A Bitter Truth

Chapter Nine

It was raining again when I awoke and looked toward my window. Raindrops were skittering down the panes, and I could hear them whispering as the wind pushed them against the glass.

The fire had been banked for the night and the room was cold. It was too early for Daisy to make the rounds of rekindling them, and I got up to see to it myself. I soon had it beginning to take hold on the wood log that I added to the grate, and I stood there for a moment longer, rubbing my hands together.

Then I crossed to the window and looked out. It must have been raining for some time, because I could see little puddles in the knot garden where the earth was bare.

It was Sunday, but I doubted that anyone from the family would choose to attend morning service. I was just as glad. We’d be stared at, and people would whisper behind their hands.

To my surprise, when I went down to breakfast an hour later, I discovered that Roger Ellis was indeed intending to go to the early service.

“With the police badgering us at every turn,” he was saying to his grandmother, “we’ve lost sight of the fact that a friend, a guest in our house, is dead. It isn’t our fault that the police are here, and we’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. We’re going to morning service to prove it.”

“You’ll merely fan the fires of curiosity.”

“Every time the police come to Vixen Hill, there’s gossip.”

Eleanor said, “Please, Roger, I don’t think I could face it.”

“You’re excused, then,” he said shortly. “You’re in mourning.”

“If you insist on this foolishness, you must take Lydia with you,” Gran went on. “And your mother. Miss Crawford as well, if she’s willing.”

He grimaced. “Lydia and I have nothing to say to each other.”

“Then pretend. For the sake of the family,” she answered shortly.

“And you? Will you go for the sake of the family?” Roger Ellis asked, a sour note slipping into his voice.

“I’m staying home with dearest Eleanor and her brother. No one will wonder at that.”

Captain Ellis turned to me. “Good morning, Miss Crawford. Are you attending services with us this morning?”

“I shall, if you like.” I could hardly say no, having heard the rest of the discussion. And I could see that it was wise, after all.

“Shall you do what?” his mother asked me as she came into the dining room.

“Attend morning services.”

Her gaze moved on to her son. “Is it a good idea, do you think, Roger?”

“We’ll have to face them down sometime.”

“Yes, that’s true. All right, I’ll come. Where’s Lydia? She should accompany us as well.”

And so it was decided, although still Gran flatly refused to set foot outside the house. We finished our breakfast and went up to change. The rain was coming down all the harder, and our umbrellas made a bobbing black brigade to the motorcars that had been brought around.

Roger looked up as his wife stepped out to join us. I don’t know who had persuaded her to come, but I suspected it was Mrs. Ellis. She was wearing a lovely black hat with a long veil she had pulled down to her chin.

“You’re not to wear that veil,” he told her. “You’ll have people thinking you’re in mourning for Hughes, for God’s sake.”

“What will they think when they see the bruise on my face?” she retorted.

“Yes, well, you didn’t seem to mind that when you went yesterday into Hartfield.”

She stared at him, and then turned to me. “Did you tell him?”

“No,” I said. “I expect it was the police.”

Angry, she flung back her veil.

Mrs. Ellis said, “We’re getting wet through. Lydia, come with me. Miss Crawford, you will ride with Roger, if you don’t mind.”

We were sorted out in no time, and on our way to the church in Wych Gate.

We left the motorcars along the road and joined the rest of the congregation as it moved toward the west doors. Even so, I could see the trees that overhung the grassy dell and the path where George Hughes had been found.

The church was rather full, in spite of the rain, and those who hadn’t yet taken a seat parted to let the Ellis family pass. Some greeted Roger or his mother by name, and others simply stared. Roger kept us moving, shepherding us toward the seats still vacant in front. The choir was singing, but those who could see us were looking at us rather than at the notes on the pages of their hymnals. The organ came to a crescendo, and there was a sudden silence, which caught a few people off guard, their whispers loud behind us.

“… face,” a woman’s voice was saying, and another was commenting, “… the dead man’s nurse.” Someone else, louder than the others, as if he were slightly deaf, remarked, “… police have no idea,” as if answering someone else’s question.

Lydia, her cheeks pink, stared straight ahead while Roger’s lips were set in a straight line. I saw Mrs. Ellis put her gloved hand on her son’s arm, and the tension around his mouth lessened.

The church seemed a more cheerful place this morning than it had the day before, despite the rain. Candles brightened the gloom, and the congregation contributed a little warmth. Still, I couldn’t help remembering walking down the aisle, into the choir, and then back again, while Mrs. Ellis’s footsteps echoed in the organ loft.

The rector, mounting the steps to the pulpit, seemed not to know how to face us. I saw him glance at his sister, and then clear his throat before beginning the service.

All went well until he returned to the pulpit for his morning homily.

It was an unfortunate choice of message. Preparing for the approach of Christmas, the sermon dealt with the expected birth of a special child, and by extension the lives of children who faced the holidays without a father to care for and protect them, either because they were among the dead or still serving at the Front or on the high seas. It was well intended-I was all too aware of the long lists of casualties and the fact that each one represented a family in mourning for a father, a son, a brother, a husband. It would be a bleak Christmas for them, and Mr. Smyth was pointing to the need in his own parish to see that the widows and orphans were remembered with gifts of food and clothing and above all sympathy for their loss.

Ordinarily it would have been received in the spirit in which it was intended.

Instead the words seemed to echo around the stone walls, loud in our ears as we listened. Captain Ellis’s long fingers drummed a tattoo on the knee of his trousers, and Lydia kept her eyes on the stained glass windows in the choir, their colors muted by the cloudy day. Mrs. Ellis was biting her lip to keep herself from fidgeting, and Janet Smyth, the rector’s sister, looked stricken.

It was clear that the rector had not expected the Ellis family to attend morning services, and his prepared remarks and the choice of hymns must have seemed innocuous enough. But he had been there on the evening Lieutenant Hughes had brought up the missing child, and he could not pretend otherwise. “What Child Is This,” sung by the choir, was the final blow.

I looked across to where the doctor and his wife were seated, and I could see that they too were feeling some distress. For themselves or for the rector or for the Ellis family, I didn’t know.

Finally the ordeal was over and we could rise and walk out of the church. And standing at the main gate where the motorcars had been parked, was Inspector Rother, looking like the wrath of God. I found myself thinking that at any moment he would storm the church doors and brand us all as heathen murderers and heretics.

As it was, I was a little ahead of the family and I happened to see him first, just as the rector quickly shook my hand and murmured a few words, as if eager to get his duty over with before someone brought up his sermon. Roger Ellis simply nodded briefly, ignoring the rector’s outstretched hand, which Mrs. Ellis took in her son’s stead and wished Mr. Smyth a good morning. Roger had just retrieved his umbrella from the stand and was about to open it when he saw Inspector Rother.

There was the briefest of hesitations, and then he handed the opened umbrella to his mother, and picked up another to share with his wife. With that, he moved toward the gate, as if nothing had happened. Lydia, huddled under his umbrella, trying not to touch him, stumbled and then recovered her balance. He took her arm and tucked it beneath his, for all the world the loving husband. Lydia glanced at him but had the presence of mind not to pull away. Mrs. Ellis, sharing her umbrella with me, said something under her breath that sounded like a prayer as we neared the gates, her arm tense in mine as she watched to see whether the Inspector was intent on stopping her son.

But Inspector Rother let us pass without a glance. It was clear that he had someone else in mind, and looking back over my shoulder, I saw him stop Janet Smyth as she came out of the church, drawing her to one side, out of hearing of those still leaving the service.

I could also see her face turn pink and the curious stares of her brother and everyone else.

Just beyond them, in my line of sight, was the white marble statue of the kneeling child.

She looked cold and lonely in the winter rain.

Roger Ellis said as he began to turn the motorcar back toward Vixen Hill, “The fool should have had the decency to change his sermon.”

“I expect he didn’t have another one prepared.”

Ignoring my answer, he said, “And what does Rother want with Janet Smyth? She hardly spoke two words to George that whole evening.”

“Still, she was there-”

“What angers me most,” he went on as he slowed to make his way through a flock of sheep barring the road, “is that he should show his face at St. Mary’s, just as the service was finished. Taunting us, that’s what he was doing. He could always find Janet at the Rectory.”

But I thought Inspector Rother had something on his mind, and he wasn’t the sort of man to stand still when he was on the scent. It made him all the more worrying, even to those of us without a guilty conscience. But why indeed had he come?

I had looked for Simon at St. Mary’s, thinking he would take the chance of speaking to me. But he wasn’t there, and I didn’t know if it was because he didn’t expect us to attend, or if something had come up.

The same something that was on Inspector Rother’s mind?

We had turned into the lane that led to the house, the distances seeming shorter as I grew accustomed to them. Still, if I had been George Hughes, I wouldn’t have wished to walk to the church.

Had he gone of his own volition, to avoid having to face Roger Ellis at breakfast? To see Juliana’s grave? Or had he gone with someone-been asked to meet someone there?

Suddenly, in my mind’s eye, I saw Mrs. Ellis pausing to set the marble kitten back in its proper place by her daughter’s outstretched marble fingers.

Had that lovely bit of stone been the murder weapon that the police-so far as I knew-failed to find? The way the kitten sat on its haunches, it would fit in the hand well, and it was solid enough to knock a victim unconscious, and possibly even kill him.

We had arrived at the door, and Roger Ellis switched off the motor before going to help his mother descend from the other vehicle. I opened my umbrella, preparing to hold it over Mrs. Ellis’s hat. As I did, something white fluttered past my hand, caught first by the wind and then beaten to the ground by the rain.

I stooped and picked it up, mostly my nurse’s sense of tidiness. And then I realized there was writing on it.

Damp as it was, I quickly stuffed it into the glove on my left hand and took Mrs. Ellis’s arm as Daisy held the door wide for us to hurry through.

We went our separate ways to change out of our wet coats, and in my room I carefully removed my gloves, setting them on the chest by the door.

The scrap of wet paper lay in my palm.

A message from Simon? I thought it might well be, but how did he know which umbrella I was using? And where had he been, because I hadn’t seen him?

Unfolding the limp square of paper with care so as not to tear it, I saw that the ink had begun to run from its exposure to the rain.

I couldn’t make out the handwriting, much less the two words.

eet m

Meet me?

When I held it under the bright lamplight, I thought I was probably right about that. The missing M and the missing e were so faint I had to squint to make them out.

If it wasn’t Simon-then who had sent that message?

Was it for Lydia? And if it was for Lydia, what should I do now? Say nothing? Or take it to her?

The question was answered by a tap at my door, and Lydia walked in.

“I’ve never been so mortified in my entire life,” she said, going to the fire and holding out her hands, as if chilled to the bone. But I thought it wasn’t a chilling from the winter cold. “I should never have let Roger persuade me to go. Everyone- everyone! -stared at me as if I had two heads, wondering how I came by this bruise. And then the rector’s sermon was inexcusable. And I could hardly believe it when Inspector Rother arrived.”

“The sermon was probably written several days before he dined here.”

“Well, then, have the good sense, and the good manners, to change it. He saw us sitting there.”

“He was as uncomfortable as you were.”

“It was a mistake to go. What’s that in your hand?”

I was still holding the scrap of paper. “I’m not sure,” I began, but she came quickly across the room to where I was standing by the lamp, holding out her hand.

“Where did it come from? Was it here, in the house? Surely not-”

“It was in the umbrella Mrs. Ellis and I were using. I don’t know why it hadn’t fallen out before. But as I was opening it again when we arrived at the door, it must have shaken loose.”

She took it from me. “The ink has run. Can you read it?” She peered at the letters, sounding them out. “Meet me. Is that what it says? Who wrote it?”

“I don’t have any idea.”

“Then it must have been for me. Davis? Was he in church, do you know?”

“I didn’t see him. But he could have been there,” I said doubtfully. Simon had told me that the police were interested in speaking to him, and he had disappeared.

Was that why he wanted to meet Lydia? To tell her what had happened? But then why not tell her where this meeting should take place?

Unless of course she knew already.

She began to pace. “I must go into Hartfield. If this is from Davis, he must know something-heard something the police haven’t told us yet. You must want to leave here as much as I do. And it’s my fault, really, that you’re here. Help me do something to free both of us.”

She was persuasive, but I shook my head. “Um-you don’t want to draw him into this inquiry. You’ve done enough harm already, seeing him yesterday morning.” I couldn’t tell her he was under suspicion without giving Simon away.

“If you asked to go in to The King’s Head to speak to Simon Brandon, I could go to show you the way. You wouldn’t care to be lost on the roads around the Forest, would you?”

I refused outright to be a party to such foolishness. But when she finally threatened to go alone, even in the rain and on her bicycle, I relented, against my better judgment.

And if Davis wasn’t at the cottage, then she wouldn’t see him anyway.

When I asked Mrs. Ellis for the use of one of the motorcars, she said, “Lunch will be served in a very few minutes. Afterward, I’ll be very happy to go with you.”

I couldn’t argue that Lydia ought to be the one accompanying me.

Lydia, waiting in my room, turned anxiously toward the door as I came in. “What did she say?”

“She asked me to wait until after lunch.”

Relief washed over her face before I could add, “Lydia. She suggested that she go with me. I didn’t know what to say.”

The relief vanished. “No, I was supposed to go. Why didn’t you try to convince her that I should drive with you?”

“I was asking a favor. How could I press her?”

She turned and paced to the window. “We have to do something. Tell her-tell her you don’t wish to put her out, that she’ll want to spend the time with Margaret and Henry.”

“Wait until after lunch. Then I’ll see what I can do.”

“I should have asked her myself,” she said pacing back.

“I think,” I said slowly, remembering the way Roger’s mother had scanned my face, “she believes this is a ruse. That you’re still intending to leave for London.”

“Well, I’m not. Much as I’d be tempted to do just that. But I know the police would just find me and send me back, and that would be worse. Convince her if you can.”

In the end, we ate our meal in a stiff silence, and then the problem of Mrs. Ellis accompanying me was resolved when Inspector Rother arrived and asked to speak to her.

Lydia, almost giddy with relief, said, “Oh, thank God,” as she hurried out the door after me, and all but leapt into the motorcar.

I didn’t tell her that I’d had to promise Mrs. Ellis to bring her back with me.

“I trust you, Bess, to see that Lydia doesn’t do anything rash,” she’d said, lines of worry already etched deeply around her eyes.

I drove with care, not knowing the tracks, expecting sheep to block our progress around every bend, and remembering too George Hughes’s trouble with something in the road. But this time I came upon a line of cows moving stoically through the rain, as if they knew precisely where they were going and how long it would take to get there.

The rain had left deep puddles on the unmade road, and there were times when I could almost believe I was driving in France, we bounced and shuddered so ferociously.

We came into Hartfield in another shower of rain, and I made my way through the town toward the inn. I said, “You can hardly march up to Davis Merrit’s door and ask him if he sent you a note.”

Lydia had been quiet the last mile or so. “I don’t know. It seemed so easy at Vixen Hill. Do you see him walking along the street? It would seem natural if I got down and spoke to him then.”

“I haven’t seen him so far.”

She was craning to look first this way and then that. “If he did send a message, where do you think he meant for me to meet him?” She turned to me in alarm. “You don’t suppose he was waiting near the church, or in the churchyard?”

“Hardly there, in full view of the entire congregation, not to mention Roger,” I reminded her. “It would have attracted even more attention and gossip.”

“Yes, of course, you’re right.”

We could see the inn just ahead. “Would Simon go across and ask Davis to come to the inn? If you asked him?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Do you want me to knock on Davis Merrit’s door?”

She bit her lip, then shook her head. “No. He doesn’t know you. He might deny everything.”

“He doesn’t know Simon either,” I pointed out.

“But Simon’s a man. No one will think twice if he calls on Davis. Please, ask him, Bess.”

I left the motorcar in the inn yard, and we hurried into The King’s Head under our umbrellas, leaving them by the door as we stepped into Reception. I walked to the desk and asked if someone would kindly tell Mr. Brandon that Miss Crawford was here.

The young woman working on accounts looked up with a smile. “Certainly, Miss Crawford, I’ll send someone to his room.”

She suggested that I wait in a parlor just down a passage, and I thanked her. We opened the door to the small room. It was a little stuffy but otherwise quite pleasant, with windows overlooking the side street. It was furnished with comfortable chairs and a table for tea. I said to Lydia, “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“Yes. I’m here. There might not be another chance. We’re so isolated at Vixen Hill. I’ll go mad waiting.”

The door opened and Simon walked in. “I saw you drive up,” he said. “What’s happened?”

“That’s what we came to ask you,” Lydia said at once. “Inspector Rother was at St. Mary’s this morning. He wished to speak to Janet Smyth, the rector’s sister. Now he’s talking to my mother-in-law at Vixen Hill.”

“Is he?” He glanced at me. I couldn’t read the look. “I’ve tried to find out what the police are looking for. But even in the pubs, truth is thin on the ground, and gossip is feeding on itself.”

I took the scrap of paper from my pocket. “Did you write this?” I asked.

“No. Where did it come from?”

I told him about the umbrella. “Lydia thinks it might have come from Davis Merrit. She’d like to ask him. But it isn’t that easy. Could you step across to Bluebell Cottage and ask him to come to The King’s Head?”

Simon hesitated. Then to my surprise, he agreed.

“I’ll feel like such a fool if Davis didn’t send the message. But then who else could have?” Lydia asked.

“We’ll know soon enough.”

We sat down, and waited. The minutes crawled by. Lydia said, “What’s keeping Simon?”

“I don’t know.” Five more minutes passed. I was beginning to worry as well. Bluebell Cottage was just across the street from The King’s Head, a walk of no more than two minutes, even if Simon had had to stop for a funeral procession to pass by. “Wait here,” I said finally.

“No, don’t leave me, Bess!”

“I’m just walking to the door, to look out and see if Simon is at the cottage.”

Grudgingly, she let me go. But although I stepped out into the now mistng rain, there was no sign of Simon or Davis Merrit. I thought there was a lamp lit in the cottage, but I couldn’t even be sure of that, for the curtains were drawn, and it wasn’t yet dark enough for the lamplight to show clearly.

Simon and half the regiment could be in Bluebell Cottage and I had no way of telling. With a sigh, I turned and walked back into the inn and rejoined Lydia in the parlor.

She rose from her chair as I came through the door and shut it behind me. “Well?”

I said lightly, “If he’s in the cottage, I can’t tell. The curtains are drawn.”

“Then Davis must be talking to him. Why didn’t he come across to The King’s Head and speak to me himself? If he sent me that note, there must have been a reason.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t want to be seen speaking to you. I’m sure after your visit with him the other morning, the police questioned him.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

Another fifteen minutes passed before we heard Simon’s footsteps on the wooden floor outside the parlor, and then the door opened.

He said, shutting it behind him, “I couldn’t find Davis Merrit.”

Lydia said, rising, “He wasn’t in his house?”

Simon was choosing his words carefully. “No. I went up and down the street. The shops are closed, it’s Sunday after all.”

She turned to me. “I told you he could have been waiting at St. Mary’s. We must go back there straightaway.”

Simon quickly stepped between her and the door. “I don’t believe he’s at St. Mary’s, Mrs. Ellis. The police are searching for him as well.”

“For Davis? Dear God, just because I went to see him yesterday? No, you’re just trying to frighten me away because Bess doesn’t want me to see him!”

“Your visit will probably prove to be his motive for murder. But what they are curious about now is how he came by George Hughes’s watch.”

I was surprised by Simon’s tone of voice. Cold and blunt.

“Murder?” The muscles in her face tensed, making it look more like a mask than flesh and blood. “What watch?”

“It was actually his brother’s watch, I’m told. It turned up in the possession of a man the local people call Willy. He appeared in Hartfield one day, muddled and half starved. No one knows his real name or where he came from. He begs for coins, and people feed and clothe him out of kindness. No one knows where he sleeps. But during the day he’s on the street, waiting for someone to put a few coins into his hand.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve seen Willy on the streets, I know who he is.”

“Someone noticed that he was carrying a watch, rather an expensive one, and mentioned that to the police. When they examined the watch, they saw the name engraved on the reverse. When asked how he’d come by the watch, Willy told them it had been given to him by a friend. I don’t know how they persuaded him to identify this friend. But when they went to look for Davis Merrit, he was not in his cottage. He hasn’t been seen since.”

Lydia cried, “Surely they can’t believe-not Davis! How would he even find George? Or kill him?”

But I could see that she remembered telling me that George Hughes and Davis Merrit had met in France. She turned frantically to me. “Do the police-does anyone think that Davis killed George-for my sake? No, he would never do that.”

I said quietly, “You told me you didn’t love him. But perhaps-because of your kindnesses-he was in love with you.”

“I don’t believe you. And even if I did, why would Davis take George’s watch-and give it to Willy, of all people?”

“So that you would know what he’d done for you?”

She walked to the window, looking out at the side street. “This is Roger’s doing. It couldn’t be anyone else’s. He’s rid himself of George and of Davis as well.” She put out a hand, stroking the folds of the curtains, not even aware of what she was doing. But the smooth velvet must have been soothing. “I hope they hang him!”

“You don’t mean that,” I said sharply. “You don’t know the whole story. Neither do I. Or Simon.”

“It doesn’t matter. This is the only thing I can think of that would explain what has happened. Willy is lying. He has to be made to tell the truth.” She turned from the window. “Take me back to Vixen Hill, Bess.” There was a hardness in her face that hadn’t been there before. “Thank you, Simon. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”

She walked past him and out the door. “Are you coming, Bess?” she called anxiously over her shoulder.

“Yes, yes, in a moment.” I said to Simon, “Is that all you’ve been able to learn?”

“Inspector Rother has been busy ascertaining that Hughes had his watch at Vixen Hill. He spoke to someone at the church today, I’m told, who remembered seeing it. That must have been the rector’s sister. She has no reason to lie. Did you see it?”

“No. I don’t think I did. But I had no reason to notice it. Wait, yes, he had it that first evening, I think.”

“Then he must have had it with him when he was killed. It looks rather bleak for Merrit, doesn’t it? As does his disappearance. Mrs. Ellis is waiting, Bess, you should go.”

“Is there any possibility that Willy killed Hughes and Davis Merrit?”

“I doubt it. First of all there’s no motive that I can think of. And I don’t believe he has the capacity to carry out an elaborate lie. I spoke to him yesterday. He can hardly put a coherent sentence together.”

“Yes, and I’d seen Davis Merrit give him money. He seemed so grateful.” I remembered the marble kitten and related what I’d feared. “How could a blind man know about that-if indeed it was the murder weapon? Much less put it back almost exactly where he’d found it? I didn’t notice it had been moved, but Mrs. Ellis did.”

“Interesting. I’ll see what I can discover about the wound. And pay a visit to the churchyard.”

“Simon, I must go. Please don’t go back to London just yet. I’ll feel safer knowing you’re here in Hartfield. Besides, the police tell us nothing.”

“I won’t leave until I can escort you to Somerset. You still have your pistol?”

“Yes. I even carried it to the church service this morning, I’m ashamed to say. I’d forgot it was in my pocket.”

“Carry it everywhere.” He walked me to the door of the inn. “This is all speculation,” he warned me. “For all we know, Davis Merrit took it into his head to visit a cousin or went to London to see a specialist. He may turn up with a very solid alibi.”

“Let’s hope so,” I said. But then that would mean that someone at Vixen Hill was a killer.

Simon asked, “Was it raining the morning that Hughes was killed?”

“It was overcast. I don’t believe it had started to rain.”

“But he might have taken an umbrella with him, and the note you found was one intended for him.”

“He didn’t have an umbrella with him when we found him.”

“He could have left it in the stand at the church, before walking down the path. Are you quite sure that you took out the same umbrella that you’d brought with you this morning?”

“No,” I said slowly. “It was Roger Ellis who handed it to me. His mother and I shared it on the way to the motorcar. And then it was decided that I should travel with Roger. And so I kept it, since she could share with Lydia.”

“Interesting. I’d not mention the note to anyone else. It might not be wise.”

I walked out to the motorcar, where Lydia was waiting, staring at Bluebell Cottage as if she could see through the very walls and into the house. As Simon turned the crank for me, she said, “He’s not in there, is he? I can feel it. The cottage is empty. Well. So much for our friendship.”

As we drove away, she added, “I liked him. Not as a lover or anything of that sort. As a friend. I expect part of it was pity for his blindness, and part of it was the man who loved books as much as I did. Roger isn’t a great reader, did you know? Too busy for one thing. Even before the war, he had the estate to manage and all that. He worked hard. His father’s early death left a void, and by the time Roger was old enough to take over, poor management had taken its toll. To his credit, he brought Vixen Hill back to where it was the day Juliana died. I expect that was partly why he did it, as well. Not just for his mother’s sake.”

We saw Willy as we slowed to pass children playing hoops in the street. He was standing on a corner watching them, and I thought his face was sad. And then we had moved on, and I could no longer see him.

If Lydia noticed him standing there, she made no mention of it to me.

I think Mrs. Ellis was relieved when we pulled up in front of the house. She came into the hall to greet us, and as Daisy took our coats, she said, “Do you have any idea why Inspector Rother came all this way to ask me about George’s watch? It seems rather silly.”

Lydia didn’t reply, asking Daisy if there was any tea to be had after the cold drive from Hartfield.

I said, “What reason did the Inspector give you for asking?”

She smiled. “You know policemen. They don’t explain anything.”

“Do you remember seeing the watch?” I asked, curious.

“Oh yes. It was his brother’s. It was sent back to him from the Front, when Malcolm was killed. It meant the world to him.”

“No, I mean, did you actually see it this weekend?”

She frowned. “I’m sure I did. Thursday night, I think, just before we went to bed.”

The same time I’d seen it.

“Did that please Inspector Rother? That you could answer his question for him?”

“He seemed very satisfied. Odd little man, isn’t he? If he weren’t an Inspector, no one would take any notice of him, would they?”

“I expect he’s a good policeman.”

“Yes, well, I hope we’ve seen the last of him. This whole business has been very trying. Especially for Roger. The last time the police came to Vixen Hill, it was to tell us that someone had found his father’s body. He doesn’t feel much sympathy for them. Bearers of bad tidings, he always said. And it’s true, isn’t it? There’s never a policeman about unless he’s bringing bad news.”

I hadn’t known the police had come about Matthew Ellis, Roger’s father. I should have expected it, for it explained his animosity toward them. How old had he been then? Eight? Nine? It was an age when memories were sharp and permanent. I could picture myself at that age, seeing my first body in India. A beggar, lying along the road, wrapped against the cold night, dying in his sleep. Or at least I’d hoped he had. My father was angry that I’d seen him. The Colonel Sahib had taken me out for the day, and his men had made certain our route was safe. The subaltern who had missed the corpse got a severe dressing down. But I knew what death was. It hadn’t taken a corpse on the roadside to give it a face. I’d seen the worry in my mother’s eyes whenever my father was in the field. She made light of it, but the fear was there-that one day his luck would run out, and a bullet would find him. It didn’t matter whether it was a bandit’s shot or a Pathan warrior’s or a nervous recruit’s accidental discharge of his weapon. Death was not uncommon in India.

I realized much, much later that it wasn’t the corpse that had disturbed the Colonel Sahib, but the fact that it could just as easily have been someone lying in wait for us. He had enemies, my father did. My mother had known that too.

Daisy brought tea to the sitting room, where it was warmer, and we all gathered there. Lydia was silent, and Roger Ellis had a grim set to his mouth. I think he must have guessed why Lydia had wanted to go into Hartfield.

That evening, just before we went in to dinner, we heard the distant clanging of the heavy knocker on the door. Daisy went to answer the summons and a few minutes later brought Inspector Rother to the drawing room, where we were finishing our sherry. He greeted Gran and Mrs. Ellis politely, then turned to Roger.

“I’ve come to inform you that we are satisfied that no one here is connected to the murder of George Hughes. You’re free to go about your own affairs as you please.”

Surprised, Mrs. Ellis thanked him. Across the room, Lydia’s face lost all color.

It was Gran who demanded, “The least you can do after all we’ve been through is to tell us who killed poor George. He was a dear friend, you know, not a stranger who happened by. We’re as relieved as the police must be that his killer is caught, of course we are. But we would appreciate a few answers.”

Inspector Rother nodded. “I understand, Madam. It will come out in the inquest, which will be held on Tuesday at The King’s Head. We have reason to believe it was one Davis Merrit.”

Mrs. Ellis exclaimed, “Surely not! I mean to say, he’s blind.”

“It doesn’t take sight, Madam, to strike a man on the back of his head. Or drag him toward the water.”

“But how did he get to the church? How did he know that George would be there?” Lydia asked.

“He keeps a horse, I understand, and goes out riding from time to time. He’s not precisely without resources. And the horse can find his way back to the stable, should it be necessary.”

“What was his motive?” I asked, wanting to know what the police had discovered.

“That hasn’t yet been determined, Miss Crawford,” he said in a tone of voice that brooked no further questions on that subject.

Roger Ellis said, echoing his mother, “We thank you for coming to speak to us. I’ll see you out.”

As they left the room, Henry, Margaret’s husband, said into the silence, “Well, that was quick work. I expected we might be here for several more days.”

“At least it wasn’t one of us,” Margaret said, her voice a little unsteady. I wondered if she knew how worried her mother had been about that.

It was Eleanor who made the remark none of us had considered. “Perhaps this man Merrit was out riding and came upon George along the way, and they went on together.”

Henry rested a hand on his wife’s shoulder as he stood behind her chair. “It still doesn’t explain why Merrit should suddenly kill someone he accidentally encounters on a track in Ashdown Forest. There must be more to this.”

Lydia turned her face away, toward the window. I could almost guess what she was thinking. That she’d given Davis Merrit a reason to search out and speak to Lieutenant Hughes. But why it should lead to murder was another matter. Unless I was right about his feelings for Lydia.

Still, even if he was in love with her, what purpose could be served by killing George after he’d already told everyone about the child? I should have thought that killing Roger would have been more appropriate as an expression of devotion. If one could call murder that.

Gran had the last word. “Well, one thing to be said for Davis Merrit as the killer, you shan’t be required to read to him any longer,” she told Lydia. “Ah, here’s Daisy. I thought that Inspector would keep us from our dinner. Henry, give me your arm. You can take me into the dining room.”

Henry turned to offer her his arm, and Gran led the way with the air of a woman who was very satisfied with herself. For some reason I couldn’t explain, I thought, She’s gloating.

But what exactly did she have to gloat about?

Was it just the fact that Roger had been exonerated? Or was there something more? Watching her, I realized that in spite of her age, she was fit and a good walker. She could easily have followed George to the church and even killed him. She was tall enough. Strong enough.

And George would never have expected trouble from her.