A Duty to the Dead

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PEREGRINE WAS WAITING for me, and I said as I reached the head of the stairs, “I walked in the wood for a time, and Timothy saw me there. I came back as soon as I could.”

He was silent. We went down the passage to the door of my room and paused by common consent.

I hadn’t told him what I’d learned about his disappearance and possible death. I couldn’t have said why, except that it had erased Peregrine’s identity, and I wasn’t sure it was for the best to tell him that. He could take passage now to half a dozen countries that wouldn’t ask too many questions, he could create his own past, and walk away from Peregrine Graham. Would he be as eager to learn about Lily Mercer, if he knew all that I knew?

He waited. I said, “Peregrine. We should go back to London. We’ve learned all we can learn, here.”

“You know how the rector died, don’t you?”

“Yes. He tripped and fell down the pulpit stairs. Do you remember? It’s very high and the steps turn and narrow as they descend.”

Frowning, he looked for the memory, then nodded. “Yes. I do remember.”

I had opened my door and was about to cross the threshold, when he said, “You still think Arthur may have killed Lily Mercer, don’t you? I’ve seen your face when you’re afraid the evidence points in that direction. Tell me, how would you choose between Arthur and me, if it came to that-if the only way you could protect him would be to sacrifice me?”

I said, “Arthur is dead. Nothing can harm him now. You are alive.”

“Fair enough. Then I’ll be honest with you as well. If I didn’t kill Lily Mercer, why do I dream so vividly about her death?”

He turned and walked away, going into his room without looking back.

I had dinner sent up to both of us, for fear that someone might recognize Peregrine in the dining room or ask questions about the man who accompanied me. And so I ate alone, and Peregrine did the same.

We left Owlhurst behind and went back to Tonbridge, to take the train to London.

We hadn’t been in the flat for five minutes before Mrs. Hennessey came puffing up the stairs. I made certain Peregrine was safely out of sight before opening my door.

“There’s someone to see you, Miss Crawford. I declare, Mr. Hennessey might have something to worry about, if I were thirty years younger. But after those stairs I daresay I’m thirty years older.” She had brought up the post as well and was fanning herself with it as she caught her breath.

“Is it my father?” What if Peregrine and I’d encountered him as we arrived? It was such a close call I felt weak.

“No, my dear, I know your father very well. It’s the other one. He’s very anxious to speak to you, though he was inordinately polite when he asked if I’d mind going up to fetch you for him.”

Simon Brandon. And that would have been just as bad.

“Yes, I’ll be there in a moment. Let me collect my coat.”

She turned to descend the stairs again, smiling at me over her shoulder. I stepped back into the flat, promised Peregrine that I’d return in a few minutes, and went down to meet the sergeant major.

He greeted me and held the door for me. “Let’s sit in the motorcar-it’s warmer.”

The hall was cold. I went out and got into the motorcar, wondering what was afoot.

As he got behind the wheel, he said, “How are you faring with your search for Lily Mercer?”

“Um-well, I know her parents went to New Zealand shortly after she died.”

“Then you may not know that one Peregrine Graham was charged with her murder. He stabbed her in the throat with his father’s pocketknife. And it was agreed by all parties that he should be remanded to an asylum for the rest of his natural life.”

“Indeed.” It was all I could think of to say.

“Indeed. And said Peregrine Graham is now missing from said asylum, and the authorities have every reason to believe he shot himself on the coast of Kent, somewhere south of Dover. Winchelsea? Dymchurch? And his body is still missing, though they did find someone near his size and age.”

Something he’d just said struck me.

“She was what? Stabbed in the throat, you say?”

“My friend at Scotland Yard tells me that’s what the report says.”

“But-I thought-I mean, someone told me she’d been disemboweled-”

“Now that’s a nasty thing to be telling a lady,” he said, turning to look at me, his dark eyes unreadable in the dimness of the motorcar’s interior.

Oh dear. Simon was frighteningly astute. Had I given myself away? Still, I had to ask.

“Are you very certain, Simon? It’s important to know this.”

“As certain as the report filed at the time of death. I don’t know how your Mrs. Graham managed to protect her stepson the way she did, but the police were in agreement that in his present state, taking him into custody would only aggravate his condition. A number of other cases of a similar nature had been sent to Barton’s, they knew the doctors there and respected their expertise. The upshot of it was, the boy was given into the care of his stepmother to be transported to the asylum, where doctors evaluated the facts, examined him, and reported to the police. The inquest was held, the documents were placed in evidence, and that was the end of the matter.”

“Does the Colonel Sahib know any of this?” I asked after a moment.

“Not yet. That’s why I came to see you first. Want to tell me what’s going on?”

My heart sank. Simon would never accept my assurance that I was as safe with Peregrine Graham as I was with him.

“I learned something when I was in Owlhurst. I don’t know that Peregrine did what he’s accused of. If my information is reliable, it’s possible that his half brother let Peregrine take the blame for what happened to Lily Mercer. If that’s true, Peregrine may have spent nearly fifteen years in an asylum for something he didn’t do.”

Simon whistled. “My God, Bess, you do manage to get yourself into a tangle. Don’t tell me you found a way to spirit Graham out of that asylum yourself. It would be just like you.”

I sighed. “He escaped the day I left Owlhurst. I didn’t know-I thought the family had been told he was dead of pneumonia. There was the death of Lieutenant Booker, you see, and I was so distressed by that-”

“Who is Booker?” Simon asked suspiciously.

“While I was in Owlhurst, I was asked by the local doctor to help him watch a patient suffering from severe shell shock. He was threatening to kill himself, you see, and in fact he did.”

“I thought nursing would keep you safe. How wrong I was. Britannic sank under you, and now Owlhurst involved you in murder and suicide. I’m taking you back to Somerset with me.”

“No, you can’t-” I began to say, then stopped short.

“Pray, why can’t I?”

“I-I want to do something first. Are you sure Lily Mercer was stabbed-that there was nothing else?”

“You’ve already asked me that,” he pointed out. “Who are you really trying to protect, Bess? Arthur? Peregrine? This man Booker? Are you in love with any of them?” His voice was exasperated.

“Ted Booker is-was-married, and he has a son. Arthur is dead. And you just told me that Peregrine was dead.”

“I told you the authorities believe he could be. For all I know, you have him hidden in your flat, while you sort all of this out. If it weren’t for Mrs. Hennessey and her rules, I’d march up there and see for myself.”

I was glad I was looking away from him, watching a large man walking a little dog with pretty brown ears. Simon would surely have read the alarm in my eyes as I scrambled to think of a response.

“I’ll ask her to do my marketing and then smuggle you into the flat. What a story that would make for the Colonel. Just promise not to tell her what you find, or she’ll never allow me to live here again.” God knew how much trouble I’d had smuggling Peregrine in and out. It was a miracle we hadn’t been caught long before this.

Simon laughed, and I could breathe again.

“All right, Bess. Stay in London if you must. But your father’s no fool, and he’ll soon be on your doorstep again with no allowance for your wishes. I’ll give you twenty-four hours before I tell him what the Yard told me.”

“But-that’s not enough time!”

“You don’t have time, Bess. Your father was notified that your orders will be cut within the week. You’ll be sailing for France in a fortnight.”

Oh damn.

I thanked Simon and went back to the flat, my mind racing.

Peregrine was behind the door when I walked in, and I could see that he was on edge.

“That wasn’t your father,” he told me flatly.

“No-that was Simon Brandon. He might as well be my father. Sometimes he’s worse!”

“He’s not old enough to be your father.”

He wasn’t. I hadn’t given it a thought before.

“Peregrine. That doesn’t matter. Listen to me.” I was taking off my coat, reaching for the kettle, making tea. The English panacea for stressful moments. “Somehow Simon got a look at the official report on Lily’s murder. It says-it says that there was a pocketknife in her throat-but no other wounds are listed. If you’d-well, if you’d butchered her, there would have been something in the file.”

“My stepmother-”

“I know. Whatever she told you, she didn’t have the power to change the official record. Are you sure you remember-that you see in your dreams-something so horrible?”

He stared at me. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “No. Yes, I dream I’m touching her entrails.”

Dear God. “Peregrine, it could be that you dream about it. But that it didn’t happen in life. The police can’t be wrong.”

He put his hands to his face, covering it. “You can’t make up a dream. Not like that. Not unless I’m mad as a hatter. I used to wake up screaming, I tell you. It was that real.”

I turned around. “Are you alone? Is someone else in the dream? Who is there in the dream with you?”

“I hear my stepmother’s voice, she’s speaking to me, telling me I should be ashamed, making me face what I’ve done. I am nearly sick from the smell, but she won’t let me go, she’s there.”

The kettle was beginning to boil, I could hear the soft rumble of bubbles forming in the bottom.

“She found you by the body, trying to retrieve your knife from the wound-is that when you see the entrails?”

“I don’t remember.” He crossed the room to sit down heavily in the nearest chair. I was pouring the hot water into the teapot now, splashing a little on my hands, unaware of the pain.

Remember Ted Booker-a little voice in my head reminded me.

Shock can do terrible things to the mind. And a fourteen-year-old boy with limited experience of life might easily be made to remember something that wasn’t real. But how? With words?

I couldn’t quite grasp what had been done. Or how Mrs. Graham could have allowed it to happen. But a mother will do anything to protect her own child, and destroying Peregrine Graham was the surest solution to the thorny problem of presenting Arthur or Jonathan or even Timothy to the police as the murderer.

I cudgeled my wits, but no brilliant solution offered itself.

Handing Peregrine his cup, I sat down across from him with my own. The hot, sweet tea was reviving. “Peregrine? You asked me if I’d sacrifice you to save Arthur’s good name. But the facts point to Arthur as the killer-he was Mrs. Graham’s favorite, he was next to you in age, you were already damaged, and so it was a short step to substituting you for him. But I need to know why Arthur would kill?”

“To protect one of his brothers?” But he was unconvinced.

I on the other hand leapt for that explanation.

“It could happen. If Lily, in the house alone with you and resenting that she couldn’t have the evening off with the other staff, taunted the four of you for being in her way-”

He shook his head. “Don’t.”

“Peregrine. I’m being ordered back to active duty within the week. Time is slipping through our fingers.”

“It doesn’t matter. I can go somewhere else and start another life. The Mercers must have done that in New Zealand, and it would have been harder for them than for me. After all these years in Barton’s, I don’t need much. I could survive.”

Peregrine was already thought to be dead. There were ways it could be made to happen, this new life. There were people in India I could send him to-

But it solved nothing. There was Lily, deserted by her family, however desperate they’d been to accept the offer of passage away from England. If I had thought it was my duty to Arthur to bring his message home, what duty was still owed to Lily Mercer?

“Talk to me, Peregrine. Please-if you didn’t kill her, someone else did. Do you remember what you told me about that conversation where Arthur and Jonathan discussed doing something six times to give the victim-or perhaps the police-a fair chance to catch you?”

“I’ve already considered that. Lily. The policeman Gadd. The doctor. The rector. Lady Parsons.”

“You can’t count her. She survived.”

“The boy who drowned, then. That’s five. And about as farfetched as a fairy tale.”

“Add Ted Booker. Six.”

“Arthur couldn’t have killed Booker.”

“To my knowledge, Jonathan was the last person to see him alive.” Unless I was wrong, and Mrs. Denton went to the surgery.

“Jonathan?”

Unless Jonathan had completed Arthur’s six. It would have to be Jonathan. But he was never Mrs. Graham’s favorite.

He was her son, all the same. And she would be rabid to protect him.

Could he kill at that age? He must have been what, ten? A little younger, perhaps. If he’d caught Lily off guard, he could have struck her with the knife, just happening to find the right place to kill her. Or lashed out and was unlucky enough to cut an artery.

I hadn’t liked Jonathan very much, but that didn’t matter. The truth did.

But what if it was not the boys? What if it was Mrs. Graham? Or Robert? If he’d tried to seduce Lily, and she’d told him she’d complain to Mrs. Graham, he might have been in a panic. Or to twist it another way, if Lily had seen Mrs. Graham and Robert together-or perhaps guessed that one of the Graham children was his-she might have been killed if she threatened blackmail. What were the laws on inheritance, if it could be shown that a child might not be the legal father’s son?

The trouble was, I hadn’t known Lily Mercer, and I hadn’t been able to speak to her family. I was blind when it came to her nature, her way of seeing life, and what she wanted from it.

Daisy had claimed she was ambitious, and that fit nicely with the theory of blackmail. But Lily might well have been innocent of any wrongdoing. I mustn’t make her the villain without evidence.

“I’m going back to Owlhurst. I’ll speak to Lady Parsons, and see if she had any doubts about what happened to you. If Mrs. Graham had already received permission from the London police to take you directly to Barton’s, why did she call in so many people after she reached Owlhurst? The doctor-the police-the magistrate-the rector. To erase any doubt in the minds of people whose opinion mattered in Owlhurst? Or to make certain that you, Peregrine Graham, were seen with blood all over your hands and shirt, so that she and not her stepson would be the object of their sympathy?”

“I’d rather go away now, and not look back.”

“But you’re a witness, Peregrine. You can’t disappear, if there’s to be any justice at all.”

This time I found Simon at his club and asked him to drive me back to Kent. Peregrine was determined to go, but I didn’t want him taking the risk. Or to have to explain to Simon.

Curious, Simon agreed, and he took me to the flat long enough to fetch my bag. Peregrine, in Elayne’s room, didn’t come out, though I was nearly certain he’d call my bluff and find a way to accompany us. I expect if he’d had any uniform but that of my father’s old regiment, he might have tried to do just that.

I half expected to find him gone from London by the time I got back. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. What if it was all taken out of my hands, and I didn’t have to face what Arthur might have done?

Simon was silent for most of the journey, and I was grateful, lost in thought as I was.

We found Lady Parsons just outside Cranbrook in a very lovely old Jacobean house with a pedimented porch and graceful stonework around the windows. The estate was called Peacocks, and on the gates were two magnificent stone peacocks, the hen demure and the male with raised head, above the spread of that glorious tail.

I remembered Lady Parsons from the inquest. But I had forgotten how formidable she was.

She received me in her drawing room, austere in mourning black, with jet beads and only a touch of white at her collar and at her cuffs. A pince-nez on a silver chain was pinned at her shoulder.

“You’re the young woman who worked with Dr. Philips trying to save Lieutenant Booker. What brings you here, second thoughts about your testimony? As I recall, it was an impassioned plea for understanding. Remarkable, I thought. We have no room for compassion in a war such as this one. A shame.”

“I’m afraid that it’s another matter that I wish to discuss, Lady Parsons. The fate of Peregrine Graham.”

The door opened, and a little dog trotted into the room, taking his place at Lady Parsons’s feet.

“Peregrine Graham, is it? You do have a taste for lost causes, my girl. The odds are, he’s dead.”

“So I’ve been told. But I happened on information that confused me-I’d heard that the body of Lily Mercer had been-er, butchered, for want of a better word.”

“We did not ask for such unpleasant details, Miss Crawford. Mrs. Graham was nearly incoherent with shock by the time she reached Owlhurst. I was summoned, along with Inspector Gadd, because she was unable to continue at that hour to the asylum and attend to all the details of admitting her son. Inspector Gadd and I decided the boy was safest at the rectory until he could be moved again, and the doctor determined that he was stable enough to wait a few more hours.”

“According to the information that Scotland Yard has in hand, Lily Mercer died of a single stab wound to her throat.”

“And how did you come by such information, Miss Crawford?” Her voice had taken on a chilly note, and the dog stirred at her feet.

“My father, Colonel Crawford, was able to discover it for me.”

“And is he aware of the use you are now making of this information?”

“He-is aware of my interest in the fate of Lily Mercer.”

“I see.”

“I believe there might have been a miscarriage of justice, Lady Parsons. And I am seeking advice from you on how to proceed in this matter.”

“My advice, if you will take it, is to leave police business to the police. As I did. Inspector Gadd handled a most difficult matter with admirable skill and discretion. That’s all there is to say. It does you credit to want to set the world to rights, my dear, but as Peregrine is dead, I see no point in investigating a tragedy that lies in the past where it belongs. Fifteen years is a long time, witnesses die, attitudes change, and it is almost impossible to make a judgment on new facts when the old ones can’t be reconstructed.”

“I’m not asking you to make a judgment. I’d simply like to know if you were aware of a discrepancy in important details.”

“The nightmare here, Miss Crawford, was that of a child committing murder. We were appalled, and we did what we could to make Mrs. Graham’s hideous duty as simple as humanly possible. You cannot know her state of mind at the time. I witnessed it. I saw the young man myself, and his own state was pitiable. It was I who suggested that Mrs. Graham’s cousin, acting in loco parentis, remove the child the next morning to Barton’s while the doctor treated Mrs. Graham for exhaustion. She had done more than any woman might be expected to do in such circumstances, and I admired her courage in seeing the matter through. But she had three other sons who were in desperate need of her care, and her place was naturally with them. A man’s steadying hand was what Peregrine Graham most needed, and that is what we were able to provide for him.”

“What did Peregrine have to say for himself?” I asked.

“Very little. He was quite naturally dazed by the turn of events, and on that score, it isn’t surprising. I asked him how he had come to kill, and his answer was that he wanted his father’s knife returned to him, he was quite upset that it had been taken away. I asked him how he felt about what he’d done, and he said that he didn’t care for the smell. I asked him if he’d liked the unfortunate victim, and he replied that she was spiteful when no adult was present, and that he had disliked her for it. All very consistent, according to the doctor, with the boy’s inability to tell right from wrong. He couldn’t seem to grasp the severity of his actions. There was no malice, no cunning, no viciousness. There was no doubt in my mind, as there was no doubt in the minds of the London authorities, that prison was inappropriate and that Barton’s Asylum was the proper choice, where he could be evaluated.”

“Why not a London hospital?”

“I believe that the doctor, a man called Hepple, who was a specialist in mental derangement in children, had recently removed to Barton’s. Mrs. Graham was very persuasive. She felt that her stepson had no prior history of violence, no indications of a violent nature, and that it had most likely been a disagreement over a pocketknife, about which he was obsessive, that might have triggered this event. In supervised circumstances, it was likely he would never kill again.”

I could see that I was speaking to a wall. Lady Parsons had made up her mind that night, and she was not accustomed to changing it. I could also see that Mrs. Graham had been terribly distressed but had somehow kept her wits about her as well. And that would be indicative of a shocked and horrified mother who had to fight for a child she loved with every tool at her disposal. Nothing else mattered, not even her own near collapse.

I thanked Lady Parsons for her time and prepared to take my leave.

She said, “My dear, when one is young, one sees dragons everywhere, and one is prepared to fight them. That’s an admirable trait. But as one ages, one often sees that injustice is rare, and that what had appeared to be dragons are merely the shadows the mind creates when it wishes to avoid a bitter truth.”

I stood there for a moment, then asked, “Did you feel I was fighting dragons when I made the plea for Lieutenant Booker?”

“In a way, I did. Shell shock is little understood, although I believe that in young Booker’s case, it was clear that both Dr. Philips and you had fought hard against his dragons. But the dragons won, and that was neither justice nor injustice, but the simple fact that in the end, he didn’t have the strength to endure.”

She hadn’t used the word courage, but it hung in the air between us.

The little dog accompanied us to the door of the drawing room, either ready to defend his mistress or hoping for a walk, it was hard to say.

Which brought me to another matter I hadn’t intended to broach.

“I understand you had a terrible fall from your horse some years ago, Lady Parsons.”

“Oh, my dear, I was frightened to death that I wouldn’t walk again! I don’t know why the horse fell-my groom found cuts on the mare’s knees, and he very rightly called in Constable Abbot, but I could swear that there was nothing on the path that might have tripped up Henny. We had ridden through high grass before we reached the wood, and she might well have encountered something there that I couldn’t see. I don’t wear my spectacles when I ride.”

And that was Lady Parsons’s dragon-that no one would dare touch her or her horse. She was sacrosanct.

Simon said as I walked out to the waiting motorcar, “You don’t appear to be happy with the outcome of your visit.”

“I’ve been fighting dragons. Or so I’m told.”

Simon put the motorcar into gear and drove several miles until he came to a place wide enough for us to pull to the side of the road. The view across the Downs was wonderful in the cold light of a winter’s day.

He said, simply, “What can I do?”

“Dear Simon, I thank you, but it isn’t a position the army can take with full cavalry charge in support of the infantry.”

“Try.”

I shook my head.

“Bess-”

“Do you remember some twenty years ago, there was a scandal about a steeplechase where a favorite lost to a horse with no record of winning-and suddenly in this one race, he was a phenomenon, ahead of the field by some ten lengths? And much later, it was discovered that the horse who won had actually taken the place of the one legally entered in that race? My father was angry when the truth came out. He’d had a wager on the favorite.”

“As I remember the substitution wasn’t discovered for five years.”

“Exactly. I think this must have happened when Lily Mercer was found dead. The wrong boy was blamed, because it served everyone’s purpose for him to be sent to an asylum.”

“That’s a rather strong accusation. The police don’t often get things wrong.”

“And they didn’t. It was a child in that house. Only, the real killer was protected, and the scapegoat was not missed by anyone.”

Simon was silent for some time. And then he asked, “Has this boy-the real murderer-killed again?”

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “Circumstantial evidence says he may have. I’m not a policeman, I can’t prove what I believe.”

“You’re too close to the people involved-too close to be objective.”

“And if I’m sent to France in a fortnight, it will all be swept under the carpet again, and an innocent man will continue to be blamed for something he didn’t do.”

Simon turned to look at me. “Are you in love with this innocent man?”

I laughed. “Hardly.” The laugh faded. “But I see the injustice here, and I’m helpless to change it. And what about the dead girl? What does she deserve? Even her family abandoned her, in a way. She wasn’t the victim, she was the problem, to be swept under the carpet as quickly as possible.”

“You were ever taking pity on the halt and the lame and the lost.”

“I know. I’ve seen so much death, Simon. I’m glad I took up nursing-I’ve been able to do something about the war by saving the lives of wounded men-but there are things I’ll remember until I die, and memories that come in the dark, when I’m trying to sleep.”

He got out to crank the motor. “You should have been a son, Bess Crawford. It would have made life much easier for the rest of us.”

“No, it wouldn’t have done any such thing. You’d have been following me into battle to keep me safe.”