A Duty to the Dead

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE RECTOR, WALKING briskly across to the church, waved to me, and when I waved back, he waited for me to catch him up.

“Lovely weather. I see you’re enjoying it,” Mr. Montgomery said as I came within earshot. “Come in, if you will. I need to work for a bit. This business of Ted Booker’s death has disturbed me.”

I joined him, and we turned toward the church. “I thought it was your duty to comfort the ill and the grieving.”

“Yes, so it is. But to tell you the truth, I feel very uneasy in my mind.”

“He killed himself while devastated by the death of his brother,” I said, bristling on Ted Booker’s behalf. “I can’t see how he could be held accountable for his actions, given his state of mind.”

“That’s not what I was driving at. No, I wonder if we couldn’t have made a greater effort, taken the burden from his wife and her mother. I understand twins are very close, closer than brothers even. Harry’s death was a terrible shock to Ted. It was wrong of us to expect him to recover from it quickly.”

“I don’t know that he would have done. I’ve had some experience with what he was suffering. It’s not as simple as grief at the loss of a loved one. It’s a measure of guilt, and the mind dwells on what was done or not done, trying to find a way to change the outcome. But of course that’s not possible, and so there’s no way to escape what happened.” I found myself thinking of Peregrine Graham. “He might have had problems for years. And I think that frightened him as much as Harry’s death.”

“You are very understanding for one so young,” he said, smiling.

“I’ve dealt with broken bodies and broken minds. You learn how to cope. And how to care.”

“Are you staying on with us for a time?” We went into the church and felt the cold in the stones that today’s sun hadn’t begun to warm. I reached in my pocket and pulled on my gloves.

“I was to leave today. But with Mr. Booker’s death-it’s possible I’ll be called to give information at the inquest.”

“Indeed. That’s very kind of you.”

Before thinking, I blurted, “It isn’t kindness. I thought he had turned a corner, so to speak, and was better. But in the night, the darkness must have come down again. I should have stayed with him. I thought Dr. Philips would have arranged for someone…”

“He tried, but it wasn’t possible.”

“I would have come, if he’d asked.”

“But he did. Mrs. Graham told him you were leaving this morning, and that she wouldn’t interrupt your rest.”

I would have sworn, if I hadn’t been in a church, with its rector.

Before I could answer that, Mr. Montgomery went on. “Did you know that Jonathan went to speak to him around ten o’clock last evening? I was just coming home from Mrs. Turner’s sickbed when I saw him. He waved in my direction but didn’t wait to speak to me. I thought perhaps their conversation had brought the war back to him as well. Still, I was glad he’d gone to see Ted. The two families had grown apart, with the war.”

“It was kind of him,” I said doubtfully.

“Jonathan can be very blunt and to the point, without sympathy, sometimes. But there is good in everyone.” We walked down the aisle, and he paused to examine the cushion on one of the kneeling benches. “I’m afraid I was partial to Arthur. He was such a good man.”

“Yes, he was,” I responded sadly.

He removed the cushion and took out a needle and thread. We sat down in one of the pews, and he mended a corner that was worn. I watched his hands deftly ply the needle, and the work was as good as I might have done. But the next cushion was beyond his skill and he set it aside. “I could ask the women to do this task, but most of them are busy trying to help the war effort. Bandages, knitting scarves and stockings for the men, even vests. But I must admit to the sin of pride when it comes to my church, and I quietly do what’s possible before asking for help.”

We moved on, and I found it soothing to watch him at work. And I think he enjoyed the companionship as well.

My mind wandered in the stillness, my eyes on the memorial brass that caught the early-morning sun.

Arthur. Ted Booker. Peregrine Graham.

Three men to whom Fate had not been kind. Arthur should have lived, Ted Booker should have been given time to heal, and as for Peregrine-as for Peregrine, he had been lost at fourteen, and there was no way to bring him back.

I sighed, and Mr. Montgomery said, over his shoulder, “That’s the point of working with one’s hands, you see. It gives the mind something else to do besides worry.”

“That’s a very comforting philosophy when you enjoy mending and carpentry.”

He laughed and gave me the end of a cushion to hold while he repaired a seam. The needlepoint pattern was floral, nasturtiums and petunias entwined in a vine of leaves. A subaltern in my father’s last command had been fond of gardening, and his mother had sent seeds for him to plant. Only the nasturtiums survived the heat. I wondered where Linford might be now. Dead?

The rector had set aside two cushions that were beyond his skill. He put away his needle and said, “There, enough for today.” Collecting the cushions he said, “You’re concerned for Peregrine. That does you credit.”

I hadn’t realized that I’d spoken the three names aloud.

Then something occurred to me. There was a new rector, a new doctor. Was there as well a new policeman here in Owlhurst?

I asked the rector, and he said, “Yes, how did you know? Inspector Gadd, a wonderful man, died of a brain injury some two years after Peregrine was taken away. Inspector Howard is our man now. Not as sharp as Gadd, you know, but early days. Early days.”

All of which meant that those who might have had some part in sending Peregrine to the asylum had died-policeman, doctor, rector. “And what about the magistrate? Is he still here?”

“She. Yes, of course. If you’re concerned about the coming inquest, it shouldn’t be terribly difficult for you. Would you like to go with me while I deliver these cushions? It’s partly pastoral call and partly a way of dispensing charity in a way that doesn’t offend. Mrs. Clayton needs the money, and she’s a wonderful seamstress. And I think she might be glad to hear about Arthur from you.”

Dr. Philips had mentioned her name.

“I’ve nothing else to do,” I agreed. “If you don’t think she’ll mind my coming along.”

“She’ll be delighted. You’ll see.”

We walked from the churchyard down past The Bells, and along the cricket pitch, to a cottage tucked away down a narrow lane. It sat with five of its neighbors in a tiny cul-de-sac that time had passed by. The cottages were, like the rectory, Tudor in style, their roofs running together and almost swaybacked with age. Mrs. Clayton had just stepped out to sweep the large stone that was her stoop, and Mr. Montgomery hailed her.

She looked up and said, “What brings you calling, Rector? Discovered my secret sins, have you?” And she cackled like one of the hens scratching in the grassy patch of land at the end of the lane.

Her eyes were watering in the cold air, her teeth had gone, and she was as wrinkled as a prune, but her spirit was still young.

“I’ve brought more work for you, Mrs. Clayton. And a visitor.”

She passed from her inspection of him to me, standing a little behind the rector, and said, “Is this the lass who came about poor dear Arthur?”

News travels fast in small villages.

“Yes, it’s Elizabeth Crawford, Mrs. Clayton. How are you this morning?” From the start he’d raised his voice a little, to accommodate her loss of hearing. “Is there anything you need?”

“I’m poorly, but still breathing, thankee.” She turned to me. “Was it you nursed Mr. Peregrine when he was sent home with that pneumonia?”

“It was fortunate I was there. He had a close call.”

If she knew and repeated this much gossip, how was I to ask her about Peregrine?

But I needn’t have worried. She invited us in for tea, took the worn cushions from Mr. Montgomery, and then as she set cups in front of us, followed by the teapot, she said, “I was once maid in that house. I knew Mr. Graham, and his first wife, Margaret. Now there was a lovely one, was Miss Margaret. She died in childbirth, you know. They feared for his sanity. But men are fey creatures, six months later he was in love again, this time with the present Mrs. Graham. A Montmorency she was, before her marriage. And they had three sons of their own, in quick succession. Hardly one lying in past, and it was near time for the next. It was a house full of joy. But it didn’t last. First Mr. Graham was taken, and then Peregrine, you might say, and now Arthur. He was so like his father, Mr. Peregrine was, and may still be for all I know. I’d say that Arthur favored his father as well. I can’t say as much for the other two. Very like their mother, both of them. Then Mr. Graham died after his carriage horse bolted and threw him out on his head. A Gypsy woman had foretold his death, you know. “A horse will kill you, and you will not see the hand that sends you to your death.” Well, it was a child with a hoop run out in the road that startled the horse into bolting, and I doubt Mr. Graham saw her until she was under the hooves of his horse. It was all too quick. Both dead in the blink of an eye.”

Mrs. Clayton loudly sipped her tea through pursed lips, and sighed. “I always did like a nice Darjeeling. Susan sends me a packet now and again.”

“Tell me about Robert,” I said, curiosity getting the better of me.

“Robert? He came to Owlhurst with Mrs. Graham. It was said, to look after her. Her father didn’t want her moving to Kent. If you ask me, if that was his fear, he shouldn’t have given her a London season. But the Montmorency family comes from Northumberland, and whatever nonsense they get up to there, it makes them a suspicious lot. It’s been whispered that Robert was a poor cousin and Mr. Montmorency was looking for a way to keep him employed. Mr. Graham took him on to run the farm.”

The rector smiled into his cup, and I thought perhaps I ought to drop the subject of Robert.

I needn’t have worried. Mrs. Clayton was off again. When she learned I had lived in India for much of my childhood, she said, “And I’ve never been as far as Chatham, though I came that near to seeing London, once.”

She pinched her fingers together to indicate how close it was. I didn’t need to prod her, she launched into the story of her own accord.

“Mrs. Graham was to take a house in London, to show her sons the sights and so forth. We’d heard she was having Mr. Peregrine seen by a specialist as well, but nothing came of that. I was to accompany her, and I was that excited I told all my acquaintance they could write to me at Number 17, Carroll Square.”

She spoke the address as if it were a talisman, grinning toothlessly at me, then went on. “I should have saved my breath. Mrs. Graham changed her mind and decided to keep the servants who came with the property, and leave us behind. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such disappointment, because that chance wasn’t likely to come my way again.”

I wanted to ask if this was the visit to London that had turned out so disastrously but I’d reckoned without Mrs. Clayton’s sense of drama.

She added, “Now that was when Mr. Peregrine was said to have killed one of the London maids, and I was grateful it was none of us dead at his hands. Still, I’ve always been of the opinion he wouldn’t have harmed someone brought from Owlhurst. He was used to us and our ways.”

Comment was expected from me, I could see it in her face.

“How terrible for everyone,” I said. “Did the poor girl have any family?”

“I never heard of any.”

“How sad. Was Mr. Peregrine considered dangerous, before this murder?”

“Not dangerous, that I was ever told, no. But given to anger sometimes, and not clever at his studies. Mr. Jonathan, he was younger, but he’d torment Mr. Peregrine when no one was looking. And Mr. Peregrine, he’d fight back, then Mr. Appleby, the tutor, would send him to his room as punishment. It was Mrs. Graham who decided they should be taught separately, so that Mr. Peregrine wouldn’t hold the other lads back in their studies.”

We had finished our tea and had no excuse to linger. We thanked Mrs. Clayton and rose to leave.

She said, “A shame about poor Mr. Ted, isn’t it? I was that fond of him and of Harry. Have they set the day for the services, Rector?”

“Not yet. I’ll be sure to let you know, Mrs. Clayton.”

I hadn’t considered the fact that she would have known the Bookers as well as the Grahams. I said, “Would you tell me a little about Harry? What he was like? How the two boys got on together?”

We were standing at the door, the rector with his hand on the latch.

Mrs. Clayton said, “They was so alike you couldn’t tell one from the other. What one did, the other was his shadow. And close? They could read each other’s thoughts, I’ll be bound. I remember once, Ted was in the greengrocer’s talking to me, and almost in the middle of a sentence he said, ‘I must go, Mrs. Clayton. Harry wants me.’ And I said, ‘Where is he, then?’ And Ted told me, ‘He’s over by the cricket pitch.’ I followed the boy out of the shop, and he was walking straight toward the cricket pitch. I could see Harry in the distance, standing there watching for him. So I said to him, when he came back from France, you must miss your brother something fierce, and Ted answered, ‘He’s still there, inside my head, and he calls and calls, but he can’t find me.’ I wanted to weep for the two of them. Nasty war!”

I shivered. “I’m surprised they were allowed to serve together.”

“I don’t see how anyone, even the Army, could have kept them apart.” She thanked us for coming to visit and, as we stepped out the door, wished me a safe journey home, adding, “Perhaps it’s a kindness that now they are together again, those two.”

It was as good an epitaph as any.

“It’s so sad, isn’t it?” I said to Mr. Montgomery. “What war does to families.”

Mr. Montgomery replied, “You mustn’t take our burdens on your shoulders, Miss Crawford. I was warned when I went to France as chaplain not to dwell on all I saw or heard. It was a hard lesson. But it has stayed with me here in my parish. I am the better for it.”

But I thought he mended his church because he couldn’t mend the broken lives and minds brought to him for comfort.

We walked in silence for a time, and then he asked, “Did you want to save Ted Booker because you couldn’t save Arthur Graham?” His eyes were on my face. “Dr. Philips has told me how hard you tried. And you worked a miracle, saving Peregrine Graham. You must count your debt paid in full.”

“I-don’t know if that’s true or not. I won’t know until I’ve left here, when there’s distance between me and Owlhurst,” I said, unwilling to discuss my feelings with him. Then I heard myself admitting, “I kept putting off coming here, oddly enough.”

As if acknowledging my confession, Mr. Montgomery made one of his own. “I wasn’t cut out to be a chaplain, although I did all I could for the men who came to me. I just didn’t let them see the cost of helping them.”

We walked on in silence, and I said good-bye to him near the rectory, before turning in the direction of the Graham house.

Something he’d said earlier came back to me. That he’d seen Jonathan leaving the surgery later in the evening. I thought grimly, Had he undone all that Dr. Philips and I had tried to accomplish? Jonathan hadn’t shown any sympathy toward Ted Booker. Why the need to visit him? Timothy I might have understood. But Jonathan…

And speak of the devil-

Here he was coming toward me.

I stopped a few paces from him, and asked the question that was on my mind. “I didn’t know you’d visited Ted Booker last evening. I wonder-was he in better spirits? Or had the depression settled over him again? How did he strike you?”

Jonathan looked at me with a frown between his eyes. “I didn’t go to the surgery last night. Why should I? I had nothing to say to the man.”

He nodded and walked on. I stood there, staring after him. The rector had just told me-But perhaps he was wrong, and it was someone else. He might have assumed…That made no sense either. I somehow hadn’t had the impression that the rector was guessing at the visitor’s identity.

A little unsettled, I had just reached the Graham house to find a man turning away from the door and coming toward me. He was lifting his hat to me, as if he knew me.

“Miss Crawford, if I’m not mistaken?”

“Yes?” I didn’t know him. Tall, middle-aged, dark hair already thick with gray, and blue eyes that were pale with a darker rim. Disconcerting.

“Sorry to have to introduce myself here in the street. I’m Inspector Howard. I was just asking for you. Susan told me you were having a walk. I must speak to you. Would you be more comfortable in the house with Mrs. Graham present?”

Of course I wouldn’t, but I couldn’t say so. “Perhaps we might continue to walk a little,” I said.

“Certainly. Thank you.” He seemed relieved at my suggestion. We turned back the way I’d come, along the church wall, toward The Bells. “I’m here, as you might have gathered, to ask you about Lieutenant Booker. Dr. Philips tells me you had a good grasp of his medical situation, and that you had spoken to him several times, in fact just after his initial attempt at suicide.”

A formality? What was I to say, that Ted Booker had been driven to his death by well-meaning people who believed that a stiff upper lip, and all that it entailed, would set him right again? That a good husband and father ought to know what was expected of him and do his duty, however painful?

Inspector Howard waited.

Finally I said, “I don’t think he wanted to die. He just didn’t know how to go about living. It was too overwhelming. I was just speaking to Mrs. Clayton, and she told me how close the two-Ted and his brother, Harry-had been all their lives. Do you have a brother, Inspector?”

He grimaced. “Three sisters.”

I had to smile. “Then you can’t very well put yourself in Lieutenant Booker’s place.”

“Do you feel that Dr. Philips did everything possible to prevent Booker’s death?”

So that was the way the wind was blowing. Mrs. Denton must have said something to leave the impression that Dr. Philips was to blame. On the heels of her own spoken wish that her son-in-law would die! How like her now to try to make a case for neglect, so that her daughter wouldn’t be burdened with the stigma of a suicide.

We had come to The Bells and walked on past their garden gate toward the cricket pitch.

“Not only was he convinced that Lieutenant Booker was on the mend, that his word could be trusted, I was as well. Neither of us would have left him if there had been any doubt in our minds. He was contrite about frightening everyone-he said as much.”

“Then why the turnaround?” He kept his pace matched to mine, and watched my face without appearing to do it. “It must have taken some determination to tear off the bandages and reopen his wounds. I take it the restraining straps had been removed.”

“When he was calmer, yes.”

I could have told Inspector Howard that according to the rector and Dr. Philips, there had been a late visitor to the surgery. But there was no proof that whoever it was had even spoken to Ted Booker. The police would believe Jonathan Graham if he claimed he was nowhere near the doctor’s house. And it would add tinder to the fires of doubt regarding Dr. Philips, that his surgery was not properly secured.

I knew I had felt my own share of guilt for what had happened. But it was emotional, not rational. Dr. Philips must have experienced the same thing. People died, however much you tried to save them…

“Sometimes,” I said, “Lieutenant Booker was unable to tell the present-today, his wife, his son, his responsibilities-from the past-his duty to the men serving under him. He could easily have awakened, confused, not understanding where he was, or why he was bandaged, and tried to return to his unit. Not realizing that in the attempt, he was going to die.”

We stopped, and the inspector stood there, his eyes on the cricket pitch. “You think it was confusion about where he was and what he was doing, that led to his death?”

Remembering how hard Ted Booker had fought to save Harry, I nodded. “He would have done anything, sacrificing himself if need be, to keep his brother alive. It’s the only explanation I can offer. As for Dr. Philips, I’ve known him only a very short time, but he’s well trained and compassionate. I’d trust him with my own life.”

“And yet I understand that when Mrs. Graham’s son Peregrine was very ill, she didn’t call in Dr. Philips to oversee his care.”

The gossips had been busy.

“You are well informed,” I said.

“Well, yes, the asylum notified us that Mr. Graham was ill and in the care of his family. There were constables within call as long as he was in Owlhurst. It was reported that Dr. Philips came to the house once but was turned away.”

“Hardly turned away. Not really needed is closer to the mark,” I answered, my voice nearly betraying my surprise at news of the constables. “I was in charge of the sickroom.” I didn’t add that Peregrine Graham’s case had been such a near run thing that I’d had my hands full. Dr. Philips’s presence would have been reassuring. Besides, the Grahams weren’t turning him away as much as they were keeping Peregrine behind closed doors. Out of sight and out of mind.

“And Jonathan Graham isn’t attended by Dr. Philips, in spite of a rather nasty war wound.”

“Dr. Philips isn’t a surgeon, Inspector Howard. Lieutenant Graham’s bandages haven’t been removed, and he may require more surgery before he’s fully healed. I daresay he’ll remain with the medical staff in charge of his case until they are satisfied that there is no infection.”

“I see.” He nodded, as if he did.

I ventured one last remark. Let the crows come home to roost. “I’m sure Mrs. Denton is distraught over her son-in-law’s death, but it’s unkind to blame Dr. Philips. In my opinion, for what it’s worth, she was not as sympathetic as she might have been during Lieutenant Booker’s illness, and perhaps that’s weighing on her mind now.”

He smiled. “You are very forthright, Miss Crawford.”

I knew then the crows had found their rightful nest. Yes, Mrs. Denton had been busy protecting her daughter. That was as it should be. But she had also been partly responsible for Ted Booker’s plight. I wasn’t about to let her ruin Dr. Philips’s reputation as well.

“I spent several hours in Mrs. Denton’s company one afternoon while we watched over Mr. Booker. I had the opportunity to witness her feelings about him.”

A little silence fell. Finally Inspector Howard turned back toward the church. “Let me walk you home, Miss Crawford. You’ve been very helpful.”

He asked what had brought me to Owlhurst, and I told him. He said, “It’s a great sadness, this war. So many young men lost to us. My sister’s son, for one. He was a bright boy. He could have made something of his life. Now we’ll never know what it might have been.”

“Are you married, Inspector?”

“Indeed I am. And I’ve been blessed with three young daughters.”

We laughed together.

“Will you speak at the inquest?” He appeared to be offering me a choice.

“If my opinion carries any weight, of course I shall.”

Ahead of us was the church. He said, “Would you mind if I left you here? You know your way, I think?”

“I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

He turned to go and then had one last question for me. “In your opinion, was Ted Booker mad?”

“Not mad, no.” I looked toward the church steeple, thinking about Peregrine Graham. “Not as we think of madness. He was as wounded in spirit as Jonathan Graham is wounded in the flesh.”

Inspector Howard touched his hat to me as he thanked me, and then walked on toward the High Street of Owlhurst.

Looking after him, I wondered how much good I had really done-and how much harm. On the whole, I thought the Colonel Sahib would have been pleased with his daughter’s handling of that interview. Inspector Howard was no fool.

When I reached the house, I could almost sense the curiosity welling behind that front door, and the questions I’d be asked about what the inspector had had to say to me. The very thought was enough to make me keep on walking. I wasn’t ready to answer them, and I refused to add to any speculation about police interest in Dr. Philips. And so, with nowhere else to go, and my feet feeling like numb blocks of ice, I called on Susan’s mother. It was the only other sanctuary I could think of where there was a fire and a warm welcome.

No one had told her the sad news about Ted Booker, and tears came to her eyes as she sat down in the nearest chair.

“Oh, my good Lord. No.”

I tried to comfort her, but she took his death hard. “I was that fond of the Booker twins. The truth is, I liked them better than the Graham boys, barring Arthur of course. Steady lads, honest and caring, that’s what they were. Sons a mother could be proud of.”

I was surprised. But then Peregrine was a murderer, Jonathan seemed to be callous and uncaring, and Timothy-Timothy I hadn’t really understood yet. He seemed to be open and honest, but sometimes that appeared to be what was expected of him. As if to show he bore no ill will to Fate for having given him a clubfoot. Again, that English insistence on stiff upper lip, pretending nothing is wrong.

Susan’s mother sat there for a time reminiscing about the Booker twins, and then said, “I don’t know how many more shocks I can bear. First Arthur and then Harry, and now Mr. Ted.” She shook her head. “I ought to count poor Mr. Peregrine as well. He’s as good as dead, isn’t he?”

“I was talking to Mrs. Clayton earlier. She told me she had expected to go to London with the family, until plans were changed at the last minute. Were you to go as well?”

“I was to stay here. I can tell you, I was more than a little envious of Hester Clayton, at the time. As it turned out, I was glad I wasn’t there. It was a terrible shock. I heard Mrs. Graham speaking to Inspector Gadd, describing how he’d ripped that poor girl to pieces in an orgy of lust and blood. Very like Jack the Ripper, it was, that’s how she put it. I didn’t sleep for two nights, picturing it. And Mrs. Graham walking in to find the body and Peregrine there with blood all over him. It’s a wonder she didn’t lose her mind.”

Shocked, I said, “I thought-” But I don’t know what I thought. A nice quiet killing with no blood and the victim someone I didn’t know and never would? Appalling and all that, but somehow until now, not real.

“Mrs. Graham cried all night, saying she wished he’d died there and then, so she could bury him beside his father and have done with it, and never have to think about it again. Ever.”

There were tears in her eyes again, and she bit her lip to hold them back. “I was that fond of him, as a boy. Very like his father, he was, when he was young. I tell you, it was such a blow. But then he went away, and we all tried to go on as if nothing had happened. It wasn’t as if we’d seen him every day, even when he was young, running about and coming in from some lark, muddy and looking for a bite to eat. I used to save a little treat for him, setting it aside, before he was found to be different. After that he never came down to the kitchen, and his tutor told us that he must be quiet, or it would damage his brain.”

“Damage-” Medically, unless he was subject to seizures, that didn’t make much sense. But of course the tutor was not trained to deal with such a child, and he probably meant well.

“I never liked that tutor,” Susan’s mother was saying. “Sly, he was, and not much one for conversation in the servants’ hall. He took his meals separately, a step above the rest of us. But he would come down sometimes and speak to one of us about Mr. Peregrine’s needs. As if the Prince of Wales was wanting something, mind you, and the tutor was the Lord Chamberlain. I never resented it, knowing what the poor boy must be suffering. His brothers running and shouting about the house, or in the back garden, while he must sit by his window and watch. There was talk that little Prince John had such seizures and was sent away. I remember that. And I thought, Poor Mr. Peregrine, and wondered if he was to die young too.”

She seemed to tire, her face drooping a little. “I should never have told you such things. You won’t let on to Susan, or to Mrs. Graham, will you?”

“No, I wouldn’t dream of speaking of it-truly. I wouldn’t wish to remind any of them-”

“You’re kind, Miss. It’s been bottled up in me all these years, and I thought I’d carry it to my grave, but I’ve been that upset over Mr. Ted.”

“Will you be all right, if I leave you?”

“Yes, go, if you don’t mind. I need to rest. Thank you for coming, Miss.”

I made my farewells and slipped out. The cat jumped into her lap as I latched the door, and she bent her head, as if nodding.

I walked back to the house and went up to my room without meeting anyone. I was grateful for the respite.

Small wonder no one in the family wanted to see or speak to Peregrine Graham while he was there, ill. Even after all these years, the memory of what he’d done must still be raw.

It explained too why there were constables on watch. And why at the first sign of recovery, Peregrine had been sent directly back to the asylum. While he was still too weak to do anything frightful again.