Charles Todd - A Bitter Truth

Simon and half the regiment could be in Bluebell Cottage and I had no way of telling. With a sigh, I turned and walked back into the inn and rejoined Lydia in the parlor.

She rose from her chair as I came through the door and shut it behind me. “Well?”

I said lightly, “If he’s in the cottage, I can’t tell. The curtains are drawn.”

“Then Davis must be talking to him. Why didn’t he come across to The King’s Head and speak to me himself? If he sent me that note, there must have been a reason.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t want to be seen speaking to you. I’m sure after your visit with him the other morning, the police questioned him.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

Another fifteen minutes passed before we heard Simon’s footsteps on the wooden floor outside the parlor, and then the door opened.

He said, shutting it behind him, “I couldn’t find Davis Merrit.”

Lydia said, rising, “He wasn’t in his house?”

Simon was choosing his words carefully. “No. I went up and down the street. The shops are closed, it’s Sunday after all.”

She turned to me. “I told you he could have been waiting at St. Mary’s. We must go back there straightaway.”

Simon quickly stepped between her and the door. “I don’t believe he’s at St. Mary’s, Mrs. Ellis. The police are searching for him as well.”

“For Davis? Dear God, just because I went to see him yesterday? No, you’re just trying to frighten me away because Bess doesn’t want me to see him!”

“Your visit will probably prove to be his motive for murder. But what they are curious about now is how he came by George Hughes’s watch.”

I was surprised by Simon’s tone of voice. Cold and blunt.

“Murder?” The muscles in her face tensed, making it look more like a mask than flesh and blood. “What watch?”

“It was actually his brother’s watch, I’m told. It turned up in the possession of a man the local people call Willy. He appeared in Hartfield one day, muddled and half starved. No one knows his real name or where he came from. He begs for coins, and people feed and clothe him out of kindness. No one knows where he sleeps. But during the day he’s on the street, waiting for someone to put a few coins into his hand.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve seen Willy on the streets, I know who he is.”

“Someone noticed that he was carrying a watch, rather an expensive one, and mentioned that to the police. When they examined the watch, they saw the name engraved on the reverse. When asked how he’d come by the watch, Willy told them it had been given to him by a friend. I don’t know how they persuaded him to identify this friend. But when they went to look for Davis Merrit, he was not in his cottage. He hasn’t been seen since.”

Lydia cried, “Surely they can’t believe-not Davis! How would he even find George? Or kill him?”

But I could see that she remembered telling me that George Hughes and Davis Merrit had met in France. She turned frantically to me. “Do the police-does anyone think that Davis killed George-for my sake? No, he would never do that.”

I said quietly, “You told me you didn’t love him. But perhaps-because of your kindnesses-he was in love with you.”

“I don’t believe you. And even if I did, why would Davis take George’s watch-and give it to Willy, of all people?”

“So that you would know what he’d done for you?”

She walked to the window, looking out at the side street. “This is Roger’s doing. It couldn’t be anyone else’s. He’s rid himself of George and of Davis as well.” She put out a hand, stroking the folds of the curtains, not even aware of what she was doing. But the smooth velvet must have been soothing. “I hope they hang him!”

“You don’t mean that,” I said sharply. “You don’t know the whole story. Neither do I. Or Simon.”

“It doesn’t matter. This is the only thing I can think of that would explain what has happened. Willy is lying. He has to be made to tell the truth.” She turned from the window. “Take me back to Vixen Hill, Bess.” There was a hardness in her face that hadn’t been there before. “Thank you, Simon. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”

She walked past him and out the door. “Are you coming, Bess?” she called anxiously over her shoulder.

“Yes, yes, in a moment.” I said to Simon, “Is that all you’ve been able to learn?”

“Inspector Rother has been busy ascertaining that Hughes had his watch at Vixen Hill. He spoke to someone at the church today, I’m told, who remembered seeing it. That must have been the rector’s sister. She has no reason to lie. Did you see it?”

“No. I don’t think I did. But I had no reason to notice it. Wait, yes, he had it that first evening, I think.”

“Then he must have had it with him when he was killed. It looks rather bleak for Merrit, doesn’t it? As does his disappearance. Mrs. Ellis is waiting, Bess, you should go.”

“Is there any possibility that Willy killed Hughes and Davis Merrit?”

“I doubt it. First of all there’s no motive that I can think of. And I don’t believe he has the capacity to carry out an elaborate lie. I spoke to him yesterday. He can hardly put a coherent sentence together.”

“Yes, and I’d seen Davis Merrit give him money. He seemed so grateful.” I remembered the marble kitten and related what I’d feared. “How could a blind man know about that-if indeed it was the murder weapon? Much less put it back almost exactly where he’d found it? I didn’t notice it had been moved, but Mrs. Ellis did.”

“Interesting. I’ll see what I can discover about the wound. And pay a visit to the churchyard.”

“Simon, I must go. Please don’t go back to London just yet. I’ll feel safer knowing you’re here in Hartfield. Besides, the police tell us nothing.”

“I won’t leave until I can escort you to Somerset. You still have your pistol?”

“Yes. I even carried it to the church service this morning, I’m ashamed to say. I’d forgot it was in my pocket.”

“Carry it everywhere.” He walked me to the door of the inn. “This is all speculation,” he warned me. “For all we know, Davis Merrit took it into his head to visit a cousin or went to London to see a specialist. He may turn up with a very solid alibi.”

“Let’s hope so,” I said. But then that would mean that someone at Vixen Hill was a killer.

Simon asked, “Was it raining the morning that Hughes was killed?”

“It was overcast. I don’t believe it had started to rain.”

“But he might have taken an umbrella with him, and the note you found was one intended for him.”

“He didn’t have an umbrella with him when we found him.”

“He could have left it in the stand at the church, before walking down the path. Are you quite sure that you took out the same umbrella that you’d brought with you this morning?”

“No,” I said slowly. “It was Roger Ellis who handed it to me. His mother and I shared it on the way to the motorcar. And then it was decided that I should travel with Roger. And so I kept it, since she could share with Lydia.”

“Interesting. I’d not mention the note to anyone else. It might not be wise.”

I walked out to the motorcar, where Lydia was waiting, staring at Bluebell Cottage as if she could see through the very walls and into the house. As Simon turned the crank for me, she said, “He’s not in there, is he? I can feel it. The cottage is empty. Well. So much for our friendship.”

As we drove away, she added, “I liked him. Not as a lover or anything of that sort. As a friend. I expect part of it was pity for his blindness, and part of it was the man who loved books as much as I did. Roger isn’t a great reader, did you know? Too busy for one thing. Even before the war, he had the estate to manage and all that. He worked hard. His father’s early death left a void, and by the time Roger was old enough to take over, poor management had taken its toll. To his credit, he brought Vixen Hill back to where it was the day Juliana died. I expect that was partly why he did it, as well. Not just for his mother’s sake.”