A Duty to the Dead

CHAPTER TWENTY

I WAS ALREADY braking hard, with all my strength, weaving across the road and slewing sideways as the motorcar came to a halt that felt as if it had jarred my very teeth.

Peregrine had walked away from the asylum-he could have remembered this stretch-

Pausing only to pick up the torch that had been sliding wildly about beneath my feet, I was out of the motorcar and running toward the hop field. But the torch’s beam was weak, and I had to concentrate on the broken stalks, which caught at my ankles and threatened to pitch me headlong. Then I reached the plowed ground, stiff with frost, and at last could cast my light toward the dark, quiet shape that was a motorcar, barely silhouetted against the sky.

In the silence I could hear my own labored breathing and the muffled sound of my boots as I ran and from somewhere what I thought was someone weeping.

At last my torch illuminated the shining metalwork of the Graham Rolls, the motor still ticking over. But there was no sign of Jonathan or Peregrine or the policemen. Something was glittering in the rear seat, and I lifted the light for a better look.

It caught the buttons of a constable’s uniform. The man didn’t stir, and I could see as I came closer that he was slumped to one side, as if he were badly hurt.

Oh, Peregrine…why didn’t you trust me?

But he had never been taught trust.

I shone my light full in the constable’s face and realized that he was unconscious, his jaw slack. I could hardly see his features for the spreading mask of blood, almost black in this light, that ran down from a long furrow at his temple and dripped onto his tunic. His helmet was askew, knocked to one side, strap dangling. It was Constable Mason. I pulled off my driving gloves and probed the wound, touching bone. I could even see it briefly, white-and not splintered.

Four bullets… That’s what Peregrine had said: he had four shots, and he could kill three other people before he turned the pistol on himself.

The poor, unsuspecting Constable Mason must have been the first victim. But Peregrine had missed his shot, thank God, and the man would live.

Where were the others?

I reached into the motorcar for the headlamp switch, and suddenly there was a brightness that opened up the night.

The other constable was just ahead of the motorcar, perhaps ten feet from the bonnet, as if he’d been trying to follow his attacker. He lay on his face, not moving. I bent over him. He was dead, there was nothing more to be done for him. I moved on.

That made two…

Where was Jonathan? Where was Peregrine?

I turned to scan the fan of light, my own shadow cast like a black monster far ahead of me.

Something moved, then rose from the ground, hunched over as if in pain, and then the figure dashed out of the glow of the motorcar’s headlamps, into darkness.

“Peregrine-!” I cried. “No, please wait-”

But he was gone, vanished into the night.

I ran forward to where I’d first seen him, and there was Jonathan, lying on his side on the ground, his military greatcoat almost blending into the trampled earth around him. One arm was flung across his face, concealing it. Falling to my knees beside him, I gently lifted it, and he rolled over onto his back with a grunt that told me he was still alive.

More than anything at that moment, I wished I could bring Mr. Appleby here and make him look at the consequences of his spiteful telephone call. I wanted him to see what men do to each other when goaded beyond what they could bear.

I ran my hands over Jonathan’s chest, looking for a wound, and I found it, bleeding freely but not heavily. Pulling off my scarf, I wadded it in a ball, unbuttoned his coat and then his tunic. I shoved the scarf against his shirt, jamming it as best I could against the place where the bleeding was heaviest, then buttoned the tunic over it to hold it in place.

As I worked, I realized that something was hurting my knee, and looked down. There was Jonathan’s service revolver-it had been drawn and was lying under him. He must have tried to defend himself and the two unarmed constables.

I had to get these men to a doctor as quickly as possible. And there was no one to help me.

I sprang to my feet, trying to judge whether I could bring the motorcar this far without bogging down, and how best to loop back to the road. And only then did I notice that someone else was lying in the field, outside the perimeter of the headlamp’s reach. I could only make out the shape of a man’s boot and a lump beyond it that was his body.

I blinked.

Peregrine hadn’t made it to safety after all. As I hurried toward where he lay in a crumpled heap, wounded or dead, I knew that Jonathan wouldn’t have missed his own shot. He was too good a soldier for that.

Then I was beside him, kneeling in the hard earth again, calling his name. His face was in deep shadow, but as I shone my torch into it, his eyelids fluttered, and he said, quite clearly, “Diana?”

“It’s Bess Crawford, Peregrine.”

“So it is.” He winced and lay still.

I could smell burnt wool, sharp and strong. Setting down the torch to search for a wound, I felt blood warm on my hands on both sides of his shoulder, high up. The bullet must have gone through. To get to his coat buttons, I had to turn him over. He cried out, and said something I couldn’t catch. His breathing was fast but steady, and there was no froth of blood on his lips that I could see. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or dismayed that he would live.

I rocked back on my heels, thinking. I could do nothing more here, in the dark, without bandages or good light.

But where to find help?

Peregrine had told me once that there was only a skeleton medical staff at the asylum in the evening. Would anyone come back with me? It would take too long to drive to Owlhurst and bring Dr. Philips here.

The best I could do was try to ease the motorcar forward and somehow manage to get everyone in it.

Beside me, Peregrine stirred. “Watch-”

I took his hand. “It’s Bess Crawford, Peregrine. Can you stand? If I help you, can you get to your feet?”

“Where’s my brother?” His voice was terse, angry.

“Just there. He’s badly hurt. Please, Peregrine, you must help me.”

He frowned, dark lines across his forehead, giving him a sinister look in the torch’s light. I’d seen the same shadows once in his sickroom. “No-”

I turned and hurried back to the motorcar. It was my only hope now. When I got there, I looked at Constable Mason. He was awake, his eyes wide and frightened in the light of my torch. I didn’t think he knew where he was, and proof of that came quickly as he lost consciousness again.

No help there. I got behind the wheel, and just barely touching the accelerator, I felt the tires bite and the motorcar move forward. Thank God. A month or so earlier, and the earth would have been soft enough that I wouldn’t have made it.

I’d have to leave the other constable. It would be nearly impossible to get the two living men into the motorcar, much less a dead man. But I guided the car toward him and examined him again to be certain.

As I knelt there beside him, the torch in my hand died. I thought, Oh, God, what next?

A man’s voice broke the silence, from some distance away, and I nearly leapt out of my skin.

“What’s happened? I heard shots.”

It sounded a little like Robert’s voice. The baritone of a big man.

I couldn’t see him, but he could see me, quite clearly.

I crouched by the constable, a frisson of uncertainty running through me. What was he doing here? “Robert? Is that you?”

To my left, Peregrine tried to shout something, and I was momentarily distracted.

“I say-you there-what’s going on?” the man called again, closer this time.

And then something was hurtling toward me from outside the rim of light. I could hear it coming, breathing hard, and as I got to my feet, braced to meet it, a large dog rushed up, tongue lolling, barking as if to say, Look what I’ve discovered.

Its owner stepped into the edge of the motorcar’s headlamps and stopped, staring. He carried a shotgun, broken, over his arm.

“What’s going on here? Is that a policeman?”

I’d never seen the man before. Relief washed over me and I could almost feel my heart slowing to its normal rhythm.

“I was driving by when I heard the shots,” I said. “My own motorcar is on the road. I’m a nurse-these men are badly hurt. Can you help me get them to a doctor?”

“A nurse? From Barton’s?” He sounded skeptical. Of course-I wasn’t in uniform.

“No, Owlhurst. Please, we mustn’t waste time.”

He walked nearer, and I could see he was a farmer, broad shouldered and strong enough to help me lift a wounded man.

“Is that one dead?” he asked.

“Sadly. Yes. We must leave him for now. But there are two others.” I gestured in the direction of Jonathan and Peregrine.

The dog, disturbed by the scent of so much blood, was frisking around, whining now.

The farmer called him off and waited while I got back behind the wheel. As he glimpsed Constable Mason in the rear, he said in a shocked voice, “There’s another policeman!”

I didn’t answer him. Driving the vehicle gingerly forward again, I came to where Jonathan was lying, Peregrine just beyond him. The farmer followed on foot.

Peregrine was conscious, though in great pain, trying to raise himself and look the stranger over.

“It’s all right,” I said, getting out once more. “Can you stand? Between us we ought to be able to help you.”

He managed it after a fashion, with support. I thought the shot had struck his collarbone or his shoulder, for there was no touching him on that side. He wasn’t coughing, which was a good sign. Still, his face was a ghostly white in the light of the headlamps as we got him to his feet and he walked the short distance to the motorcar, clinging to my good arm. The pain must have been excruciating, each step jarring the wound. Putting him into the rear seat beside Constable Mason was difficult, but Peregrine accepted the situation in grim silence, his jaw set. For the first time I could see a resemblance to Arthur in his last hours, that same will reflected in his brother’s taut face, paring all emotion down to one intense resolve.

Mason was awake again, trying to make sense of what was happening and who we were. I told him I would explain when there was time.

Jonathan was another matter. There would be no help from him. I quickly shoved his revolver into his greatcoat pocket, out of sight, and explained to the farmer what he must do. I heard something behind me and whirled in time to see Constable Mason nearly tumble out of the motorcar, catch himself, and while he was still doubled over, vomit violently before shambling unsteadily toward us, his sense of duty stronger than his dizziness. With his help we settled Jonathan’s limp body into the front seat and shut the door. Constable Mason leaned heavily against the wing, breathing hard from the exertion. I felt like joining him there, every muscle in my body complaining from the effort I’d made. Thank God, my arm had healed sufficiently.

As I got in beside Jonathan, I studied his face. I didn’t like the look of him, but all I could do was to make certain the scarf was still pressed in place. I thought the bleeding had stabilized, but that could be bad news, not good.

Constable Mason roused himself and joined Peregrine in the rear seat, inadvertently jarring him as he tried clumsily to climb inside.

I heard Peregrine swear fiercely under his breath. He’d said very little since I’d found him. I think he knew there would be no escape now and was resigning himself to his fate.

Turning to the farmer, I said, “Please. You must follow me in my motorcar-out there on the road. We must go to Owlhurst.”

For an instant I thought he was about to refuse me. Then he said, “Who shot these men?”

I told him truthfully, “I don’t know.”

He nodded, whistling up the dog, and went striding across the trampled field toward the road.

It was a bumpy ride, making a looping circle across the field and back to the verge where this motorcar had run off into the underbrush. I could hear Constable Mason breathing hard, and Peregrine grunting through clenched teeth.

On the road the farmer was straightening up Melinda’s vehicle and making room for me to pass. The dog’s head was turned toward us, ears pricked, as if making certain we were coming.

“Sorry,” I said, “I’m so sorry,” as we bounced hard back onto the road. And then I was gunning the motor, overtaking Melinda Crawford’s motorcar, heading to Owlhurst. In a matter of minutes we were flying past the brightly lit asylum, almost blindingly bright in the moonless night, and then it was gone, and I was gritting my teeth as I tried to avoid the worst of the dips and ridges of the unmade surface. I couldn’t help remembering how close I’d come to tumbling out of the dogcart when the wheels went off the road, wondering if any of my passengers would make it back alive if I overturned us. But time was critical, and casting a glance whenever I dared at Jonathan’s gray face, I made the best time I could.

Twice behind me, I heard Constable Mason retching as he leaned out his window.

Peregrine asked at one point about Jonathan. “Is he still alive?”

And all I could do was nod my head.

Behind us, the Crawford motorcar kept pace with the farmer at the wheel, its headlamps lighting up our interior, sending shadows dancing around us. Jonathan’s breathing was suspiciously quieter. I sent up a silent prayer that we wouldn’t encounter anything out here-a wandering dog, a man walking home from a pub, someone on a horse, a lorry. It was a narrow road, with little space to overtake.

Constable Mason said, “I’ve the devil of a headache.” And then to me, “I don’t remember you driving us.”

I said nothing, concentrating as we came flying into Owlhurst. It was a quiet time of night, the road blessedly empty, and I kept up my speed as we reached the cricket pitch. And then we were coming up on The Bells. By the garden gate was the Graham dogcart, and two men were just coming out of the pub door, staring at us as we passed. I almost didn’t make the turning at the church, slowing in the nick of time, and then there was the doctor’s surgery just ahead, and I felt like crying with relief.

I came to as gentle a stop as possible, and was out my door, running toward the house, calling for Dr. Philips.

He must have been just finishing his dinner, a serviette still in his hand, surprise on his face as he recognized me and then he saw the Crawford motorcar pulling in just behind the Grahams’.

“What in the name of God-has there been an accident?”

“I have three badly wounded people with me-gunshots.” I listed their symptoms quickly, striving to leave nothing out. “The worst case is Jonathan Graham. I’m so afraid he’s bleeding internally.”

Even as I was describing the situation, we were walking quickly toward the vehicle. The farmer seemed to know Dr. Philips, for I saw him nod as he and his dog approached.

We took Jonathan in first, and Dr. Philips was already at work on him as the farmer-I’d finally asked him his name, and he’d told me it was Bateman-helped first Constable Mason and then Peregrine into the surgery.

Mr. Bateman said, as we settled Mason with a pillow and a basin for the nausea, “Will someone please tell me what’s happening? Two army officers, two policemen-”

“Let’s make certain they survive,” I said, cutting him off. “Then we’ll worry about what happened.”

We dealt with Peregrine next, and as I closed his room door, I could see that Mr. Bateman was going to cling to me like a leech until he got his answers. Something had to be done about that.

I looked at him, really saw him for the first time. A worried man, blood on his hands and the sleeves of his coat and in a smear across his face. I was suddenly reminded of Peregrine’s hands in the offal at the butcher’s shop in Rochester.

We wouldn’t have made it to Owlhurst without Mr. Bateman. But I didn’t want to begin explanations until I was certain myself what had happened on the road. Still, there was one more service he could provide, if he was willing. By that time I hoped I’d be able to question Peregrine or Jonathan.

“Would you mind terribly going to fetch Lieutenant Graham’s mother? Don’t frighten her, but his condition is-rather critical. And it might be as well to summon the rector. In the event…” I let my voice trail off.

From his expression, I got the feeling that Mr. Bateman knew the rector, and he most certainly recognized the Graham name. But I gave him the necessary directions anyway, and for a mercy, he took himself off, the dog dancing around his legs, as if eager to be out of the surgery and into the night air again.

When I looked in on him next, Constable Mason was beginning to feel a little better, and he insisted that he should be given a chair so that he could sit in Peregrine’s room, on duty. But then he retched again, rather spoiling the effect of his claim to be quite recovered, and he lay back, shutting his eyes against the light-headedness sweeping him.

“Mr. Graham isn’t going anywhere,” I assured him as I closed his door. “We’ll be giving him a sedative shortly. It will be more effective than a dozen constables.”

Dr. Philips and I worked feverishly for a quarter of an hour. I was right about Constable Mason’s concussion. He could remember his name, but he was clearly seeing double when I held up two fingers, and he had no idea what had happened on the road. He asked to speak to Constable Whiting, but before I could answer that, he had drowsed off, and I had trouble waking him again.

Peregrine had a fractured clavicle close to where it met the shoulder, and he lay there against his pillows, his eyes closed to avoid being questioned as Dr. Philips gave him something for pain and strapped the shoulder and the left arm to Peregrine’s chest. It was a clean wound, and barring infection, he would be all right.

Jonathan was far more seriously injured, with the likelihood that the bullet had nicked a vein, causing internal bleeding. It was still lodged somewhere in his chest, and the broken ribs made breathing difficult. He was awake, stoically following our movements but saying nothing until Dr. Philips left the room.

“Are Mason and Whiting dead?” He didn’t wait for me to answer him. “I shot them all,” he managed to add. “I’ve been recalled to join my regiment. I won’t survive France this time. It was best to rid us of Peregrine once and for all. For-for Mother’s sake.”

His voice faltered at the end, realizing that he had used Arthur’s own words.

I’d seen the revolver where he must have dropped it as he fell. I’d shoved it in his greatcoat pocket before we attempted to lift him. But Peregrine too had been armed.

“Peregrine is alive. He’ll live,” I responded. “Dr. Philips is with him now.”

Jonathan swore with feeling. “I want to confess. I want you to write my confession down, word for word. Let the doctor witness it.”

“You’re in no condition-”

“I want to confess.”

To keep him quiet, I said, “Yes, all right, I’ll fetch pen and paper for you-”

I left the room, and ran into Dr. Philips in the passage outside.

“I wish you would tell me what this is about. And did I hear you call that other officer Peregrine? Peregrine Graham? What’s he doing in uniform? I thought-”

I took a deep breath. “The two constables were taking him back to the asylum. Something happened only a few miles from there-that field at the bend. Do you know it? I’m not sure if Peregrine-or Jonathan-Suffice it to say, before they reached Barton’s, they went off the road, and somehow, someone began shooting. It was all over when I got there.”

“And what in hell’s name were you doing-”

“I followed the Graham motorcar from a friend’s house, where Peregrine was taken into custody. But he’d been falsely accused, they had no business taking him back there.”

“He’s a dangerous man, Bess, everyone said so when he escaped. That he shouldn’t be approached. I must send for Inspector Howard-”

“Dr. Philips-he’s been sedated. He’s not likely to harm anyone.”

“There was a pistol in his greatcoat pocket, and a hole there where it had been fired, right through the cloth. I’ve taken the pistol and locked it in my desk.”

Oh, dear God.

“Let me see it. I want to see how many shots are left.”

“Three. I’ve already looked.”

“But-” I broke off, frowning. “Did you-did you think to look at Jonathan’s revolver?”

“He handed it to me. He said four shots had been fired. He was right.”

But that made five, and I’d only heard four.

Dr. Philips was saying, “We should bring Mrs. Graham here as soon as possible. And find the rector. I’m transferring Jonathan Graham to hospital in Cranbrook. She’ll want to go with him. I can’t probe for that bullet here. If he can survive the journey, they just might save him. It will be touch and go.”

“I’ve sent for them.”

“Well done.”

I went on to Dr. Philips’s office, where I quickly found pen and paper. And then I looked in on Peregrine. The sedative was already working. His eyes were closed, his mouth a tight line of pain and despair.

Touching his hand, I said urgently, “Peregrine? What happened out there on the road tonight? You must tell me-who did you shoot? Was it Jonathan?”

He opened his eyes as I spoke. Then he turned his face to the wall and wouldn’t meet my gaze.

“Listen to me! Jonathan has confessed to trying to kill the two constables and you. Is it true? He may be dying, I need to know.”

There was no answer.

“You fired your pistol. While it was still in your pocket.” I reached for his greatcoat, lying across a chair’s back, and showed the blackened hole to him. “Look, here’s proof.”

“I won’t go back to the asylum,” he said finally. “I can’t face it. I’d rather be hanged.”

“Constable Mason will be all right in a day-two. He’ll be able to speak to Inspector Howard. You might as well tell me the truth. It’s the only way I can help you.”

“Mason was the first to go down. He won’t know what happened after that. I shot Jonathan,” he said, and something in the timbre of his voice rang true.

“But that doesn’t make sense. He wasn’t shot in the back while he was driving-and he couldn’t have walked that far from the motorcar, hurt as he was.”

He wouldn’t answer.

“Peregrine. I promise you, you won’t go back there-”

I could read the bleakness in his eyes as he replied, “Bess, you nearly worked a miracle. I’m grateful, truly. But I can’t walk out of here. I stood up just now and tried, and it was hopeless. Someone has taken my pistol, and so I can’t use it on myself. I’ll have to stay and face them. There’s nothing more we can do.”

I didn’t try to argue, but I was far from giving up. My father had always said I was as stubborn as a camel.

“I’ve sent for Mrs. Graham. She’ll be here shortly. I thought you’d prefer to know that.”

And then I went back to Jonathan, hoping for a little time before his mother arrived.

Jonathan was waiting for me as I opened the door to his room. When he saw the paper and pen in my hands, he said, “Hurry.”

And so I sat there, beside another Graham son, this time instead of writing a letter home, I was taking down a confession of murder.

It was brief, no details, just the stark facts. When I’d finished, he held out his hand for the pen, to sign.

I said, “Did you kill Lily Mercer, Jonathan? I know it wasn’t Peregrine. Arthur knew that too. It’s what he meant by his message to you. Surely-surely, if you’re confessing to these deaths, you will want to tell me the truth of that one as well. Peregrine doesn’t deserve to return to Barton’s. He’s suffered enough. Set him free, while you can.”

But he lay there in stony silence, his hand shaking a little as he reached a second time for the pen.

What was it about these Graham men? Stubbornly silent when they might set the record straight. First Arthur and now Jonathan and even Peregrine.

I watched him sign the confession. His signature was a scrawl, but legible enough to suffice.

“Take it to Inspector Howard. Don’t let my mother see it. It would be a cruelty.”

I agreed and was about to leave when he said, “Let it be finished.”

“It can’t be finished, if Peregrine Graham is sent back to that place. You never went there, did you? But Arthur did. And still he said nothing. Did nothing. What did he mean when he said he’d lied, for his mother’s sake? Did you lie as well? Was she the one who killed Lily Mercer, and blamed Peregrine?”

Goaded, he said, “God, no! Damn you, don’t even suggest such a thing!”

“Then why did you have to lie, for her sake?”

“I lied because the police were there and they frightened her. She’d been crying. When they asked me about the pocketknife, I told them that it was Peregrine’s, that none of us ever touched it because it was left to him by his father. I didn’t know-I was ten, I didn’t understand what it was I was doing.”

But that must have meant he knew who had had possession of that knife.

“Take the paper-go.” He was insistent, the urgency reflected in his eyes.

I looked at the man lying on the cot.

He hadn’t confessed until he’d realized Peregrine was still alive… With Peregrine dead, the police would easily have come to the conclusion that the dangerous lunatic had run amok. They might still feel that way.

And Peregrine was claiming he’d shot Jonathan-but not the policemen. If he wanted to hang, why not admit to three people? Then where was the need for Jonathan to take the blame?

It was dark out there in the field. When he’d run off the road, why hadn’t Jonathan left the motorcar’s headlamps burning?

So that the other occupants of the motorcar couldn’t see what he’d seen-that someone else had been there?

And the Graham dogcart was standing in the yard of The Bells. It had been used tonight.

I said, “This confession is a lie. Who did you meet on the road tonight?”

He shut his eyes, not answering me.

“I saw him running away-I thought at first it was Peregrine. But Peregrine was already down, wasn’t he? He fired at someone, and missed. While you were struggling for control of your own revolver. That’s why I thought I’d only heard four shots. It wasn’t Peregrine who wounded you, it was Timothy, wasn’t it? And you’re still protecting him! How many people must he kill before he’s stopped?”

“My brother-he’s my brother.”

“So is Peregrine, and you left him to the horrors of an asylum.”

I took a deep breath, feeling a wave of exhaustion sweep over me. There was only one other thing I wanted to know. But Jonathan was having difficulty breathing and I moved his pillows to make him more comfortable.

Dr. Philips was at the door, saying, “The ambulance is on its way.”

I turned to Jonathan. “Will you at least tell me what Arthur had done that distressed him so? I brought his message-”

Someone spoke from just behind Dr. Philips. It was Mrs. Graham, her face starkly pale, her gaze on Jonathan. “He didn’t confide in you after all. I was so sure he had. The police asked him if Peregrine had ever been violent before. And Arthur answered that we were all afraid of him. Arthur had been standing outside the parlor where the police were questioning me, he knew what had been said. He knew I’d claimed that I’d found that same knife deep in my pillow one night. It was a large pocketknife, a man’s. The police were appalled. I knew they would be. Arthur saw that I was close to breaking down, and he lied to make them leave me alone.”

Two boys, barely understanding what was happening around them, telling lies because they were afraid, confused, and trying to please the adults who were interrogating them. And with their words, damning their half brother to a lifetime in a madhouse. But they’d never been taught to think of him as their brother, had they? Mrs. Graham had purposely kept them apart.

“What did Timothy tell the police?”

She took a deep breath. “He told the police that Peregrine had once threatened to carve him like a Christmas goose with that same knife.”

I wanted to bury my face in my hands and cry. On the lies of these three children, their mother had been able to protect her own son and keep him safe all these years, even knowing him for what he was. And no one had given a thought to Peregrine. He was the outcast, he was the eldest, and this woman had convinced herself that in the end his life would not have amounted to much anyway.

She couldn’t have loved Robert that much. But she had loved Timothy. And Timothy was only nine at the time.

“Why would Timothy wish to kill Lily?”

“Apparently that night she saw his foot after his bath. Jonathan was there later when she told Timothy-a child, mind you!-that it was ugly and hairy and useless. He never showed that foot to anyone. She told him it was the devil’s club and he was the devil’s spawn. When I heard that, I felt nothing for her, I owed her nothing.” Her voice was harsh, cold.

“Did he understand-did he realize he was killing her?”

“I’ve never asked him.”

She came into the room and took her son’s hand. She simply held it and told him she loved him, that nothing else mattered to her but that.

I slipped away, and in the passage came face-to-face with Robert Douglas. He stood there, stark anguish in his eyes.

“You can go in,” I said gently.

He shook his head. “No. I loved him as my own. Arthur too. But they were Ambrose’s sons.”

It was an admission, in his own fashion, that he’d protected Timothy because the last Graham son was his.

And that explained so much. The love child, the deformed child, the child of guilt. No wonder Mrs. Graham had guarded him so fiercely.

I turned away, to allow him the privacy to grieve, and went to stand beside Peregrine’s bed. I could hear them working with Jonathan, preparing him for the journey to Cranbrook. My training told me he wouldn’t make it.

Mr. Bateman, the man from the hop fields, came to the doorway. “I wish someone would explain what’s happened,” he said, beginning to show signs of angry frustration.

I turned to ask him to be patient a little longer, just as a voice beyond him said, “Let me try.”

It was Simon Brandon. “You’re the devil to keep up with,” he went on plaintively to me. “I’ve searched half of Kent for you. Why did you have my poor watcher arrested? He was there to keep an eye on you and make certain you were safe. You’re covered in blood. And there’s a dead policeman in a field not far from Owlhurst, and three men here in the surgery who’ve been shot.” And then he asked in a lighter tone, “Did you do it, Bess? No, don’t answer that, I don’t want to know.” He gave me a weary smile.

Rattled, I said, focusing on one word, “Your watcher? But-I thought someone else had hired him. Why don’t you ever tell me these things?”

He swore under his breath and took away the man and his patient dog. As I was shutting the door again, I saw Mr. Montgomery hurrying by, on his way to Jonathan’s room. Robert, realizing what that must mean, followed him.

But so far no one had fetched Inspector Howard.

I said fiercely to Peregrine, “You must listen to me. If you go on saying you shot Jonathan, they’ll believe you. They’ll want to. Wait until they’ve retrieved that bullet and know if it was from your weapon or Jonathan’s revolver.”

He gave me a twisted smile. “Why should I lie?”

“Because you don’t want to go back to Barton’s. But I think-I’m nearly sure-you were aiming at someone else. We must clear that up, don’t you see? You’ve trusted me this far.” But it was a measure of what he’d suffered there that Peregrine would rather hang than go back to Barton’s. I could feel his resistance like a stone wall. I still had Jonathan’s confession in my hands. I couldn’t rip it up until I was sure. It couldn’t have been an hour since I’d found the Graham car in that field, but once Jonathan was in an ambulance on his way to Cranbrook, Dr. Philips would have time to remember Inspector Howard. And then it would be too late. Clutching at straws, I said, “Peregrine. What am I to tell Diana?”

He lay there, drowsy from the sedative, thinking it over. I wanted to hurry him, but all I could do was wait.

And then he said in a dead voice that concealed whatever it was he was feeling-love, hate, disillusion, grief, I couldn’t tell-“Timothy. Timothy came out of nowhere. He was suddenly there-in the middle of the road-and when Jonathan stopped, he walked up to the window. He said something to his brother-I think it was, “You can’t do this, Jonathan”-and Jonathan got out to talk to him. All at once there was a scuffle, and Timothy had Jonathan’s revolver. Without a word, he just turned and shot Mason. After that, it was chaos. Jonathan threw himself back behind the wheel and rammed the motorcar into the field when he should have run his brother down. Timothy followed us, and the other policeman got out, trying to reason with him, and Timothy shot him as well. Jonathan said to me, “Run!” and I ran for the shadows just as Jonathan switched off the headlamps. Timothy came after me, and Jonathan after him. They fought, and I fired at Timothy as soon as I had a clear shot. Jonathan’s revolver went off at the same time. I thought I’d hit Timothy, but it was Jonathan who went down. Timothy cried out, dropped to his knees beside his brother. Before I could move, he stood up again and deliberately shot me. I struck my shoulder as I fell, and that’s the last thing I remember until I saw you there. I couldn’t understand why you’d come. I was afraid Timothy might shoot you as well.”

I shivered, remembering how he’d tried to shout a warning. And I’d misunderstood it. I’d believed he was running away. But it was Timothy I’d seen. The brothers were nearly the same height, the same build…

Carefully folding Jonathan’s confession, I thrust it into my pocket.

Dr. Philips came in. He said to me quietly, “I don’t suppose Peregrine Graham can understand what’s happening. But he ought to go with Jonathan to hospital in Cranbrook. Do I need a police escort? They’ll want to know.”

“An escort?” I went on briskly before Peregrine could speak. “Mr. Graham will be represented by his solicitors in London, and they’ll be assuming all responsibility for his welfare.” And if his solicitors refused, I knew a firm that would take him on. “As for comprehending his circumstances, you can tell him yourself what’s expected of him.”

Dr. Philips stared at me, and then said slowly to Peregrine, “Are you aware of what I’m saying, Mr. Graham?”

Peregrine responded, his voice thick with sleep, his eyes closed, “I wouldn’t argue with her if I were you. It does no good.”

Dr. Philips gestured for me to follow him into his office, where we couldn’t be heard.

“Madmen can sound perfectly sane some of the time,” he warned.

“He isn’t mad. Any more than Ted Booker was mad.”

“I just looked in on Constable Mason. He told me that someone by the name of Timothy shot him. Does he think Peregrine is Timothy?”

“Of course not. Timothy Graham stopped the motorcar tonight before it could reach Barton’s. He didn’t mean to shoot Jonathan, but he did intend to kill the others.”

Before he could say anything more, down the passage we heard the door to Jonathan’s room open, and Mrs. Graham came out, leaning heavily on the rector’s arm. She was in tears, such grief in her face that I pitied her. And I knew that Jonathan wouldn’t travel to Cranbrook after all. Robert followed her, and I thought about what was to come, the next blow to fall, when Inspector Howard had been summoned.

As soon as they’d passed the office, on their way out the far door into the cold night, Dr. Philips went quickly to Jonathan to do what needed to be done. I leaned against a chair, too tired to think. I had a decision to make, and I wasn’t sure I was clearheaded enough to do it.

Jonathan’s confession would only muddy the waters. It wasn’t true, for one thing, and for another it was imperative now to speak to Inspector Howard before Mrs. Graham could find another way to subvert justice. But I would keep it. I owed Jonathan that.

Simon came looking for me just then, saying, “Mr. Bateman has gone home. I took him in Mrs. Crawford’s motorcar. What do we do about that poor constable lying in a field?”

“I was just coming to that. I’ll have to speak to Inspector Howard, he should have been here before Jonathan died, but-but…” I took a deep breath. “But it was just as well. Constable Mason and Peregrine Graham will live, they can tell him what happened.”

“Do you want a cup of tea first? You look out on your feet.”

I shook my head. “I’ll just find my coat. I can’t remember now where I left it.” But it was on the rack in the passage where I must have flung it as we arrived in such a rush. There was blood on it as well, crusted over now.

Simon helped me into it, then said, “It was never Peregrine, was it?”

“Why are you so sure?” I asked as we walked out of the surgery and I looked up at the stars, wishing that I were back on Britannic and none of this had ever happened. But no, I couldn’t wish that, for Peregrine would still be shut up in a madhouse.

“You’re a damned good judge of human nature,” he said.

We had started toward the police station just as the ambulance arrived to carry the wounded and the dead to Cranbrook.

I helped to settle Peregrine on the stretcher, although he regarded the attendants with suspicion, and small wonder.

At the last, he put out a hand, and I took it, knowing it was a promise between us that all would be well. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t need to.

We were watching the ambulance make the turning at the church, in the direction of Cranbrook, when we heard someone calling for Dr. Philips. It was the rector, running toward us with coattails flapping and his hat gone. He was ashen in the ambulance headlamps as they swept over him, and we hurried to meet him, Dr. Philips, Simon, and I.

“It’s Mrs. Graham-” I began. She’d been on the verge of collapse. And I was fairly certain the rector would be hopeless in the face of that.

But I’d misjudged him.

“I was on my way back to the rectory,” he said disjointedly. “Susan had taken Mrs. Graham to her room-Mr. Douglas is with her. Timothy-I went to comfort him and couldn’t find him-and just now-he’s-Timothy is hanging from a tree in the churchyard!”

One of those ancient trees that stood by the wall. Where I’d seen Robert Douglas bring Mrs. Graham the news that Peregrine had escaped from the asylum.

We rushed to follow the rector, and then Simon was there with his knife, and we could cut Timothy down. It was too late. He must have gone out as soon as he saw his mother return home with the news about Jonathan.

My first thought was for Mrs. Graham and Robert. And then for Peregrine.

Dr. Philips said, “My God-” as if echoing my thought.

We took Timothy to the doctor’s surgery, and then the rector and the doctor went together to hand a grieving mother the final blow.

And Robert Douglas? How would he face the death of his own child? As he had always done in a crisis-with silence.

I couldn’t go with them. I didn’t think Mrs. Graham would want to see me now any more than I wished to see her. Instead I stood there in the room where Jonathan had died, looking down into the face of his brother. A murderer. Yet it was unmarked by anything he’d done. As if his conscience had always been clear.

He’d worn a coat-rather like an officer’s greatcoat-to the tree, to throw the rope over a heavy bough and tie the end to the bole of the tree. He’d even brought a stool with him to stand on. And then he’d folded his coat and set it aside before putting the noose around his neck. I’d brought the coat back to the surgery with us, and reached for it now to cover his face.

It was then that I saw the tear in the sleeve near the shoulder. I touched it gently. A bullet had passed through the thick fabric just there. I opened Timothy’s shirt and looked at his arm. Here was a bloody crease where the shot had grazed the skin as well. It had hurt, but it would have healed on its own without anyone else the wiser. Now it was proof that he’d been on the road near Barton’s tonight.

Simon had come in and was saying, “There’s something in his hand.”

I looked down, praying it was a note, a message, something-but it was too small, only a square clenched in his palm, hardly noticeable.

When I took it out to unfold it I saw with shock that it was nothing more than a list of names, and at the top was Lily Mercer. At the bottom, just below Ted Booker, was scrawled in anguish My brother.

I refolded the note and put it back where I’d found it.

Simon nodded. “Best that way,” he said. “The police…”

“There’s something I must do first,” I said. “It’s important. Will you wait?”

“Yes.”

I walked alone toward the church. As I came to the west door, in the distance, carrying on the quiet night air, I heard one of the owls call from the wood that had given this place its name.

It was cold as the grave inside, and dark as death. I could just see my way. I remembered Mr. Montgomery, in the organ loft, repairing his precious church. He would be on a ladder tomorrow, looking for new tasks to keep his mind off the suffering he’d witnessed.

I came to a halt in front of the memorial to Arthur. This time I put my fingers out to touch the brass plaque, running them along the words engraved there, feeling the sharp edges of letters that spelled out the dates of a man’s life and death, but not the sum of the man himself.

He had tried once to visit Peregrine in the asylum and been turned away. It was more than anyone else had done. He’d told the staff to allow Peregrine to have books, because as the oldest of his three brothers he remembered a time when Peregrine was normal and bright. He had lied for his mother’s sake, but at the end of his life, he couldn’t go on lying. And yet he’d trusted to Jonathan to see matters right. He hadn’t put his plea on paper to be shown to Lady Parsons or the police. He hadn’t had the courage to stand up for Peregrine in the face of family loyalty. But he’d hoped that Jonathan might-Jonathan, the unfeeling brother, who might find it easier to step forward on his behalf.

It could be argued that small boys couldn’t have changed what was happening to Peregrine that night in London or here in Owlhurst. Even with the best will in the world. And none of them had witnessed what their mother had done to sear Peregrine’s guilt into his mind. They had lied for her sake. That was all they knew. And yet when they were older, when they could understand what their mother had done to Peregrine, they had never questioned her actions or their role in what had happened. They’d simply turned their backs on the truth. They had been well taught to shield Timothy.

What if Arthur had survived the war, and asked me again to marry him, even with one leg? If I’d said yes, I’d have believed, like everyone else, that Peregrine was a murderer. And Arthur would have let me believe that.

That was what hurt the most. That I would have been drawn into the conspiracy of silence, unwittingly and therefore willingly.

He’d had feet of clay after all.

I had been fond of the man I thought Arthur Graham was. I had mourned him with my whole heart. Visiting Kent had brought him closer for a short time, and I’d been grateful for that. Now, being here made saying farewell easier.

I dropped my hand from the memorial brass, standing there for a moment longer.

“Good-bye, Arthur,” I said softly, and turned away.

Simon Brandon was waiting for me at the church door. He didn’t say anything until we had reached the police station, tucked away on a side street.

“He must have had some good in him, Bess, or you couldn’t have cared for him the way you did,” he said, offering what comfort he could.

“For a time I wanted to believe that,” I answered. “You couldn’t help but like him. But Matron was right. We know them for such a brief space. And so they are ours to heal, but not ours to love.”