Charles Todd - A Bitter Truth

“According to pub gossip, he was struck over the head and then dragged a little way to lie with his face in the water.”

“Oh, dear God.”

“Quite. It could have been a woman or a man.”

“Which means I’m still a suspect.”

“Which will not please your parents.”

“Simon, twice last night George Hughes and I thought someone might be listening at the door. And for all I know, he encountered someone after he left me. But that was no later than three o’clock. He probably left the house somewhere around five, as far as I can decide from the questions the police are asking. It was still dark then. Where was he going? And why did he make his bed and pack his belongings before he walked away? Was he planning to leave before anyone was awake? That would have been terribly rude-and cowardly. And he didn’t strike me as a coward.”

He swore under his breath. “If he didn’t meet someone else, then very likely you’re the last person to see him alive before he left Vixen Hill. I’m not surprised that the police are looking at you as a suspect.”

We turned and walked back the way we’d come.

“Why did Mrs. Ellis think he might be at Wych Gate Church?” Simon asked then.

“Juliana is buried in that churchyard, and George Hughes remembers her almost as clearly as Roger Ellis does. I’ve seen the marker for her grave. It’s a lovely marble figure of a kneeling child, and her face is touchingly beautiful-just like the painting of her in the drawing room. He may have wanted to say good-bye. But then why didn’t he simply drive there, on his way back to London? It wouldn’t have taken him far out of his way. Oh, and there’s another odd thing. This morning, Captain Ellis told his mother that this story about the child is really a manifestation of shell shock. And she seemed to believe it. Then why her anxiety over Lieutenant Hughes’s whereabouts?”

“Shell shock? It’s hardly that.” He considered what I’d told him. “Bess. Is there any possibility that the child was murdered?”

“Murdered?” I was horrified. “The one in France?”

“No. Juliana.”

“Oh, no, I’m sure there isn’t. There’s no one-it’s impossible!”

“I don’t mean in cold blood. If she were suffering, someone might have taken measures to end it. Watching a child in great pain with no hope of recovery would drive anyone to end it.”

“He was too young at the time to have witnessed anything like that,” I replied slowly. “No, it’s the living child that must be behind this murder.”

“I don’t like the idea of your being a suspect. The Colonel will have an apoplexy if you’re arrested on charges.”

“They’ll let me go shortly. I do think the police will try to discover if I knew George Hughes in France. But Dr. Tilton is a gossip. He’ll tell the police about the child, and when he does, they will lose all interest in me. I’m surprised he hasn’t already made a statement.”

“Don’t count on anything, Bess. Look, I’m staying at The King’s Head for now. I won’t leave until you’re free to go with me.”

It was comforting to know that. But I protested that it wasn’t necessary.

“And do you think,” Simon Brandon asked, “that I could return to Somerset and tell your mother that I’d abandoned you to the tender mercies of the police and their logic?”

I had to laugh. “She’d drum you out of the regiment herself, if you weren’t already retired.”

“I’m serious, Bess. Don’t make light of this.”

“I’m not,” I told him, sober again.

We were nearly back at the house.

He said, “There’s something else. If someone at Vixen Hill is a killer, I want you to take this.” Reaching for my hand, as if to help me over a small depression in the winter-dead grass, he put something into my palm.

I didn’t need to look at it to know what it was. A small, two-shot pistol, little bigger than a derringer. Hardly deadly, but still better than no protection. I’d practiced with it occasionally when Simon or my father taught me how to shoot and care for weapons.

“Not a great deal of stopping power,” he said apologetically, “but it’s loaded, and it fits better into your pocket than a revolver. Keep it there. Don’t leave it lying around.”

“Yes, I will,” I promised him. “But I think I’m safe enough.”

“Unless the killer believes Hughes told you something he shouldn’t have, when he found you in that sitting room.”

I hadn’t considered that possibility.

We were on level ground again, and he relinquished my hand. I shoved the little pistol into my pocket a few steps later, and felt the weight of it, bumping against my hip as I walked. It was suddenly comforting.

“Perhaps the police have made a mistake,” I said hopefully. “I don’t want to believe anyone here killed George Hughes.” But I knew as I said it that it was wishful thinking on my part.

Simon didn’t waste breath telling me I was foolish. Instead he warned me, “Keep your eyes open and your wits about you. If I hear anything I’ll see that you know it as soon as possible. Remember this, there may be something else that George Hughes knew. And if he blurted out one secret, he was very likely to blurt out another.”

We had reached Simon’s motorcar. I said, “What other secret?”

“If I knew that,” he said, bending to turn the crank, “I’d have told the police long before this.”

And he was gone. I stood there, watching him out of sight.

Turning, I looked up at the house, and in the long windows above the great hall, I saw Lydia’s face staring down at me. She was angry still, I could tell that even at this distance, and I thought it odd that her anger was directed at me, not at Roger. Even if we’d managed to catch the morning train to London, we’d have been brought back to Ashdown Forest. Surely she must know that.

But people in pain seldom think logically.

I felt a rush of sympathy for Lydia. I’d never been married, I’d never wanted a child with such desperate longing, I hadn’t been faced with a truth so bitter it could very well have ended my marriage.

Gran was at the hall door, calling my name. “Your young man isn’t staying?”

“He’s taken a room at The King’s Head,” I replied. “And he’s not my young man. He was sent here by my parents.”

Ignoring my answer, she said, “The police wish to speak with you again.”

With a sigh I followed her into the hall and was directed to the library, where the police had set up a table and were asking people to write and sign statements.

Constable Austin had been replaced by a new man, sharp faced, his hair graying, his eyes cold. I’d seen him once before. It occurred to me that Inspector Rother was changing his tactics, and that I should take this warning to heart.

“Miss Crawford,” the constable said as I came through the doorway. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” I replied.

“I’m Constable Bates. Constable Austin is off duty. Who was the man who came to call on you?”

“A friend of my family’s. My father was concerned about me and sent him to find out if I was all right.”

“How did your father learn that you were involved in a murder inquiry?”

“He didn’t. When I spoke to him, I told him that we’d found one of the houseguests dead. I didn’t know then that it was murder.” As I took the chair he indicated I could feel the weight of the little pistol in my pocket, and wondered suddenly if it showed to a trained eye. Constable Bates was examining me as if I were a new specimen just brought to his attention.

“And your father is…”

“Colonel Richard Crawford.” And for good measure, I added his regiment.

“I see. All right, if you will write out a statement beginning with the arrival of the houseguests on Thursday evening, then sign it, I’ll add it to the others I’ve collected.”