A Bitter Truth

Chapter Nineteen

Bates read my face even before I could speak.

Moving quickly down the remaining stairs, he was coming across Reception directly toward me. And I was all that was between him and the door. And escape.

I stayed where I was, wishing that I still had that small pistol that Simon had once given me.

The hotel clerk stepped out of the inner office, saying, “Miss Crawford?” and for an instant distracted my attention. And in that same moment, Constable Bates walked straight into me and spun me toward the desk. My ribs took the brunt of the blow, and I caught my breath with the pain. And then, with both hands gripping the edge of the desk, ignoring my ribs, I pushed myself away and turned as quickly as I could to go after him, well aware that he had nothing to lose.

Behind me the desk clerk cried, “Miss? Constable?”

I ignored him. Bates was moving briskly toward the motorcar standing in the corner of the inn yard. I thought it was Mrs. Ellis’s vehicle.

He bent to turn the crank, his eyes on me, gauging my approach. The motor caught, and he was behind the wheel in a flash. Without warning he spun it and turned toward me, gunning the motor, heading straight for me at speed.

I stood there for an instant, uncertain which way to move. And then at the last second, ignoring my ribs again, I flung myself toward the inn’s door.

He veered just in time to avoid hanging up the front wheels on the inn’s steps and kept going out the Groombridge road, toward the north.

I ran for Simon’s motorcar, just beyond where Mrs. Ellis’s vehicle had been left, and turned the crank like a madwoman. It was late enough that the road was empty, and I gave the big motorcar its head, the headlamps sweeping the road.

Someone darted out in front of me, waving, and I spun the wheel to miss hitting him, seeing Simon’s face at the last minute.

I pulled on the brake with all my strength, and the vehicle slithered to a sputtering stop, spraying stones and earth in almost a bow wave.

Simon swung himself into the vehicle, and I was able to keep the motor from stalling. Straightening us up, I went after Constable Bates as fast as I dared.

“Where were you?” I asked, not turning my head.

Simon, out of breath, said, “Arguing with Rother. I saw what happened. You shouldn’t have taken on Bates alone. He’s dangerous. He’s killed four men, counting that officer in France, and he did his best to kill Willy. He won’t stop at you.”

“He’s already tried,” I told him, and heard the low growl in his throat.

“We’ll see about friend Bates,” he said and leaned forward to watch the road. In a straightaway I could just pick out the round red rear lamp ahead of us. But I was closing the gap quickly.

“Why did Bates have to kill Dr. Tilton?” I asked. “He wasn’t at the court-martial.”

“Dr. Tilton conducted Merrit’s postmortem. He tied the two deaths together. That’s why Inspector Rother abandoned the idea of suicide, even though at first it appeared to be one. The question is, what else did Tilton find? Or what was Constable Bates afraid he’d found?”

“Inspector Rother wouldn’t tell us anything. Simon-what if he didn’t know ? What if Dr. Tilton had told Constable Bates what he’d discovered, but Bates never passed it on because it would change the whole investigation? Yes, of course. That’s why Inspector Rother was going around in circles. If he was getting impatient-if he was on the point of speaking to the doctor himself-” The wheel jerked in my hands as we hit a deeper rut this time.

“Keep your attention on the road!”

I set my teeth, concentrating on driving. The rear lamp was brighter, sharper now.

“Should I try to stop him? Or just keep up with him for now?”

“For God’s sake, don’t use my motorcar as a battering ram. Try to run him off the road if you can.”

“Yes, all right.”

I caught up with Constable Bates finally and began to torment him. I’d seen my male friends play this game with each other-making an effort to pass, rushing up and then pulling back a little, flashing the headlamps. It was a dangerous business, but it was the only weapon I had.

And then I realized that I was making Constable Bates jittery. He could drive, but he wasn’t an experienced driver. The constant threat of us passing him on this narrow road was requiring all his coping skills, and when he veered the wrong way, trying to second-guess me, I took advantage of the small space he’d given me and sped up.

Beside me, Simon swore in Urdu, but I ignored him.

The verge of the road was only a little rougher than the unmade center with its winter ruts and holes. I bounced over low-growing gorse, gave the motor more power to deal with it, and forged ahead.

For a second I thought that Constable Bates was going to sideswipe us in his fright. But trying to watch me and manage the motorcar at the same time was too much. Suddenly he lost complete control, and the vehicle thundered wildly across a field lumpy with last summer’s crops toward a copse of trees that marked a bend in the road.

Simon yelled, “Watch yourself,” but I had the motorcar under control and began to slow for the bend, even as Constable Bates came to a grinding halt. And I thought, That’s how George Hughes must have felt when he nearly collided with that length of tree trunk.

Simon was out the door almost before I had slowed enough to make it safe for him to find his footing. Then he was sprinting across the rough field, and I watched, holding my breath, for fear he would twist an ankle as he leapt over obstacles and dealt with the deeper rows between the remnants of the crop.

Constable Bates, stunned by his abrupt contact with the steering wheel and the windscreen, was not as quick. But he was running before Simon could reach him, heading for the deep shadows of the trees. They were just disappearing from my sight in the darkness when I saw Simon hurl himself after Bates, and then they both went down.

I swung the motorcar so that the great headlamps pointed in their direction, and it was like watching a shadow show, one minute seeing only silhouettes and the next, a shoulder or an arm raised high, a head flung back.

I scrabbled in the floor of the motorcar, looking for a torch or any other weapon that I could use.

Just under the other seat, my fingers closed over a sheet of crumpled paper. I brought it up and tried to read it in the glow of the headlamps.

Get out of Forest, or child dies.

It was intended for Simon, the Army man. And in the dark we hadn’t seen it where the wind must have tossed it off the seat.

Furious, I pulled on the brake, leaving the motor running, and was out of my door, running through the long bright beams of the headlamps, my shadow looming ahead of me like some black, disembodied thing with a will of its own. I nearly tripped over a length of fallen branch, and reaching down to retrieve it, I kept going.

I could hear them clearly, the grunts and blows of two men who were well matched, and I knew fear of capture must be driving the constable. There was nothing left to him but the rope. Simon nearly had him subdued when Bates’s hand came up and raked the long wound that ran down Simon’s face. As Simon arched back, out of reach, Bates ducked and plowed his head straight toward Simon’s chest.

Simon had seen the move coming, and as nimble as a bullfighter, he sidestepped before bringing both fists down in a single blow to the unprotected back of the other man’s head.

Constable Bates went down as if he had been poleaxed, and Simon, stepping clear of the man’s body, turned to me, breathing hard.

“And what the hell did you think you were going to do with that tree limb?” He pointed to the length of wood I was holding like a cricket bat. “That’s rotten. Didn’t you see?”

I looked down at my unlikely weapon. The part in my hand felt solid enough.

“I was coming to your rescue,” I said. “I wasn’t going to let him get away.”

“Did he look as if he was going to get away?”

We glared at each other. And then we both began to laugh. He reached down and took the offending branch from my hand, tossed it aside, and put his arms around me. “My dearest girl,” he said gently, “your father is right, you are afraid of nothing. And that can be very dangerous, has anyone told you that?”

His embrace was comforting. It had been a long day, and I had carried enough burdens.

And then without a word, I handed him the slip of paper I’d found in his motorcar, telling him what was written on it.

“Bastard,” he said under his breath, and then to me he added, “Where was it? I never saw it.”

“It had fallen under a seat.”

“All right, as Hamlet said, shall we lug the guts into another room? At least as far as my motorcar. Then we’ll try to get the Ellis vehicle back on the road. Or not, as the case may be. Can you manage his feet?”

We put the still unconscious Constable Bates/Sergeant Halloran into Simon’s motorcar, then managed after several attempts to get the Ellis motorcar out of the field. Soon we were driving sedately back to Hartfield, in tandem.

Alone in the motorcar, following Simon, I could hear Mrs. Ellis’s voice in the darkness around me. I didn’t know what to do about it. I didn’t know what to do about Sophie, except to hand her over to Simon and my father to return her to the nuns in Rouen.

It was a long night. Simon stayed with me as we made our explanations to a very angry Inspector Rother.

He refused to believe me at first, just as he’d refused to believe Simon and Roger Ellis, accusing us of trying to distract him from the Ellis family. Constable Bates had served the Forest well for nearly two years, responsible and capable. He couldn’t be a deserter under the sentence of death. He’d been invaluable to the inquiry. And so on.

Close to dawn, when Army officials arrived from London, Inspector Rother was finally satisfied that Sergeant Halloran and Constable Bates were one and the same.

And when Constable Austin was sent to search the small cottage where Constable Bates had lived, he found a broken walking stick, the length of an officer’s swagger stick, with the blunt end still sticky with Willy’s hair and blood. I was so grateful that it hadn’t been the marble kitten after all.

I went to see how Willy was faring. Mr. Smyth had taken him in. The doctor from Groombridge told me that with care, Willy would survive with no ill effects. The scarf was a loss, but I laid the new gloves on his pillow. He didn’t seem to remember what had become of his own.

Gran, her face gray with fatigue, was finally allowed to take Mrs. Ellis home. Roger was coming to drive them, after a few final words with the rector.

She and I had only a few seconds together as I held her door and Simon bent to turn the crank. Gran was speaking to Inspector Rother, giving him her views of overly keen policemen harassing peaceful citizens.

I said to Mrs. Ellis, “I told you earlier that I can’t give you absolution for what you did. But for your family’s sake, you must find the courage to put it behind you. It will hurt them terribly if they knew. Your penance must be their happiness.”

She put up a hand and touched my face. “You are a dear girl, Bess. I was haunted ever after by what I’d done. I thought my husband’s suicide was my punishment. But when George was killed and I saw his lifeless body there in the water, I realized that I was no better than a murderer myself. And that there is no punishment that befits taking another’s life. Under any circumstances.” She swallowed her tears. “I loved them so dearly.”

“I know. Sometimes love tries to do too much.”

And then they were driving away.

Simon came to me and said, “What about the child?”

“I’m too weary to think. I’m overdue in France. But Inspector Rother can deal with that. I must get word to Sister Marie Joseph-but I don’t know where to find them after the fire!” The realization was like a blow. “It’s all to do over again, searching for them. And what shall I do with Sophie, meanwhile? I can’t take her to Somerset. I can’t change her world a third time.”

He pulled me into his arms and held me until I was calmer.

“You need sleep, Bess. Tomorrow we’ll deal with Sophie and the nuns.”

“I should go back to France tonight. And what about that poor Major’s motorcar?”

“The war will keep. So will the motorcar.”

I laughed, and he let me go.

“The war might wait,” I said ruefully, “but Matron is likely to kill me.”

H e drove me to Dover the next afternoon, after I’d given the police my statement, and I’d said good-bye to Roger Ellis, who had come into town to speak to me.

He too was on his way back to France, his orders sending him through Portsmouth.

He stood before me, trying to find the words he wanted to say.

I shook my head. “I don’t like leaving Sophie in Vixen Hill any more than you do. But I have no choice until I find Sister Marie Joseph.”

“I don’t know what to do about her,” he told me truthfully. “She’s probably mine, isn’t she?”

“She’s legally Sophie Hebert. You told me. I’d leave it at that. Even if you adopt her.”

“Yes. You can’t know how many times I’ve regretted that night.”

“I don’t think Claudette did. She gave her husband a child, even though he didn’t live to see it. Did you ever think that Sophie might, one day, inherit his property? She deserves it. When the war is over, you could see that her interests are protected.”

“I shall.” He took my hand, then leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. “I hated you when I first met you. God keep you safe.”

“And you as well.”

He was gone, and Simon was ready to leave. He had already arranged for someone to transport the Major’s vehicle safely back to Dover. I stepped into the motorcar and leaned back against the seat.

“I would so much like to go home to Somerset.” I’d spoken to my mother and the Colonel Sahib on the inn’s telephone. Their voices had sounded so near, I felt the distance sharply.

“I know. Next time.”

W hen I landed in France, it was the darkness before dawn, and the streets of Rouen seemed empty, even the new recruits gone up toward the fighting.

But across the water as we had moved toward the quay and set about docking came the call of an Australian kingfisher, and I stood by the rail, waving a white handkerchief in response.

Sergeant Larimore was there to greet me when we were allowed to disembark. He looked better than I’d seen him since he’d been wounded, though still a little singed around the edges.

“You got back safely, I see,” I said.

“It’s the saintly life I lead,” he assured me. “They fussed over the burns and my bravery, and the fact that I’d passed out from the pain and couldn’t report back to the Base Hospital.”

And I was sure there was a hint of canary feathers around his mouth as he added, “I told the nuns, Bess. I traced them and I confessed to what I’d done. And I told them Sophie was safe, that she’d be brought back to France if they wished.”

“Dear God. What did they say?” I stopped stock-still, waiting for another blow to fall.

“They were that grateful. I had a long and very serious lecture from Sister Marie Joseph about the dire effects of impulsive behavior. They’re being moved to a house in Lille, the nuns and the children with them. She gave me the direction. And the direction of that lawyer on Fish Street.”

“The Street of Fishes.”

“Aye, well, I’m a sheep farmer, I can’t speak the language.”

I laughed. “You’re the canniest sheep farmer I know.”

“I should hope so. At any rate, the good Sister told me she would consider a proper request for Sophie to live in England, as long as she is taught about her parents and the nuns who protected her.”

We walked on. “I must write to Roger Ellis. He’s on his way back to France. He’ll have to see to it, and contact the solicitor.”

“As to that,” Sergeant Larimore said, more canary feathers drifting around his cheeky head, “I paid that gentleman a friendly call. Said I was best mates with this Ellis chap, and he’s willing to represent him.”

“Sergeant Larimore, you’re incorrigible!”

“Aren’t I just?” He shifted my valise to the other arm, and said, “Do you know the French think there’s a German spy in the bulrushes down along the river? I’ve been here for every ship landing, waiting for you. Only yesterday they sent another detachment of soldiers to scour the banks. If you hadn’t come soon, I was likely to be shot as a spy.”

I laughed.

But I had also noticed that he was wearing not the blue serge of the Base Hospital but his uniform.

“Are you healed?”

“Not completely,” he informed me. “But if you’re going back to the forward dressing station, I don’t see any point in lingering here. I’ll just get myself wounded again and you can save me this time. The Aborigines have a saying, you know. That if you save a man’s life, he’s yours as long as he lives.”

“I don’t believe a word of it. Besides, if it were true, you already belong to another nursing sister.”

He chuckled complacently, shortening his stride to match mine. “Ah, but it was the doctor who saved me that time. And he doesn’t count.”