A Duty to the Dead

CHAPTER SEVEN

WHEN WE GATHERED in the dining room for our noon meal, Mrs. Graham was profuse in her apologies for using a guest so poorly, and added her gratitude for saving her son’s life. I wasn’t sure I believed the latter. The Grahams could decently mourn the dead, and admit that they’d loved him. Even if they choked on the words.

How would my own parents feel if I were taken up for murder?

A sobering thought that made the Grahams’ dilemma strike home. And yet I couldn’t forget that they had protected themselves-at whose expense?

“My training wasn’t solely for the battlefield, Mrs. Graham. I was taught to work with the sick as well,” I reminded her.

“We heard almost nothing from the sickroom except the endless sound of his coughing. Did-was Peregrine able to speak? I worry that they were treating him well, that he’d had proper care.”

I knew what she was fishing for. She could have come and asked him about his care herself.

“He was hardly able to speak more than a few words,” I told her. “He asked where he was, and if the war was still going on. He asked what year it was…” I let my voice trail off, as if I were having trouble remembering anything else. I most certainly couldn’t tell her that he believed she or Robert had killed his father.

She seemed to be surprised that he didn’t know what year this was. “But surely they tell him-” She stopped, then went on in a different direction. “Well. He’s always been troubled in his mind. Even as a child. At least he doesn’t appear to be any worse-violent, difficult to manage.”

“I don’t think he had the strength to be difficult.”

We had just finished our pudding when Dr. Philips came to the door and asked to speak to me.

While I was playing angel of mercy, Ted Booker had tried again to kill himself, and it had been necessary to strap him down to a bed and keep him at the surgery.

“I don’t know what will happen to him. I feel I’ve failed him in some fashion. He wants to see you. Meanwhile I must contact the clinic and tell them to hurry. Booker can’t wait six weeks for space. Not now.”

“He’s asking for me? I’m surprised he remembers me at all.”

“I expect his wife may have told him. Will you come?”

Mrs. Graham protested, but this time it was more form than substance.

I went to fetch my coat and stepped out into the still, cold air.

“When I heard that Peregrine was ill,” Dr. Philips said as I preceded him down the walk, “I offered to come. They told me you were managing very well. I wasn’t surprised. I’d already witnessed a little of your skills.”

I turned my head to look at him. “But-I kept wondering why you hadn’t at least overseen what I was doing.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Graham would have sent for me if she’d believed he was truly in danger. It was a compliment that she trusted to your training.”

I opened my mouth to tell him just how ill Peregrine Graham had been, how I’d lain awake hour after hour, worried as he struggled to breathe. And then I stopped myself in time. What good would it do to make him wonder why Mrs. Graham had turned him away?

It hadn’t yet begun to snow, and I made some remark about how heavy the clouds were. Dr. Philips told me snow was unlikely. The awkward moment passed.

We walked in silence to his surgery, cutting through the churchyard. I told him about the rector’s carpentry.

“He’s quite good with his hands. I could wish him a stronger force-he’s sometimes of two minds about what should be done when he ought to be taking a stand.”

“Perhaps he’s chosen the wrong profession.”

“You haven’t heard his sermons. They’re quite good as well,” the doctor assured me. “It’s solving problems of a practical nature where he’s something of a paradox.”

I wondered if he was thinking about the rector’s views on Ted Booker.

The doctor’s housekeeper met us at the door and let us into the surgery, saying as I entered, “You’re the young woman who knew Arthur.”

“I did, yes.”

“We all mourned him. Such a shame.”

What do you say in response to that? I smiled, and she took my coat before leading me back to the small room where they had put Ted Booker.

He lay on the bed, his eyes closed, but he opened them when Dr. Philips said quietly, “She’s here.”

I saw such misery in their depths. My heart went out to him. But I said in my brisk voice, “What’s this I hear about you doing yourself a harm?”

He looked at the doctor, and both Dr. Philips and the housekeeper withdrew, shutting the door softly after them.

Lieutenant Booker said, “I’m a coward. Just as they say. A brave man would have got it done properly.”

“Perhaps it isn’t your time to die,” I replied. It was an echo of what I had said to Peregrine Graham. “Had you thought about that?”

“No.” It was blunt.

“Well, it’s something to consider. Hasn’t your poor wife suffered enough? Even for Harry’s sake? He would be the first to tell you to put the living before the dead. You won’t bring him back by sacrificing yourself as well, you know. And he doesn’t have a son to carry on his memory. But you do, and it’s your duty to see that your own son remembers his uncle with pride and honors him for his courage.”

He held up his wrists, bandaged now. “I couldn’t do it. Not even for Harry.”

“Then I’m proud of you. Something deep inside prevented you, and that means in time you’ll heal. The living must go on living, or we fail the dead.”

“It wasn’t that. I heard my brother crying out to me. As clearly as I hear you now. He stopped me, I didn’t stop myself.”

I digested that, then said, “Which proves I was right. There was some reason for you to live.”

“It shook me to the core.”

I could see that it had. “Of course it did.” I pulled up the only chair in the small room and sat down by the bed. “I expect he watches over you. And always will.”

He stared at me. “I told myself it was proof of my madness.”

“I’d say, rather, proof of your sanity. Why did you send for me?”

“Because none of them has been to war. You’ve come close.” He frowned. “I thought I’d seen you in France. When Harry was taken to the dressing station.”

“It was dark, you were very upset. We look alike in our uniforms.”

“That’s true…” He hesitated. “Will you tell the doctor that I won’t try again? He won’t believe me. My mother-in-law is set on sending me back to the clinic. I want to stay here.”

“Dr. Philips has already given you one chance. And Mrs. Denton is sick with worry for her daughter. Wouldn’t you be in her shoes?”

“I tried to make her understand about Harry,” he said defensively.

“Oh, don’t be silly, Lieutenant. If you had a daughter and she’d married a soldier who seems bent on breaking her heart if he doesn’t frighten her to death first, what would you do?”

He gave me a twisted smile. “I’d try to knock some sense into the bas-” He broke off. “Beg pardon, Sister.”

“That’s precisely what Sally’s mother feels.”

“Tell them I’m sorry. Tell them to give me one more chance. I won’t let them down.” His eyes pleaded, and I tried to judge whether he meant it at this moment but would succumb to his nightmares again.

There was no way of telling. “I’ll speak to Dr. Philips.”

“I can’t help that the trenches come back-”

“That’s not your fault,” I agreed. “This”-I gestured to his surroundings, the bandages and the straps holding him down-“this is your doing.”

He shut his eyes, and I could see tears beneath the lids. Men don’t like to be seen crying. I turned and quietly left him alone.

I wasn’t sure Dr. Philips believed me when I told him that Ted Booker had promised not to do anything rash again. I could read the skepticism in his face. After all, I was a nurse, and he was the medical man.

Walking back to the Graham house, I was overtaken by the rector-he called to me, introducing himself in the same breath.

“Miss Crawford? I say, I’m Christopher Montgomery, the rector.”

I turned to meet him as he caught me up.

He was a man of middle height, with light blue eyes and fair skin. I put his age at forty, perhaps forty-five.

“I understand you were with Arthur Graham when he died.”

“Yes, I was. I came to Owlhurst with messages for his family. We nearly met before, Rector. I was in the church the other day, when you were repairing something in the organ loft.”

He smiled ruefully. “I must have been making a terrible racket. But the bench was wobbly, according to my organist, Mr. Lessing, and I took it upon myself to find a solution. Thankfully, all four legs of the bench were even when I finished.”

I laughed. “I’m sure they were.”

“I saw you leaving the surgery just now.”

“I was looking in on Lieutenant Booker.”

“Yes, I sat with him earlier. A sad case. I don’t understand what shell shock does to the mind, but I can see very clearly how much he’s suffering. I was a chaplain in the first months of 1915. They sent me home because I had a very bad case of trench foot. Embarrassing, to say the least. But I’ve thought for some time that it might have also been my reluctance to convince men that God intended for them to die for King and Country.”

“There are worse cases than Mr. Booker’s.”

He shook his head. “That’s beyond my ability to imagine.”

We had turned to walk together toward the church gate, where I would take the shortcut to the Graham house.

The rector said after a moment, “I wanted to ask you about Peregrine Graham.”

I was immediately on my guard. It wouldn’t do to gossip about the Grahams behind their backs.

“It came to my ears that he’d been brought home and is not expected to live. Is it true?”

“He’s much improved, I’m happy to say. Someone came for him only this morning.”

“Yes, the neighbors were quick to inform me that the ambulance had returned, but they couldn’t tell me whether it took him away alive or dead. I tried to call one morning, but was turned away. They told me Peregrine had no wish to see me.”

I hadn’t known that he’d called. I said, trying to be judicious, “I don’t think he was really well enough for a visitor.”

“It was kind of you to help the family in their hour of need.”

It hadn’t been kindness, it had been necessity. “I was glad I was here to step in,” I answered instead.

“Where have you served?”

I told him, trying to keep my voice neutral-an experience, but stiff upper lip and all that.

We were halfway across the churchyard now.

He stopped. “It must have been a very nerve-racking experience. I can’t imagine coming so close to drowning. And how is your arm? I see you aren’t keeping it in a sling.”

“Much improved.” I smiled. “Friends at the Front are exhausted from deciphering the letters I wrote with my left hand. It will do much for fighting morale when I am legible again.”

The rector chuckled. Then he said, going back again to Peregrine, “I’ve always been of two minds about Mrs. Graham’s son, and what he did.”

“I didn’t know that you were here, er-at the time.”

“I was not. But my predecessor kept journals for his own guidance, and left them to me for mine. I have read the pertinent passages. He writes that Peregrine had been taken away quietly. He seemed to be comfortable with the decision, he felt that the family had suffered enough. I wonder if that was fair to Peregrine.”

“Would prison have been better? Surely not, if there were doctors at the asylum who could work with him.”

“As to that, I can’t say. My predecessor-Craig was his name-spoke of a damaged mind, and the fact that the poor soul had never successfully been educated. That would have been taken into account, certainly.”

I knew my surprise showed in my face. “Is that what he wrote?”

“He felt Peregrine Graham had the mind of a child.”

Hardly the man I’d just dealt with!

“Was that the generally accepted view? Or just Mr. Craig’s?”

“I can only tell you his given opinion. Apparently the boy had been having some difficulties while his father was alive. The tutor complained he was slow to learn, unable to concentrate on his lessons. But when his father died, the boy’s mind broke with his grief. And so they kept him close to home after that. At any rate, I thought, while Peregrine was ill, I could offer him Christian solace before he returned to that place. I went to Barton’s-the asylum-soon after I took up the living here, but they told me he wasn’t allowed visitors. I was astonished. I thought the family would have-but I was told he was allowed to see no one.”

“Were these the terms of his confinement?”

“That’s possible, of course. Ted Booker told Mr. Craig that one day he was passing the asylum, and there was Peregrine, sitting on a bench under a tree, manacled to it. This was some years ago, well before the war. Booker could see him through the gate, and called to him. Peregrine turned his head away. Booker was shocked by his appearance, and said something to Arthur about it. The rector reported in his journal that Booker was the only person to have seen him since he was taken there.”

And I’d just missed my chance to ask Ted Booker about Peregrine Graham.

I next expected the rector to ask me what I thought of my patient, but he didn’t. It was the journals that were on his mind. I could see that he was fascinated by his predecessor.

“Well, water under the dam,” he went on. “I’ve never spoken to anyone else about the journals, you know. It seemed best. There are comments in there that are more honest than most people could stomach. Mr. Craig believed in the truth at any price.”

“I understand.” I wasn’t to chatter about them.

“I think you do. Thank you.”

We had reached the far gate of the churchyard. He opened it for me, and said rather shyly, “Perhaps you’ll call at the rectory, before you leave. I’d be glad to show you the journals.”

“I should be leaving shortly. I’m awaiting my orders now. With Britannic at the bottom of the sea, I’m sure London is at sixes and sevens trying to decide where to put all of us. One of the nurses on the ship with me has just been posted to Poona, in India.”

“That’s a long way from home,” he said.

I didn’t tell him I’d spent part of my childhood in the East. I simply agreed, and he said good-bye, but then called me back to ask, “Do you think Peregrine Graham lacks spiritual comfort where he is? Is he capable of recognizing his needs in that direction?”

“I think,” I responded slowly, “that he despairs of comfort. But it’s a matter you must take up with the family. Or the doctors at the asylum.”

“Mr. Craig was also chaplain there, but I’ve not been asked to fill his position. Perhaps I ought to speak to someone in charge and see what the need is.”

“Yes, that might be wise,” I said. “Good-bye, Rector.”

We shook hands, and I turned away to walk the rest of the way alone.

There was much curiosity at the house regarding my summons to speak with Ted Booker. Susan was the first to ask, and then over our meal, Mrs. Graham brought up the subject.

Not wanting to add to any gossip about his attempt to kill himself, I merely said, “He felt that I’d been closer to the war than his family. I think he wanted reassurance that his problems are not his alone.”

“I should think a rational man would do his best to heal quickly and return to the fighting. God knows, we need soldiers.” Would she have wished her own son back before his time was up?

I could have answered that it wasn’t surprising-the casualty lists continued to be unbearably long. But I said instead, “It takes time to heal the mind, just as it does the body.”

“Did he ask you about Peregrine?”

“About Peregrine? I don’t believe he even knew your son was at home, ill.”

“No, I meant Dr. Philips.”

I think my guilty conscience for having spoken of Peregrine with the rector must have shone in my face, but I said resolutely, “He complimented me on my skills.”

“You needn’t avoid the question, you know.”

“But I’m not. He did tell me he’d called, to see if I needed his help. I wish I’d known it at the time.”

She nodded. “Thank you for your honesty. And I’ll be equally honest in return. I didn’t wish people in Owlhurst to gossip about my son. I’m well aware that a medical man must keep matters concerning his patients in strictest confidence, but I don’t know Dr. Philips that well yet.”

Timothy came in just then and said, “Did you hear? Booker tried to slash his wrists. Fool that he is. His wife must be in despair.” He sat down to take his tea, and then too restless to be still, stood up and carried his cup to the window.

“She made her choice, Timothy. It’s not for you to judge her decision. I’ve always felt one of the Loftlan girls would be more suitable. We could invite the family to dine with us…”

It must have been an old argument, because I saw Timothy twitch one shoulder, as if trying to shrug off her words.

“I’d just like to think she’s happy,” he said brusquely. “More to the point, safe.”

“How can she be, under the circumstances?” Mrs. Graham turned to me. “Sally was quite popular. Everyone liked her, and she had a sweet nature that I thought spoke well of her upbringing. She and Ted Booker were an excellent match. Everyone was pleased for them.”

“She saw him in uniform, and that was that,” Timothy added sourly.

Jonathan came in, late as usual, and said, “Sorry,” to his mother, before nodding to me.

Taking his cup, he said, “There was a message from the asylum. Brother Peregrine made the journey back safely. I don’t know who is more disappointed in that, the asylum or us.”

“Jonathan!” his mother said sharply.

“What sort of life does he lead, Mother? I’d hate to be caged up. And if he complains, it’s Maidstone instead. The poor devil could live to be eighty in that place. Is that what you want for him?”

“Do you think prison would have been better? Do you want that on the family escutcheon?” Timothy asked from the window.

Jonathan wheeled on his brother. “Peregrine is an albatross about our necks, alive or dead.”

“Jonathan.” His mother spoke his name in such a cold tone that both of her sons stared at her. “We’ll hear no more about Peregrine, if you please. The matter is closed.”

“Yes, well, he’s still Father’s heir when you die, Mother. We haven’t got round that problem yet, have we?”

“Peregrine could well outlive us all,” she told him. “As you said. Which reminds me. Someone needs to bethink themselves of a guardian for him, if anything happens to me.”

Jonathan said only, “Let Timothy see to that. I’m not setting foot in that place.”

“Don’t ask me to go. That’s why we have a family solicitor,” Timothy retorted.

I sat there in embarrassed silence, trying to pretend I wasn’t hearing such a private family issue being discussed.

Robert came in to speak to Mrs. Graham. He stood there, leaning against the doorframe, as if he belonged in this room and was not happy at being excluded. Remembering his gruffness when he met my train, it occurred to me that he hadn’t wanted me to come to Owlhurst. He was close to this family-it was possible that he’d guessed what Arthur would say on his deathbed, and knew it would open old wounds. Even I could see that Robert felt free to express his views. His had been the deciding voice in allowing Peregrine to come home to die.

Watching him there as he and Mrs. Graham discussed a problem with a tenant’s cow, I was reminded of what Peregrine had said about who might have killed his father-his stepmother or her cousin. It was hard to give credence to his words-they hadn’t married, after all, and I couldn’t think of another reason for killing a husband. Yet they were close, as cousins sometimes are. Clearly the two of them were of the same mind in this problem with the cow, and Robert had come out of duty rather than from a need for guidance.

When they had settled on a course of action regarding how to treat the animal, he nodded to me and left.

Mrs. Graham’s gaze followed him to the door, a frown between her eyes.

Then she turned back to me and said, “You’ve heard us speak of things that are private, my dear-in regard to Peregrine. I must apologize. But his circumstances make it necessary for us to think and act for him, painful as it may be.”

Was she testing me again, to see if I’d noticed-or failed to notice-something in regard to her stepson?

It dawned on me that perhaps the talk about Peregrine’s mental deficiency during his childhood might have been the family’s way of covering up something worse. Better to tell friends and neighbors that the boy was slow than that the boy was dangerous. It explained too why I’d not found him deficient-if anything, articulate and sensible.

I smiled with understanding. “It must be very difficult. I don’t envy you.”

Jonathan said, “I don’t wish to appear to cut short your visit, Miss Crawford, but I’ll be traveling to Tonbridge tomorrow. I’ll be happy to take you to the train, if that’s your wish.”

Mrs. Graham said in protest, “Jonathan, that’s not necessary. Robert will drive her when she’s ready.”

But I knew what was expected of the guest who had stayed overlong.

“It would be lovely if I could go with you, Lieutenant Graham. Much as I’ve enjoyed my visit, I must have everything ready to return to duty when my orders come.”

There was protest, but halfhearted. I smiled, told Jonathan I’d have my luggage closed before I came down to breakfast, and the subject was dropped.

I wasn’t ready to leave. But I didn’t know how to prevent it.

Beware what you wish for.

Dr. Philips was at the door just before dawn, pounding insistently until Susan answered the summons, then awakened me.

Ted Booker had stripped away his bandages in the night and succeeded, finally, in killing himself.

I was shocked.

“There’s to be an inquest,” Dr. Philips was saying urgently. “You must tell them that he was not in his right mind. That he didn’t know what he was doing.”

“He promised,” I said. “He told me he understood what his wife was suffering. I believed him.” I could feel hot tears stinging my eyes. “Poor man. Poor, poor man.”

“You’ll be the only one to weep over him,” Dr. Philips said. “His mother-in-law is telling the world that he’s gone to a better place…” He stopped. “I’m sorry, Miss Crawford, I am so sorry to bring you this news. But I have nowhere to turn. I don’t quite know how to take it in.”

He was upset. I understood losing a patient. “I’ll fetch my coat and come with you.”

Dr. Philips shook his head. “There’s nothing you can do, not now. I’ve seen to the-er-necessary steps that follow on the heels of sudden death. I am refusing to sign the death certificate until another doctor has seen the body. Dr. Blessing is coming from Tonbridge.”

“Dr. Philips. Come with me.”

He seemed almost grateful to follow me to the kitchen, where Susan was just stoking the fires. I gave him a cup of tea and with Susan’s permission, eggs and bacon and toast as well.

He kept murmuring, “This is most kind-most kind.”

When Susan had taken the tea tray up to Mrs. Graham, I said quietly, “Something more than Ted Booker’s death has upset you. What’s wrong?”

“Someone came into the surgery in the middle of the night. I was asleep, I’d had a long day. Then I woke to the sound of something heavy falling, and when I went down, I found a muddy print in the passage, and it wasn’t mine, and it wasn’t Booker’s. His shoes were still where I’d put them, in the small closet where I keep my coat and Wellingtons. I don’t want to believe that someone came into my house and talked to Booker, and left him in a state of mind where he killed himself. But the evidence is there.”

“What size print? A woman’s? A man’s?”

“I can’t judge. A muddy smudge is more descriptive.” He rubbed his face with his hands. “I don’t want to believe it was Mrs. Denton. But who else? And what am I to do?”

“You said you’d spoken to her. What was she like? Anxious? Unsettled? Afraid that you knew what she’d done?”

“As usual she was full of concern for her daughter. Glad that her suffering was over. Claiming this was a blessed release for Booker. Sometimes I think she could have killed Booker for her daughter’s sake and never blinked an eye. And then I look at her and tell myself she’s not vicious, just a mother fearing for a child’s situation.”

I tried to bring Mrs. Denton back to mind. I thought it very likely that she might have tormented Ted Booker to the point he chose to die and release his wife. Not intending, perhaps, to kill him, but driving home what she considered to be the truth, that he was a poor husband for putting his brother before his wife.

“Sometimes the Mrs. Dentons of this world get their way through sheer cruelty,” I said with resignation. “And then they deny what they’ve set in motion because they blotted out the possible effects of their words. They convince themselves.”

“Do I tell the police? It would create a sensation if I did, and if I am wrong, I’ve done to his mother-in-law what she may have done to Booker.” He looked up at me, pain clear in his eyes. “I’ve never had to deal with the murder of a patient before. And I don’t know why I should turn to you-”

“Because I’m an objective observer? And I did have a long talk with Lieutenant Booker. Whether it helped or not, we’ll never know now. I thought at the time I had his full attention, that he was listening.” I considered for a moment. “The police must know whatever you can tell them about Ted Booker’s state of mind. As for the inquest-I was leaving today. I’ve trespassed long enough on the kindness of the Grahams.”

“I’ve more than enough space in my house. But I’m afraid as a single woman-”

“No, it would cause talk. I understand. Is there anyone else I could stay with? Preferably someplace where I’m needed. It will look less like the Grahams had pitched me out.”

“Mrs. Turner has just had appendicitis. But what she needs isn’t a nurse, so much as someone to cook and clean until she’s on her feet again.”

“That will do. I’ve done as much onboard ship, when we were shorthanded. I must draw the line at doing the wash.” I indicated my arm.

“You can use the laundress who comes to the Grahams and sees to my needs as well. Mrs. Abbot.”

“Then I’ll break the news to the Grahams.” Somehow I was sure they wouldn’t be best pleased. “You can come and collect me at ten. That’s when I was leaving for Tonbridge with Jonathan Graham.”

“Very well.” He got up, smiling. “Women always know what’s best, don’t they? Food and a willing ear. Are you single, Miss Crawford? You would make an admirable doctor’s wife.”

He was smiling as he said it, and I gave him my answer with a matching smile.

“Why, Dr. Philips, whatever would you do if I said yes?”

We laughed, and he went out the kitchen door rather than through the house again. I thought he didn’t want to encounter the Grahams.

Susan came down the back stairs and said, “What brought the doctor here at such an early hour? I’ve never seen him so agitated.”

“Ted Booker killed himself last night. Despite all our precautions.”

“Oh, my dear Lord.” She set down her tray and shook her head. “I’m that sorry. He was such a nice young lad. I was quite fond of him. Well, there’s the war, of course. It’s taken so many young men…”

I went to see Mrs. Graham just before breakfast, and told her that Ted Booker appeared to have killed himself, and I would most likely have to give evidence at the inquest. “I’m so sorry,” I added. “It’s an inconvenience to everyone. But Dr. Philips is making arrangements-”

Mrs. Graham frowned. “I don’t like the way Dr. Philips is using you, Miss Crawford. That’s what it is. You’re a young woman of good family. What would your father have to say to the doctor’s inconsiderate behavior? If you stay in Owlhurst, you remain with us. That’s all there is to say.”

She pressed her fingers to her face for an instant and then added, “I must call on Mrs. Denton. It’s my duty. Perhaps you’d like to go with me?”

“I don’t think she will care to see me at such a time. I’ve defended her son-in-law to her.”

“Yes, well, perhaps you’re right. I’ll dress and go directly after breakfast. There will be arrangements to make. Robert will know what to do about that. I’ll ask him to come with me. How tragic, Miss Crawford-it could have been Jonathan, you know, scarred in his mind. The wound on his face could easily have affected his brain. It was deep, very deep.”

I didn’t try to explain that shell shock didn’t begin with a physical wound.

She excused herself, and I went to my room, to write to my parents, then realized that I’d be giving my father an excuse to come and rescue me. Shell shock, murder, inquests-the Colonel Sahib couldn’t have stayed away. If need be, he’d bring the Household Cavalry with him.

I had packed my belongings the night before but didn’t have the spirit to take them out again. Instead I sat at the desk by the windows of my room and began a letter to Elayne. When it was finished I left it on the silver salver on the little French table in the hall, where someone would see that it was posted.

After that, what to do with myself? I opened the door of the house and stepped out, looking at the sky. To my surprise the clouds had broken, the winds had died down, and after the long spell of frosts and cold, the day was warming quickly. I went up to my room, collected my coat and hat and gloves, and set out for a walk.

As I did, I saw Mrs. Denton and her daughter leaving the rectory. Arranging poor Ted Booker’s services, I thought. I would have liked to offer them my sympathy.

This was my first opportunity to observe Sally. She appeared to be a little younger than I was, but she had a small son and was now a widow. I thought about Ted’s promises to me, and felt sad. He had wanted to heal. I wished I could tell his wife that. For her sake…

Her future bleak, her life a shambles now, it was still possible that Sally Booker might find happiness again. In time…

With Timothy? a little voice in my head asked.