Charles Todd - A Bitter Truth

He rubbed his face with both hands. “God knows. She ought to be brought up in a French family that will love her as she ought to be loved. I’ve never seen her. And men don’t have the same feeling for babies that women do. We don’t know what to do with them. Women seem to have a natural knack for that. I’d see that she was well taken care of. I’ve money enough to do well by her, whether she’s mine or not. But I love Lydia, Bess, and I won’t break her heart.”

“You came close enough to that when you were on leave. Did you know I found her huddled in my doorway, chilled to the bone, crying and lost and without enough money to find a decent hotel for the night? If I hadn’t returned from France that evening, I don’t know what would have become of her.”

I thought he would throw the glass of wine across the room. His fingers clenched around it with such force that it was a wonder the glass didn’t crack. And then he said, “Do you know where she is, Bess? If you did would you tell me?”

“I don’t know,” I said, answering the last question rather than the first. “I’ve been given no reason to trust you. And there’s still the matter of George Hughes’s murder. I don’t even know whether they’ve found his murderer.”

“My mother says the police have not located Davis Merrit. Someone in London thought they’d seen him. And there was another report in Wales. Wild goose chases, on both accounts. The police are still looking. Mother says that the frightful-her word-Constable Bates has come back a time or two to interview one or the other of the family. And Inspector Rother has been scouring the Forest. I think he believes Merrit is dead. That he killed himself after killing Hughes.”

“But that’s unlikely,” I replied.

“Did you know the man?” he asked me sharply.

“I saw him in Hartfield at the same time you did,” I replied with some asperity. “It’s just that I can’t find a reason for him to kill Hughes. I don’t think he was in love with Lydia, or she with him, whatever you chose to believe. And I can’t accept that he was trying to save her grief. If he meant to do that, he’d have murdered you.”

Roger Ellis opened his mouth, and then shut it again smartly. Finally he said, “The police may know more than you do.”

“That’s true,” I agreed.

He toyed with the glass. “If I tell you something, will you swear never to reveal it to anyone?”

“If you’re confessing to murder-” I began, for it was a secret I didn’t want to have on my conscience.

“Damn it, no.”

“Then I’ll promise.”

“No. Swear.”

I did, with some trepidation, uncertain what I was getting myself into.

And Roger Ellis surprised me.

Ever after, I knew I would remember that little bistro, the small table between us, and the face of the man across from me, the smoke burning both our eyes, making them red.

“I had a feeling that someone killed my brother. Or I should say, shortened his suffering. I don’t know who it was. I thought for a time that it was either Eleanor, unable to watch him die so slowly, or her brother, because he knew how hard it was for her. I even suspected George, because they were in the room alone for some time, and it was possible that Alan asked him to help him die.”

“Dear God,” I said, and could think of nothing else to add.

“I know. I said nothing. There would have been no point in involving the police. I looked at it as a kindness. Something I myself should have thought to ask my brother. But I loved him and I didn’t want him to die. Selfish of me, but there it is.”

“But you should have said something after George was killed. It could have been important. Instead you let Davis Merrit take the blame because you didn’t like him.”

“No, that’s not true. I was jealous of him. What’s more, I was trying to shield my mother. I couldn’t let her know what I suspected.”

“Be that as it may, we’ve strayed from the subject,” I said, not wanting to take this any farther. “I can’t tell you where to find this child-” I’d nearly slipped up and called her Sophie.

“Can’t-or won’t.”

“I expect we came to Rouen on the same errand,” I said. “There is a house of nuns here with no children in their care, and another on a street not far from here where there are children. I’ve spoken to both of them. I’ve seen the children in their care. She isn’t one of them. You can go there yourself, if you like. Or I’ll take you there.”

“Is this the truth?”

“The absolute truth,” I answered.

He swore. “All right. I believe you. I should have done this a year ago. It’s my fault. And now she’s somewhere in France, and we may never find her.”

“Then all your problems will be solved.”

“No, not all of them,” he said wearily and pulled some coins from his pocket, tossing them on the table. “I’ll see you to your motorcar.”

I rose as well and walked with him to the door. Outside the rain was coming down in earnest, and over its noisy patter I could hear the guns at the Front, and from the river, the sounds of a boat coming up the Seine to the dock, its whistle carrying on the damp air.

Roger Ellis took my arm and led me across to the Major’s motorcar. He turned the crank and then came to my door.

“I didn’t kill George. Either to keep my secret or to avenge Alan.” The rain was cascading off the brim of his cap now.

The shelling to the north of us was getting heavier. In the flashes of light, the Butter Tower was spectral against the sheets of rain falling from the black sky.

“Oddly enough, I think I believe you,” I said.

But even if I did, I still wasn’t sure I trusted Roger Ellis.

I think he must have read the shadow of doubt in my eyes. His hand on the door clenched, and then he said, “All right. Go on.” He gestured to the gun flashes. “They’ll be needing you soon.”

“Yes. Good-bye, Captain Ellis.”

And I drove away, leaving him there, wondering if I’d done the right thing.

I reached Calais in time to meet the Major as he came out of the port and strode down the busy street, looking this way and that. He smiled as he saw me, and hurried over to where I’d put the motorcar.

“On time,” he said approvingly. “Thank you, Sister.” He ran his eye over the bonnet and the wings, as if searching for dents or scrapes. Then he laughed as he saw me watching him. “I brought this motorcar over to France in the summer of 1914, and I was in Paris when the war began. I stored her in a house in Neuilly, and came home to enlist. She was still there when I got back three months later. I’d heard that the French Army used even the Paris taxis to ferry men to the Marne, when the Germans first broke through. God knows they could have used her too.”

I laughed too, and thanked him as well. We drove back through the shattered landscape and the rutted, rain-soaked roads to report to my sector. As Roger Ellis had predicted and the shelling had foretold, they needed me desperately.

After quickly changing into a fresh uniform, I hurried to take my place, sorting the long line of wounded into manageable units-the walking wounded, the seriously wounded, those needing immediate attention, and those who were dying, for whom nothing could be done. The sounds of machine-gun fire, rifles, and the booms of the shells were deafening.

Yet from the surgical ward behind me I heard a burst of the same maniacal laughter I’d heard once before, only this time cut short with a curse.

Ten minutes later, directing the stretcher bearers, stalwart Scots with grim faces, to follow me with the chest wound they’d brought in, I saw another stretcher being brought out of the surgical ward. Even though he was pale and groggy, I recognized the Australian Sergeant.