Charles Todd - A Duty to the Dead

When we arrived at Gladwynn and Sons, I was grateful to find that young Mr. Gladwynn, who knew my father very well and who must be nearing eighty years of age, was not in the shop that morning. The clerk who greeted me, a Mr. Stanley, informed me that Mr. Gladwynn would regret not having seen me and would surely wish to know how my father fared.

“Very well,” I said. “He’s in Somerset at the moment. Meanwhile, I have brought a friend who finds he’s outgrown his prewar clothes. This is Mr.-Philips, and he’s in need of something to finish out his leave.”

“We’ve a backlog of uniforms on order,” Mr. Stanley informed me, and my spirits plummeted. “But,” he went on, eyeing Peregrine like an undertaker eyeing his next customer, “I think we just might have something to fit his size…”

I sat down in the chair before the tier of mirrors, and Mr. Stanley went off to find whatever he had in mind. He was a thin man, with thinning hair, and close to sixty. I wondered what tale would get back to my father.

Peregrine stood there, ill at ease. It occurred to me that Peregrine had never come to London to have his clothes fitted. He’d either been shut away at home or shut away in the asylum, everything he needed ordered for him. I felt a wave of pity for the child, if not for the man.

Such shops as this one have an air of their own. The smell of wool blended with the beeswax polish that gave a rich luster to the wood of counters and a wall of drawers containing everything from collars to buttonhooks to handkerchiefs. The bolts of cloth on the other side were mostly khaki now or in the colors of various dress uniforms from scarlet to naval blue. Someone had just been fitted with the dress uniform of a Highland regiment, and there were trays of buttons and braid ready to go back into their respective shelves. The tweeds and woolens from before the war were sadly missing, and there were only a few civilian hats to choose from, the rest being military caps of various ranks and services. They were lined up above the bolts of cloth with the precision of Old Mr. Gladwynn, who was legendary.

Mr. Stanley came back, wringing his hands in apology. “I fear there’s nothing in civilian clothes to match the gentleman’s height,” he said. “But I have uniforms that might fit. Alas, they were ordered by someone who died on the Somme. What regiment is the gentleman?”

The gentleman, I informed Mr. Stanley, was in my father’s old regiment and held the rank of lieutenant.

Half an hour later, Peregrine and I walked out into Oxford Street again. Mr. Philips had been transformed into Lieutenant Philips, and I wondered if I would be shot at the Tower for making it possible for him to impersonate an officer.

But the streets were filled with officers and men, and as long as Peregrine remembered when to salute and when not, we had a good chance of getting by with this charade. And a young lady in the company of an officer would attract no attention at all. Such couples were everywhere.

I found us a cab as quickly as possible and wondered how I would smuggle my officer past Mrs. Hennessey.

I NEEDN’T HAVEworried. She was out, and the flat was still, blessedly, empty of my flatmates.

While I removed my hat and coat Peregrine sat down in the nearest chair and leaned his head against the cushion. It had been a long morning for him, and I hoped he would sleep the sleep of the ill. I hadn’t had an opportunity to search his coat pockets while he was being measured. He had carefully hung the coat in full view. His stolen clothing had been neatly boxed up by Mr. Stanley. I could tell from the man’s expression that he thought it should be put out of sight as quickly as possible. The good doctor had an unknown tailor.

I made tea and sliced bread for sandwiches, but tired as he was, Peregrine Graham slept with one eye open. The box was under his feet, and when I touched it with my foot, he was alert on the instant.

“Sorry,” I said, moving a small table closer to his chair. I brought a tray with his food on it and sat across the room from him.

As he ate, I asked, “Did seeing the house again rouse any memories?”

He shook his head.

“It’s going to be a hopeless task, Peregrine. What will you do then?”

“I still have the pistol,” he said, and I shivered.

“Please, not here-” I said before I could stop myself.

He stared at me, then shrugged. “One place is as good as another.”

“Do you remember the name of the dead girl? It might help if we could find her family,” I said into the empty silence.

“Lily. She told us she was named for Lillie Langtry. I was laughed at because I didn’t know who she was.”

Peregrine looked across at me, surprise in his gaze. “I couldn’t have told you that yesterday. I couldn’t remember her name. I’d blotted it out, somehow.”

“And her last name?” How many hundreds of girls had been named after the Jersey Lily, once the mistress of Edward VII when he was Prince of Wales, and so famous for her beauty that even her lackluster acting skills brought her fame and fortune?

But it was no use. Peregrine couldn’t bring it back. He’d said something about powders they’d given him when he was first put in the asylum. Surely they hadn’t kept him drugged all these years? But then there were the powders he hadn’t taken but had used to keep the doctor quiet while he escaped.

We ate our sandwiches in silence. Clearing away afterward, I said, “You’ve found the house. Or so you believe. What are we to do now?”

“I have no idea.” He put his head back against the cushion again. “I’ve got to get some rest. Remember what I told you. Betray me, and others will pay the price for it.” He lifted his shod foot and placed it on the box with the doctor’s clothing. “I’ve got nothing to lose.”

If I could find a telephone, and call my father, he could alert the police-but even as the thought formed, I knew I wasn’t about to do it. I’d survived so far, and I was beginning to think that if I waited Peregrine Graham out, he might return to the asylum of his own accord. Where else was there for him to go?

He was watching my face as the thoughts passed through my mind.

I found it difficult to judge him. His brain appeared to be clever, able to connect events and reason his way through a problem. I couldn’t put my finger yet on what it was that was wrong with him, what his tutor had seen, what Mrs. Graham might have used as an excuse to keep him segregated from his half brothers.

“What was the Christian name of your tutor?” I asked just as Peregrine was drifting into sleep. Appleby was a fairly common name, surely.

Rousing himself, he said, “His name was Nathan Appleby.”

How would I go about finding someone who had been a tutor fourteen years ago and might be anywhere now, including in his grave?

I sat there thinking as Peregrine slept. I had no idea where else to turn for information Peregrine Graham needed. For that matter, I had no idea whether he would be satisfied if he learned what he’d claimed he wanted so badly to discover.

And then I remembered the journals that Rector Montgomery’s predecessor had kept. But how to get to them? And what excuse could I use to go back to Owlhurst?

It would surely arouse suspicion…

Well, then, who could I send? Mrs. Hennessey wasn’t up to traveling that far in midwinter. Could I ask Dr. Philips to bring the journals to me in Tonbridge?

I was going around and around in my head, trying to see my way through the problem, when the door opened and Diana James, who was another of my flatmates, came in with a smile and a cry of welcome.

“Bess! How good to see you. And how is the arm?”