Elizabeth Speller - The Return of Captain John Emmett

Chilvers picked up the card, looked at it briefly and threw it on to the coals.

Laurence had an overwhelming urge to punch Chilvers, regardless. His fingers curled into a fist as he measured up the precise spot on Chilvers' jaw where he would land it. Chilvers licked his lips and the corner of his eye twitched.

'I warn you to stay wel away from Mrs Bolitho,' Laurence said, taking a smal step forward. 'You may be right in thinking I could not make my accusations stick. You may wel have destroyed the letters, once they were no use to you as an implement to batter Mrs Bolitho into surrendering. You may not be a thief and a predator, but, I think, colectively these accusations might do you harm if brought to the attention of the right people. A fusilade. It's a military term. You won't know much about its effects. Wise men under such fire keep their heads down.'

Chilvers started to speak but Laurence wouldn't let him interrupt.

'John Emmett was unwel and unable to defend himself. Mrs Bolitho is al too able to defend herself, but vulnerable because of her circumstances. I, however, am neither unwel nor vulnerable. I have absolutely nothing to lose, whereas you, I think, do. I can assure you I shal do the very best I can to bring you down without a moment's hesitation if you cause Miss Emmett or Mrs Bolitho any further distress. I shal speak to your father, the police, the Law Society and my friends in the national newspapers.'

Laurence wondered briefly whether he could indeed presume upon his very new acquaintance with Tresham Brabourne.

And you may find that the reputation of Holmwood and, indeed, its history come under intense scrutiny. Maybe even enough to make your dying father reconsider his disposition of his property and save his patients from your attentions.'

Laurence reached the front door before the maid who was hovering uncertainly with his things. His last words had been pure bluff, a performance fired by adrenalin, and his heart was beating heavily and fast. As he took his hat and scarf from the girl, he was unable to resist looking back to see whether Chilvers was stil in view. The man had folowed him into the hal but now stood with his back to him, looking upwards. His spine, Laurence noticed with a smal satisfaction, seemed straight. At the top of the stairs he caught a flash of blue on the upper landing. It was Mrs Chilvers, he thought, moving out of sight before her husband could see her.

Chapter Thirty-one

As he strode down the drive he wasn't sure whether he had achieved anything, yet he felt invigorated. He was quite happy to walk the distance to the station in the fresh air. Having taken such an instant dislike to Chilvers the first time he'd met him, there was a sort of gratification in finding his first impressions borne out by everything Chilvers had said during this encounter. Laurence had accomplished nothing of substance, yet he felt pleased with the day. He suspected Chilvers was a man few people stood up to. His only worry was whether the man was capable of taking out his il temper on his wife. Laurence recaled Vera Chilvers' bruises. The thought of her husband with his hands round her neck was too imaginable, but how could she escape from him and would she want to?

He had clarified to his own satisfaction that there had been a letter or letters belonging to John; that Chilvers had indeed appropriated them; that he had discovered the nature of John and Eleanor's relationship as wel as Nicholas's parentage; and that, once the letters had failed to bring about the desired outcome with Eleanor Bolitho, he had probably destroyed them. Whether they gave any insight on John's state of mind would never now be known. Yet George Chilvers' very hostility made his depiction of John convincing. If John was restless, chalenging the staff, wanting to go to London, and had risked being imprisoned in his room, then he was no longer the withdrawn, silent man Mary had spoken of. Things had changed. Laurence was glad that old Dr Chilvers, at least, had seen something special in John, that he had moderated his harsh treatment and had perceived an improvement. Al this would be happily received by Mary.

Yet his triumph began to fade as he realised that any doubts as to John's death being suicide were borne out by this new account of his last weeks. George Chilvers had made no effort to hide his dislike of John. Was that dislike sufficient for him to have wished him dead? Mary had said that Chilvers had driven around in his car looking for John after he got away. Was it possible that, far from intending to take him back to Holmwood, he had set out to remove him permanently? Could Chilvers have taken a gun from a previous patient?

By the time the train came, the adrenalin had subsided. He dozed, off and on, much of the way back to London. Feeling more or less revived when the train drew in, he decided on the spur of the moment to take a diversion past the Daily Chronicle's offices. He knew it was a gamble. It was far too late to find Brabourne there but the paper itself was presumably open at night and it would be worth the cab fare to pick up the cuttings the journalist had promised. Brabourne had been as good as his word and the doorman handed him a plump brown envelope. Opening the flap, Laurence saw it contained several folded pages of newsprint. He tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat.

His flat was cold when he got in and the larder was distinctly bare, but he prepared a plate of cold mutton, some pickles and bread. He picked up a solitary pear, trying not to notice how shriveled it looked. Just as he was settling back in his chair to eat it, he heard a knocking downstairs. He listened again. He so rarely had a visitor that he had never bothered to mend the broken bel pul. The knocking grew more insistent. He opened his door and went down the stairs to the street door. It was even less likely that any visitor would be for his downstairs neighbour. On the doorstep stood Charles. Wordlessly, he folowed Laurence back up to his flat.

'Sorry, old chap. You did say you wanted to see me. Were you in the middle of dinner?' He looked over Laurence's shoulder at his plate. Laurence pushed the half-eaten pear deep into his pocket.

'Come in. It's not very warm, I'm afraid.'

'Hel's bels, man. Are you in training for an Antarctic expedition? No, I'l keep my coat on, thank you.'

Laurence poured out two tumblers of whisky as Charles riddled the grate and shoveled the coal over bals of screwed-up newspaper in the fireplace. He bent over with his lighter.

'Shan't stay long,' Charles said as he got to his feet again. 'But I wanted to tel you what I've been up to. Had to hurry round. Great news. Significant news, that is. You asked me to find out about Liley. Lieutenant Ralph Liley, principal author of Edmund Hart's misfortunes. It wasn't hard to find out that he made it through the war. He left the army, hale and hearty, in 1918, and went back to his parents. Only child. His mother was a Berridge—one of the Shropshire Berridges, so plenty of money coming young Liley's way. Father has a smal estate and officialy Liley returned to manage it. A keen sportsman, our boy, who became youngest ever master of foxhounds of the local hunt. In fact, along with shooting and fishing, that's how he mostly passed his time.'

Laurence spotted the past tense and felt a flicker of anticipation.

'Until?'

'Laurence, you bad man. You're already wishing harm to come to young Liley. Wel, you won't have to wait long. I found he was in the Ox and Bucks. So I started asking around and hit gold with my second cousin, Bim.'

Laurence marveled, not for the first time, at the names of individuals in Charles's circle, names that rarely indicated their sex.

'Bim's wife, Didi, is quite a horsewoman. Marvelous seat, side-saddle. Formidable in top hat and veil. And she hunts with the Old Berks. As does—or did—