re tired and there is more work to do than you can bear to think about.”

With a sigh she considered her future. The reality of her position was beginning to sink in. She was prone, I thought, to impetuous decisions, without regard to the practicality of the impulse she was following. Such as her haste to leave this morning. And fleeing to London in the first place.

Had killing George also been an impetuous act, born out of her hurt, her anger? No, I wasn’t prepared to believe that. He hadn’t betrayed her-Roger had.

But that brought me full circle to Roger Ellis, whose motive for killing George could have been to silence him before he’d destroyed Roger’s marriage completely. If he had acted, then it had been in vain.

After a while, Lydia sat up, handed me the cloth, and said, “I suppose I ought to get the interview over with. What did they ask you?”

“To describe the weekend. And when I’d last seen Lieutenant Hughes.”

“Did you-were there any questions about the little girl in France?”

“I didn’t feel it was my place to bring her up. And I rather think no one else has.”

“Dr. Tilton will. Wait and see.” Her voice was bitter.

I said nothing. After a moment she asked, “You’ll be going back to France soon, won’t you?”

“Yes, I expect I shall. But my orders haven’t come through yet.” I thought she might be suggesting she could stay in my flat while I was away, and I was about to tell her that there were my flatmates to consider. But I’d misread her.

“I don’t think they’ll let me go across to France. I’m not a nurse, I have no useful skills. But you could search for this child, couldn’t you? I want to find her. I want to see her for myself. I want to be sure she’s safe.”

“There are my duties-I can’t go wherever I like.”

“No, I understand. But there must be lulls in the fighting, when you could find an excuse to search? Please? I have to know .”

“Lieutenant Hughes might well have imagined the resemblance. Have you thought of that?” I suggested to distract her.

“I’ve thought of every conceivable possibility,” she said tiredly. “I’m so sorry to ask this of you, after all you’ve done. I intended to ask George, but he’s dead. And Henry will side with Roger. There’s no one else, is there?”

When I didn’t say anything straightaway, she added, “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. If he’s refused to acknowledge her, or search for her, then she’s at risk. For all I know, he hopes she won’t survive. A child that young? Why else would he leave her to the charity of strangers?”

“I can’t believe that he could be so callous. Think about it, if she looks like Juliana-”

“All the more reason to shun her. You don’t understand, he doesn’t want a reminder of her. If it weren’t for his mother, he’d move that portrait out of the drawing room and up to the attics where he doesn’t have to see it.”

“All right,” I answered her reluctantly. “I’ll do what I can. But I won’t make any promises, Lydia. And you mustn’t expect miracles.”

Ignoring that, she said, “And you’ll keep in touch, so that I won’t make myself ill worrying about what’s happening? I trust you, Bess.” She crossed to the door.

“Even if I find her, Lydia, what then? You have no claim on her.”

“If Roger dies,” she said starkly, “this child will be all that’s left of him.”

Thanking me for the cool cloths, she added, “I must go while I still have the courage to face this Constable Bates. He frightens me. I saw him arrive-I thought he was going to follow me into the trees when I fled to the garden. He won’t quit, Bess. He’s like a terrier, digging, digging, digging, until he gets what he’s after.”

“He’s only a man with a very unpleasant job to do. Think of him that way.”

“I’ll try,” she answered doubtfully and was gone.

I stood where I was in the middle of the room, wondering how in God’s name I was to keep my promise. Still, by the time I returned to France, she could very well have changed her mind. It wouldn’t surprise me.

We were preparing to go into dinner when the constable sent Daisy to ask me to return to the library. I found Inspector Rother with my statement in his hands.

With a sense of foreboding, I sat down in the chair he indicated.

“You haven’t been truthful with me,” he began.

“On the contrary,” I replied, refusing to let him intimidate me. “I gave you the truth as I saw it.”

“Hmmm.” He sat there, perusing what I’d written, as if he’d never seen it before. Which was patently not the case, if he’d already found fault with it.

I had dealt with matrons in hospital wards in England and in France. Inspector Rother held no terrors for me. But he obviously found this method useful in frightening suspects into blurting out whatever was causing them to feel guilty.

After a moment he set the sheet aside.

“You didn’t tell me that Mrs. Lydia Ellis left the premises early this morning, before most of the family was awake.”

“She did?” I asked, surprised. Where on earth had she gone? Not, I prayed, to the church at Wych Gate.

“She was seen as she bicycled into Hartfield. A shopkeeper was washing his windows and noticed her.”

“Then you must ask her where she was going and why.”

“You didn’t sleep in your own bed last night.”

“No. Mrs. Ellis wasn’t feeling well and she slept in my room. She has a mild concussion, headaches and dizziness.”

“She cried herself to sleep there, according to what I’ve discovered. Why?”

I remembered that someone had already been questioned about a love affair between Lydia and George Hughes. Was he suggesting that she had a broken heart, and that this was a motive for murder?

“I’m not privy to her affairs. Ask her.”

“And you slept in the sitting room. After your assignation with the deceased.”

“There was no meeting,” I told him flatly. “The man came there in search of the brandy decanter.”

“Why look in the sitting room for his brandy? Why not in the drawing room?”

Because the portrait was in the drawing room, I wanted to answer, and didn’t.

“I expect only the deceased can tell you why he chose the sitting room. He was embarrassed to find me in possession of it, and retreated.”

“So you say. I can’t help but wonder if this-encounter-wasn’t the reason Mrs. Lydia Ellis was in tears, and why in the early hours of the morning, she felt it necessary to bicycle into Hartfield, rather than take one of the family motorcars. Noisy things, motorcars.”

“I think,” I said, “if she had been angry with me for speaking to Lieutenant Hughes, she wouldn’t have chosen my room to sleep in.”

“She fell asleep there, perhaps, while waiting for you to come up to your bed. And, of course, you didn’t. She must have found it distressing to face you this morning.”

He had twisted events around to suit himself, using the bits he’d culled from our conversations with him to make his accusations hurtful.

Taking a deep breath, I said, “If she believed I’d taken her place with her lover, I wonder why she felt comfortable returning to London with me?”

A sour expression crossed his face. Touché, I thought.

“Let us return to her decision to go into Hartfield,” he said after a moment.

“As I knew nothing about it,” I said, “I can’t be of help there.”

“We believe she went to call on a Mr. Merrit, in Bluebell Cottage.” Something in my face must have betrayed me. He smiled. “You know of Mr. Merrit?”

“Actually I do. When I was in Hartfield with Mr. Ellis, he almost stepped out in front of our motorcar. I believe he’s blind.”

“As to that, I’m told he can tell night from day.”

“I wasn’t aware of the extent of his blindness.”

“Why would she call on him, at such an hour on a Saturday morning?”

“You’re asking me to speculate,” I said. “I don’t know.”

He dismissed me then, and all eyes were turned toward me as I returned to the dining room. Everyone was just finishing their soup, and I sat down without a word, smiling at Daisy as she brought my serving from the kitchen and set it before me.

I couldn’t have said, under oath, what kind of soup it was. Parsnip pureed with apples?

Roger Ellis finally demanded, “What did Rother want?”

“He asked me several questions about my earlier statement.”

Lydia looked up from her soup, then looked away again. She knows, I thought.

“And that was all?”

I said, “I think it was a fishing expedition.”

“Fishing?” Mrs. Ellis repeated, alarm in her voice.

“He was hoping I might contradict myself.”

I could almost feel what they were thinking-that I was an unknown quantity, a guest about whom almost nothing was known. Could they trust me? Or not?

What did I have to hide?

At the same time I was wondering if Inspector Rother wanted me to return to the family dinner table and blurt out all he’d discussed with me. He must have a very low regard for women! Besides, I was trained to keep patient information private, and I wasn’t about to cause troubles in this already troubled family just so Inspector Rother could judge what effect my words had.

We ate in silence after that, and it wasn’t until the savory had been brought in that Roger said, “You’re a nurse. Surely you can tell us how George died.”

“I didn’t examine him,” I replied. “I touched his hand, and I knew then that he was beyond my help. That was all I did. It was necessary for Dr. Tilton to pronounce him dead.” I hadn’t seen the blood matting his dark hair, where he’d been struck from behind. The back of his head had been turned away from me, and I’d tried not to muddle any evidence by moving the body.

“Who is the Simon Brandon who came here this afternoon to call on you?”

“A family friend,” I explained once more. “He served in my father’s regiment. He brought the formal dresses I needed for this weekend and has come back to take me to Somerset when I’m free to leave.”

“Yes, and that’s as it should be,” Gran put in. “A young woman oughtn’t to be traveling about the countryside alone. In my day, it simply wasn’t done.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lydia flush with annoyance, knowing full well that the elder Mrs. Ellis was speaking to her.

We left the dining room and went our separate ways. No one seemed to be in the mood for company. I went up to my room to fetch my coat, and on the way down the stairs again, I encountered Inspector Rother. He gave me a cool nod in passing.

I ran Lydia to earth, finally, in the room above the hall.

It was very much like Aladdin’s cave, mostly furnished with silk cushions scattered about the floor on a beautiful old Turkey carpet. Low tables stood here and there. I wondered if the original furnishings had been burned in Matthew Ellis’s angry rampage in denial of his daughter’s death.

Lydia had half started to her feet when I knocked and then opened the door. “Oh,” she said and settled back amongst the cushions.

“You didn’t tell me that you’d been to Hartfield early this morning.”

A guilty flush rose in her cheeks. “How did you know? Did you see me leave? Have you told the police?”

“It was the police who told me. Apparently someone in Hartfield noticed you bicycling in at that ungodly hour. The police are going to ask you about it. And they’ll ask the rest of the family, I’m afraid.”

“Busybody,” she said tartly. “I’m sure it was Dr. Tilton. All right, yes, I went to see Davis. I told him what George had said. I wanted to know what he thought. He’s a man, he ought to know how men think.”

“And?”

“It was his opinion that there must be a child. Otherwise it wouldn’t have been preying on poor George’s mind to the point that he finally spoke, there in the drawing room. And looking back, I’m convinced that Roger was avoiding him. Except when he had to go with George to remove that nonexistent tree. At that point George was probably too mortified to bring up France.”

“This wasn’t a very good idea,” I told her. “If you’d needed advice, there was Henry.”

“Yes, well, Henry is married to Margaret. There’s no one Davis is likely to tell, is there? I nearly got away with it too.”

“That’s not the point,” I said. “You compromised yourself as well as Davis Merrit.”

She shook her head. “It’s George’s fault, when you come right down to it. I do wish I could ask Davis his opinion about this claim of murder. He knew George. Not well, but apparently they’ve met before.” Shivering, she added, “I’ve never met a murderer. I don’t even know what to look for. It can’t be anyone we know. George must have other enemies. Surely.”

I thought it was all too likely to be someone she knew.

Night had fallen, sunset coming in late afternoon at this time of year. Outside the windows it was dark, and I could almost imagine the heath inching toward the house, eating away slowly at this pitiful attempt to keep it at bay.

I went to the windows and stood there, the lamplight at my back. Clouds were racing across the sky, hiding the stars, and there was no light to be seen anywhere. Even in the countryside in Somerset we could see a distant lamp lit in the house down the road from ours, or in another direction, from Simon’s cottage. Here there was no sign of life, no hint of civilization. Only the stark blackness of a wild place.

And then I nearly cried out in alarm, for there was a face in the spill of light from these windows, illuminating the drive just below me. My heart was racing with shock even as I told myself it was another of Inspector Rother’s constables, set to watch the door and prevent our leaving. And then I realized that it was Simon, looking up at me.

He must have seen me at the window before he reached the door.

Turning, I told Lydia that I ought to go, then hurried down the stairs. There was no one in the great hall as I walked through it. Opening the door as quietly as possible, I slipped through.

“I left my horse down the lane,” Simon told me in a low voice that didn’t carry. “I need to speak to you.”

I stepped into a cold wind and shut the door softly behind me. We walked out of the circle of light from the tall windows above the hall and into the darkness. I reached out to take Simon’s arm. The black shapes of the stunted bushes on the heath looked like beasts crouched there, waiting. I was learning to appreciate why Lydia found winter here so very distressful. In the daylight I’d thought I understood. But out here in the night, I knew what fear was and was grateful for the touch of another human being.

Simon didn’t speak until we were well out of hearing. He seemed to be able to see in the dark, something I’d noticed before. We walked toward the lane that led from the track, and something loomed above me, catching me off guard.

It was his horse, snorting as we came within reach, and I put out a hand to touch the soft, warm muzzle. It nuzzled my hand in return, and then blew.

Simon told me, “There have been developments. Rother has brought in constables from all over Sussex to help search. One of his own men, a Constable Bates from Wych Gate, saw a beggar in Hartfield with a gold watch. He was showing it to the ironmonger at the time, like a child with a new toy. The constable stepped in and asked to look at the watch. Opening the case, he saw the name inscribed inside. It was Malcolm Hughes-apparently he was the victim’s late brother.”

“Yes, he was killed in the war.”

“The constable asked who had given this watch to the beggar, and he answered that it was a friend.”

“A friend?” I knew what was coming.

“One Davis Merrit. The police are looking for him. He wasn’t at his house, and no one is certain just where he might have gone-”

“He’s blind,” I said. “He couldn’t have gone far. Not on his own.”

“The train stops nearby,” he reminded me.

“Yes. I know. Do you think they’ll arrest him? Merrit? When they find him?”

“It’s likely. The police hadn’t thought the body had been robbed. The man’s purse hadn’t been taken, for one thing, and there was a signet ring on one finger. It appears now that the watch was removed.”

“Why? I mean, if it’s so easily identified, why take it, then give it to someone who can’t be relied upon to conceal where it came from?”

“A good question. Did Lydia Ellis tell Davis what had transpired last evening? There’s talk that she came into Hartfield very early this morning.”

“About the child? Yes. She told him about that and asked what he thought about it. He rather believed that there must be something to the story. But of course that was before anyone knew of the murder.”

“And Hughes told you where to find this child.”

“Yes, I told you. Apparently he’d seen her at an orphanage run by nuns.”

“Which puts you in danger. Who else knew that he could have confided in you?”

“I’ve tried to keep that to myself, Simon, but bits are leaking out. For instance that I was still in my evening gown this morning. I think Daisy let that slip. And the fact that Lydia was asleep in my room. That could be Gran, but it could also be that Inspector Rother is very good at putting two and two together. Eleanor, Alan Ellis’s widow, seems to be distancing herself from what’s happening. I hardly ever see her or her brother, but they had no reason to kill Lieutenant Hughes, did they? I don’t know what Dr. Tilton or his wife have told the police, nor Janet Smyth and her brother, the rector. And now this business about the watch. I really don’t know what to think any longer.”

“It could have nothing to do with the child. You realize that.”

I was standing next to the mare, warmed by her body, and Simon was between me and the wind sweeping across the flat, featureless heath.

“Then what is it about?” I asked. “I can’t imagine that Roger Ellis, for one, would kill George Hughes just to see Davis Merrit taken up for murder!”

I could glimpse his smile. “Stranger things have happened.”

Shivering, I said, “I’ll be glad when I can leave here. And Lydia wants to return to London-”

Simon’s gloved hand covered my mouth. I heard it then, someone coming up the lane toward the house. I nodded, letting him know I had heard it as well.

He pulled the mare into the deeper darkness of stunted trees, and covered her nose. I followed him, standing close, grateful for my dark coat.

It was a constable, I could see his helmet as he bicycled furiously up toward the house, breathing hard in the cold air, little puffs visible in tempo with the energy he was expending.

He dismounted as he reached the door and lifting the knocker, gave it an almighty whack against the plate.

The door opened shortly thereafter, and I heard Daisy’s voice, followed by the constable’s.

She left him there, and very shortly Inspector Rother came to the door.

“What is it?” he asked sharply, his words carrying on the night air.

The constable leaned forward, lowering his voice.

Rother said, “Damn.” Quite clearly. Then he turned on his heel and was gone for a good five minutes. When he returned, it was with his coat, and he was giving orders to the constable to lash his bicycle to the boot of the Inspector’s motorcar.

It was done, and then the two men were driving toward us, the headlamps of their motorcar sweeping the lawns as they turned into the lane.

Simon swore, moving the mare deeper into the trees, turning his face away from the light, and I did the same.

The motorcar came surging down the lane, much too fast, and I heard the constable’s voice earnestly answering questions that Inspector Rother flung at him almost faster than the man could make a sensible reply. And then they were out of hearing, and soon enough out of sight, even the red rear lamp no longer visible.

“I think,” Simon said quietly, “the Inspector has just learned about the pocket watch.”

I thought about that. “But who could have given it to the beggar? We’ve all been here since the police arrived. Except for Roger Ellis. And-me. When I called my father.”

Had the watch been in George’s pocket when he was killed? If so, the only reason for taking it was to incriminate someone.

“The question is, is the beggar telling the truth? Does he even understand what the truth is? Or remember what actually happened?” Simon paced restlessly.

I smiled. “The good Inspector is about to find out.”

Suppressing an answering smile, he said, “Go back inside. The cold is making you giddy. But, Bess. Watch yourself. You have no way of knowing who can be trusted.”

He walked me back to the house, and I was grateful to find that the door had not been locked. I could slip in unnoticed.

Simon waited until I was safely inside before walking away.

I had a sudden desire to see Juliana’s portrait again, and went to the drawing room. I had just put my hand on the knob when I heard voices.

No, one voice. Gran’s. And she must have been speaking to the portrait on the wall.

“… Who is that other child? I wish you could tell me. I wish the dead could speak. If only you’d lived, my darling…”

I didn’t catch the next sentences. Gran’s voice had cracked, and I thought she must be crying. And then she said more clearly, “Has he sent you back again? Dear God, I’d like to believe that. Before I die…”

I released the handle gingerly, trying not to make a sound, and stepped carefully away from the door. She wouldn’t thank me for eavesdropping.

I went up the stairs to my room and shut the door.

It had been a very long day. I was afraid the next day, Sunday, would be even longer.