Elizabeth Speller - The Return of Captain John Emmett

The vehemence of her words left Laurence expecting more but she lapsed into silence.

'Did he hurt John in some way?' he asked.

'Not physicaly. Even at his worst John had a sort of strength. He had a dignity that never left him. George Chilvers' sort go for the weak.'

Laurence found himself hoping George Chilvers had never known about John's failures during the execution of Hart.

'Of course Chilvers hated the fact that they'd al seen active service,' Eleanor said, puling on a spiral of hair, 'while at the same time gloating over his own cleverness at avoiding it and somehow believing he would never have crumpled as they did. I know for a fact that where procedures were unpleasant or painful, Chilvers would always be overseeing them or pushing the limits: straitjackets, electrotherapy, cold hoses, enemas, that kind of thing. He'd use therapeutic treatments devised by his father as weapons against the most fragile. Of course, then they'd come to dread them. In fact, one poor young man threw himself off the roof when he'd thought he was going to be discharged but his family insisted he stay a little longer for more treatment.' She sat forward, her cup cradled in both hands. 'I loathed George Chilvers. Did you know that Chilvers has a wife—Vera?'

Laurence nodded. 'She was a patient once, wasn't she?'

'Had been. Before the war, when they took women as wel. She was only young, delicate, and had the misfortune to be an heiress with no living parents. Her uncle had her committed after a suicide attempt and George Chilvers moved in on her. Poor little thing basked in this worldly young man's interest, no doubt. Eventualy, around the time she turns twenty-one, Chilvers père is prevailed upon to pronounce her of sound mind and discharge her, just in time for Vera to use that sound mind to pledge herself to his son. She was away from home when John was first there. In Switzerland in an institution, he thought—al very circumspect. When she returned, John met her a few times. She was sweet, he said, and liked to pick the roses and so on in the gardens.

'He was kind to her; John was always so nice to anyone in trouble; that was his downfal. I don't think Chilvers was treating her very wel. That's what John thought. He said she was like a child in many ways and terribly lonely. But his help misfired as poor Vera fel madly in love with him and trailed around after him, posting bilets-doux under his door. Of course it soon became obvious. George Chilvers was furious. He might not have been interested in his wife beyond her fortune but he wasn't about to be humiliated by her flagrant obsession with John. John, of course, couldn't go off anywhere else so he was a sitting duck, first for Vera and then for that vile man.

'George had restrictions put on John's movements. That's why he was pushed up to the poky rooms on the top floor under constant supervision. The ones where the lights were left on al night. Where doors were locked from six to six. It wasn't because he was at risk. It was to punish him and to stop Vera getting to him.'

She leaned forward and her voice became more indignant.

'John wasn't that il when he was sent up there. But he deteriorated. He was in a room where the previous patient had been driven to kil himself. They removed everything with which he could hurt himself, from shoelaces to china plates to tin spoons—even his pen. The sheets up there were made of canvas, which couldn't be shredded. It was definitely not a situation that John in particular should have found himself in; George knew it, too. It wasn't about an ilicit trip to London.'

Brabourne had said much the same thing about Tucker, Laurence thought. The deadly intuition of a sadist.

'But it was more than that,' she went on. 'Chilvers actualy threatened him. His weapons were formidable: restraint, drugs. Some of the other staff were kind but Chilvers held the power.'

'But you went out with John?' Laurence was sure Eleanor had accompanied John on his birdwatching walk down the river.

'On my first visit we could walk about—even outside. I took Nicholas with me, but on my last visit there was nothing like that. No freedom.'

'Did George Chilvers speak to you?' Laurence said.

She waited a long time before answering. He had the impression she was trying to decide whether to tel him the truth.

'Yes. He had seen us walking in the gardens the first time I went and something in our demeanour made him suspect that I wasn't John's sister. He had an eye for these things.'

'What did you say?'

'I protested and played the outraged relative. Wel, it was either that or tel the truth and I wasn't about to gratify him with that. But I was nervous that his real sister—your Mary—would turn up and he'd mention me to her. I could imagine him forbidding me from visiting.'

He had the impression she was about to say more but when she didn't Laurence finaly brought himself to say what he'd come for.

'It was you John left the money to realy, wasn't it? I mean, it was nominaly left to Wiliam, because he could justify that, but it was because of you, I think. You and Wiliam were a married couple. It didn't matter who got it, you'd both have the benefit of it without Wiliam being humiliated.'

'What on earth gave you that idea?'

'Because the incident in the trench colapse was nothing in the scale of things. I kept thinking it felt wrong. Men were dying or being injured, horribly, every day.

Trenches colapsed pretty often. Probably the death of a man caled Perkins, Sergeant Tucker's partner in crime, was the most significant aspect of that accident. And Wiliam's part in puling John out was prompt and efficient, but he didn't do most of the digging. In fact, it was Tucker, John's enemy, who extracted him and saved his life. I kept thinking, why did Wiliam get left money when Tucker didn't. And then I thought—forgive me, Eleanor, but it's true—it was simply because Wiliam was married to you. John wanted you to benefit, either because you nursed him when he was injured or, perhaps quite simply, because he loved you.'

She didn't answer at first. Then she looked up and, to his surprise, she said, 'No. He didn't leave it for me. I promise that wasn't why.'

He was embarrassed. He'd been certain John was in love with her and she with him.

'I'm awfuly sorry,' he said.

'No, don't be. There's some truth in what you think, but the bequest wasn't because of me, or only obliquely.'

'Did he write you a letter? At the end?' It was a sudden guess. Could he have posted one to her before he died?

She sighed. 'Yes. Yes, he did, although I never read it fuly. I saw it only when George Chilvers brandished it at me some weeks after John's death. He'd stolen it somehow. I think he half hoped I would try to seize it and then he could have al the fun of seeing how far I'd go to read it. Perhaps he was hoping I'd end up wrestling him for it. Odious, odious man.' Her apparent sarcasm was belied by the slight wobble in her voice.

'I think other letters may have gone missing. Correspondence to him as wel as from him.'

'Of course they have,' she said. 'When John absconded, I imagine Chilvers was terrified he'd tel people outside what had been happening. About Chilvers'

personal vendetta. John stil had contacts. Visitors. I'd posted letters for him once. Probably his sister did too. Ones he didn't want to leave in the hal at Holmwood for posting.'

She paused and poured them both out some more tea.

'John was melancholy, damaged, but extremely rational. He believed in justice. So I bet Chilvers made a clean sweep of John's belongings. Then when John was found dead, wel, Chilvers probably destroyed them to save Holmwood's reputation. They'd already had a couple of suicides apart from the one I've told you about. And what if John revealed Chilvers' treatment of his wife or Vera's love letters to John turned up? George Chilvers might even have seemed like a suspect. Not for murder, necessarily, but it would seem like provocation. John kept a diary from time to time too when I knew him. Do you think his sister has that?'