A Duty to the Dead (27 page)

It was early when I set out for Chilham. Ram, Melinda Crawford’s majordomo and chauffeur, was tall, graying, and very protective of his mistress.

He said over his shoulder as we turned into the main road, “This man you have brought, he is no danger to the Memsahib?”

“I wouldn’t have brought him if he was.” But Peregrine still possessed his pistol….

“It’s as well to ask. There is something in his eyes.”

We drove in silence after that, and as I watched the countryside pass by, I thought about the fact that Peregrine Graham was the heir to his father’s estate, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to buy a loaf of bread or a pair of shoes. I’d leave money with him, if I had to go. Whether he wished it or not.

We drove into Chilham late in the morning. I couldn’t send Ram into The White Horse for tea. He wouldn’t be welcomed there. But I brought him a cup and asked him to wait while I went to speak to Mr. Appleby.

“I shall be here in the car, if anything untoward happens. You have only to call,” Ram reminded me.

I thanked him and went down the lane between the pub and churchyard, trying to decide how best to approach the Grahams’ tutor.

And met him coming out his door as I started up the walk.

He wasn’t best pleased to see me.

I said, “Mr. Appleby. If you would walk with me for a little? In the churchyard perhaps? We won’t distress your wife.”

“I have told you, I have nothing more to say to you, Miss Crawford.”

“I’ve learned a great deal more about the events that put Peregrine Graham into Barton’s Asylum. I think it might be wise to hear me out.”

He had no choice but to fall in step with me as he turned the way I’d just come. At the head of the lane, he saw Melinda’s Rolls, and the Indian driver.

“Who is that, and what is he doing here?” He stopped short, staring.

“Waiting for me.”

“I see.” We continued into the square and paced toward the
Jacobean manor house at the opposite end. “What is it you want to know, Miss Crawford? And why?”

“I’m just trying to understand the sequence of events that led to Lily Mercer’s death. Mrs. Graham and her cousin were attending a dinner party. You were given the evening off—”

“I was given no such thing. It was my
usual
day and evening free.”

“I see. And the servants were also given the evening off, since there was no one to dine at home except the four boys. Is that true?”

“Yes, yes, what’s your point?”

“It seems rather odd, to leave four active boys in the house with only a young housemaid to supervise them.”

“She had merely to serve their dinner, which was already prepared, and draw their baths. They weren’t small children, Miss Crawford, in need of tucking in and a bedtime story. They could see to their own needs. They were the sons of a gentleman, after all, not barrow boys.”

“But one of them, Peregrine, was known to be—difficult. He was fourteen, not ten, and Lily couldn’t have been more than eighteen?”

We had reached the gates of the manor house and turned to walk the other way. Even in the dreary light, the lovely Tudor houses gleamed white and black.

“It was Mrs. Graham’s decision to make, not mine. It was my
usual
free day.”

“Peregrine could have walked out, rather than attacking Lily. He could have gone anywhere. Anything might have happened to him. He wasn’t used to being on his own.”

Appleby stopped short.

“You are pressing your luck, Miss Crawford. We can’t change the past. Why rake through it? I should think that you would find the subject unpleasant enough to leave it.”

“You didn’t like Peregrine very much. You punished him at every opportunity.”

“Who told you that?”

Oh, dear…how to answer?

“It was rumored in Owlhurst.”

He turned away from me. “Peregrine was the most difficult pupil I’ve ever encountered. It took all of my skill and most of my patience to teach him. You have no way to measure what I endured.”

“You could have quit. You could have walked away.”

He turned to face me. “I liked the three younger sons. Why should I refuse to teach them? Why should I punish them for their brother’s deficiencies?”

“That’s rather arrogant, don’t you think?”

“Not at all. I’m a good teacher.”

“What if I told you that it’s very likely that it wasn’t Peregrine who killed Lily Mercer, although he was judged and punished for it. If you were such a good teacher, why didn’t you question his guilt? Why didn’t you see through the tangle of evidence and realize that it was not Peregrine, that it couldn’t have been him. Couldn’t you tell that he was drugged while he was in London? Surely there were signs, some indication in the character of one of the other boys that warned you to look in his direction. And what about that visit to a specialist, who could help Peregrine? There had been excursions to the zoo and the Tower, why hadn’t there been time to take Peregrine for examination?”

“I was well paid to educate four youths,” he retorted angrily. “I wasn’t paid to tell my employer that one of her sons was deficient in character—”

“Then you did doubt Peregrine’s guilt.”

“Not for an instant. I walked in the door, found the police in the house, and Peregrine Graham spattered with the girl’s blood. It was the most shocking experience of my life, let me tell you. The atmosphere was highly charged. Mrs. Graham was very emotional, on the verge of breaking down. The police were as shocked as I was. And Peregrine stood there with a dazed expression, not a word of regret, not a word in his own defense. Robert Douglas was a rock, I stood in
admiration of his quiet ability to keep the household calm. I wasted no time on doubt, I saw the proof with my own eyes.”

“Perhaps not then. But later. Later you wondered. If you were a good judge of young people, as a teacher should be, you began to question what you’d seen and been told. Other things happened, to cast doubt on Peregrine’s guilt. Why didn’t you do something?”

A flicker of acknowledgment crossed his face. For the first time I saw the truth exposed—he couldn’t hide it, however much he tried. It was gone in a flash. And then rage took over. I thought for an instant he would strike me, he was so furious. I wondered how much of that fury was shame, because he hadn’t liked Peregrine, and at first had been glad to be rid of him. And later, he still said nothing, because he enjoyed his comfortable position with the Graham family too much to jeopardize it.

I wanted to ask him which of his charges was a murderer, but I didn’t dare.

He walked away from me, his shoulders so stiff with his anger that he seemed to strut. But I thought it was more the desire to lash out at me, held in check because I was a woman and this was a very public place.

I waited, in the expectation that he might turn, that he might get himself under control and protest that I’d got it wrong. But Mr. Appleby knew he’d already betrayed too much. He wasn’t going to risk betraying more.

I went back to the motorcar, drawing in a deep breath as I took my seat.

Ram said, “That man was very angry indeed.” He turned, his eyes anxious. “Is all well?”

“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “Take me home, if you please.”

We drove sedately out of Chilham, down the hill and toward the road west. I had stirred up a hornet’s nest. Pray God I wasn’t the one who was stung as a result.

We stopped on the way back to the Crawford house. I wanted to make sure that Peregrine had all he needed for a visit there.

It took me three quarters of an hour to find everything on my mental list, and I was rather pleased with the result. I’d had no luck in finding evening dress, but then Melinda had never been a stickler for dressing for dinner. She would accept Peregrine’s uniform.

Ram was waiting for me near Rochester Castle, and I paid the boy from the haberdashers a shilling for carrying my bundles and packages for me. He had struggled up the hill under his burden and was breathing hard by the time we’d stowed them safely in the motorcar.

He stared at Ram and said, “Who’s that, then?”

“My driver. He’s from India.”

“Does he have an elephant?”

“Once upon a time, he may have.”

Satisfied, the boy ran off.

Ram chuckled. But I was struck by something else.

Melinda Crawford’s driver must be unique in Kent…. I should have insisted on hiring someone else. Someone who attracted no attention.

I settled back for the drive to Melinda’s house. It was too late to worry about today, but tomorrow I’d do things differently.

As we turned up the drive, I realized that I’d missed my lunch and was looking forward to tea.

Shanta greeted me and took my coat and gloves.

“Ram has packages that belong in Lieutenant Graham’s room,” I told her.

“Memsahib is in her sitting room. Will you have your tea now or later?”

“Now,” I said, and walked on to the sitting room. I discovered our tea had already been brought in.

“Peregrine will be down shortly. He was asleep when Shanta
went to his room. Are you sure he’s well? That he doesn’t need to see a doctor?”

“I think he’s surviving on his will alone. But he’s not coughing as much, and I don’t think he’s feverish. Sleep is the best medicine, and good food.”

“What did you accomplish today?”

“I made Mr. Appleby very angry,” I said. “When I suggested that, after Peregrine had been dealt with and the household had returned to nearly normal, he had doubts about what had been done so quickly and without fuss.”

“But he gave you no feeling for which boy he suspected?”

“Sadly no. He’s an arrogant man, he takes great pride in being a good teacher, but I agree with what someone else said—he’s really second-rate. I don’t think Mrs. Graham wanted a sharp mind seeing through—”

I could hear the rasp of the door knocker.

“Who can be calling at this hour?” Melinda demanded testily. “No, don’t get up, my dear, Shanta will send them away.”

“My father—”

“—is in Somerset, I should think.”

But the sitting room door burst open, and brushing Shanta aside, there stood Jonathan Graham, backed by two burly police constables.

The raw, puckered scar across his face accentuated his determined expression. He knew what he wanted, and he was set on getting it.

“I’ve come to fetch my brother,” Jonathan said.

Melinda drew herself up to her full height and said, “I beg your pardon. Constable Mason, what is the meaning of this abrupt and very rude intrusion?”

I stood there, astonished, unable to believe my eyes. And then I collected my wits.

He’s guessing—he’s not sure—

The Colonel Sahib firmly believed in a sharp counterattack when the enemy began a tentative probe.

And so I did just that. “Your brother is dead. So I’ve been told. If you wish to know why I’ve been asking questions about what happened in London fourteen years ago, it’s because I’m not convinced that the real murderer was ever caught. Then there’s Ted Booker’s suicide—I have a strong feeling that he was murdered. It’s not remotely possible that Peregrine killed
him,
is it? And what about all those other deaths in Owlhurst—Inspector Gadd, Dr. Hadley, the rector? Peregrine was in the asylum during that time, was he not? This begins to shed new light on Lily Mercer’s murder, wouldn’t you agree, Lieutenant Graham?”

That rocked him back on his heels.

Constable Mason, the older of the two uniformed policemen, ignored me and said to Melinda, “It was reported, ma’am, that there was a dangerous murderer in this house, and we’ve come to fetch him before any harm comes to you or your staff.”

“And why should I entertain a murderer under my roof, pray? I don’t know this officer, Constable, and I’ll thank you to escort him out of my presence before I make a formal complaint to the Chief Constable. He dined here on Saturday last, and I can assure you he wouldn’t have done so if I consorted with murderers, dangerous or otherwise.”

I thought we’d carried it off. I thought we had between us put the fear of God into the constables and rattled Jonathan Graham.

Jonathan had looked from Melinda to me as she spoke of the Chief Constable, and there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

I said, into the silence, “Constable, if you wish to search the house, of course you may. Lieutenant Graham has been misled, maliciously at a guess—”

Just at that moment, Peregrine Graham came unwittingly down the stairs and turned toward the sitting room.

A
T THE SOUND
of footsteps, Jonathan Graham whirled, stepped back into the passage, and stared into the face of the half brother he hadn’t seen since they were both children.

There was still a chance.

“May I present Lieutenant Philips?” I said quickly. “He’s an officer in my father’s regiment—he escorted me to Kent—”

But Jonathan saw something in his brother’s face that triggered a memory. A profound recognition on both sides that was our undoing.

“That’s him!” Jonathan exclaimed, “I told you he was here—”

Peregrine spun on his heel and ran for the stairs. The two constables lumbered after him, shouting for him to stop.

I caught Jonathan Graham’s sleeve and prevented him from following.

“Which of you killed Lily Mercer? Do you know?
Tell me.”

He stared at me as if I’d struck him across the face.

“If it wasn’t Arthur—and Arthur couldn’t have killed Ted Booker—then it must be you. Or Timothy.
You
were the last person to see Ted Booker alive—”

“You are as mad as Peregrine is.”

“‘Tell Jonathan that I lied. I did it for Mother’s sake. But it has to be set right,”
I quoted. “What had to be set right? What had Arthur
lied about, for his mother’s sake? Had he lied about who had possession of Ambrose Graham’s pocketknife at the time Lily Mercer was killed? Did Arthur
know
and cover it up for your sake or for Timothy’s? And what about those other deaths—Inspector Gadd, the rector, the doctor. All the people who had acquiesced to sending Peregrine to the asylum. Which one of you decided to right
that
balance, rather than confess to the truth? Or was it done just to see that no one ever changed his mind about Peregrine’s guilt?”

He shook me off so forcibly that I fell back against the doorjamb. And then he was gone, up the stairs in the wake of the constables.

“Peregrine!”
he shouted, his voice reverberating through the house.

Where was the pistol? What had Peregrine done with it? Was that what he was after? I couldn’t stand there, listening for the shots. I was at Jonathan’s heels, trying to stop a tragedy that was about to happen.

But Peregrine never used his pistol. He simply ran out of breath, and they caught him as he leaned, coughing harshly, in the doorway of his room.

It was too late to persuade the constables that they had got the wrong man. They would believe Jonathan, not me. There was nothing I could do.

I watched them bring Peregrine down the stairs, without a coat, without a hat, and I could see that someone—Jonathan?—had struck him across the face.

How did they know? How could they have possibly known he was here—unless Mr. Appleby had recognized Melinda Crawford’s chauffeur and maliciously set Jonathan Graham on my heels?

He stood there in the hall, triumphant, cold. “I was on my way out the door. My orders have arrived. I would have been gone in another hour, and then the message came.”

“Where are you taking him?”

Jonathan didn’t answer, but one of the constables said, “He’s to be returned to the asylum, Miss.”

“He won’t remain there for very long,” I warned the constable. “There’s some doubt now that he killed anyone.”

“He’s lied to you, Miss,” the other constable said. “The police don’t make such mistakes.” He looked at Peregrine, standing there helpless between them, no color in his face, and something in his eyes that I didn’t want to see. “Handsome fellow. Easy to get around a young lady. And here we’d all thought he was dead.”

“How dare you—” I began, but Melinda stopped me.

“You aren’t taking him from here without his hat and coat,” she said, her voice stern. “If he’s to be taken back to that place, it’s a long drive. Will you fetch Mr. Graham’s things, Shanta?”

And Shanta moved out of the shadows and went quietly up the stairs. Peregrine’s gaze followed her, and I knew what he was thinking, that the pistol was in his greatcoat pocket.

I held my breath when Shanta returned with the coat. And then I realized what was in Peregrine Graham’s mind. He had no intention of using the weapon on his captors, but somewhere between here and his destination, he would find a way to use it on himself.

I said urgently, “Peregrine. This isn’t the end of the matter. Do you understand me? I have connections, I’ll see to it that this business is settled.”

He gave me an odd smile. “Tell Diana I’m sorry I won’t be there to see her on her next leave.”

And then they were dragging him out of the house and into the motorcar that had brought them here.

Jonathan was the last to go.

I turned on him as he stood on the top step, watching Peregrine being shoved into the backseat, jammed between the two constables.

“Mr. Appleby knows the truth,” I said. “He didn’t want to admit to it, but he knows. And I know the truth, and my father, and Melinda Crawford, and too many people to be dealt with. It’s only a
matter of time, Jonathan Graham, before your brother’s last wishes are finally carried out.”

“Knowing and proving,” he said, “are two entirely different matters. Who is Diana?”

I didn’t answer him.

“Not that it signifies,” he said into my silence.

And with that, he cranked the motorcar, got behind the wheel, and drove off down the drive.

I was so helplessly angry that I burst into tears.

Melinda, behind me, said, “I think we should call Simon. Not your father. Not in this case. Simon will know what to do.”

I shut the door on the cold evening air, and turned to her.

“It will be too late,” I said. “By the time Simon can get here, Peregrine Graham will be dead by his own hand.”

I put in the call to Simon Brandon anyway.

But there was no answer at the other end. He’d gone to dine with my parents, I thought. He did at least once a fortnight.

That was that. The cavalry wouldn’t come in time.

I went back into the sitting room. Shanta was taking away the now cold pot of tea, and I stood before the fire on the hearth, trying to warm myself.

“It was Appleby,” I said again. “It couldn’t have been anyone else. He saw your motorcar and Ram. I was careful, so very
careful
to keep Peregrine out of sight, except on our first visit to the tutor. And he told Jonathan how to find me, out of spite. The penny must finally have dropped.”

“It wasn’t very clever of me to offer you my car.” Melinda sat down, one arm on the table in front of her, a frown between her eyes. “I don’t think it was Jonathan who killed that girl. Your tutor, this Mr. Appleby, wouldn’t have called him, if he was. Don’t you see? He would have been afraid to let anyone know he had guessed the
truth. That is, if you are right and the tutor had seen more than he was willing to tell.”

“And Arthur sent
his
message to Jonathan. That completes the circle, doesn’t it? As for the other killings—they didn’t include Appleby, because he was out of reach in Chilham.”

“That leaves Timothy, I should think. The only other choice is Mrs. Graham herself. And I find that hard to believe,” she answered, musing. “She was devastated, you said, when the murder was discovered.”

I hadn’t really wanted it to be Timothy. I had disliked Jonathan from the start and could have comfortably concluded that he was the killer.

I said suddenly, realizing the full impact of what we were saying. “It wasn’t Arthur.
It wasn’t Arthur.”

“Yes, I should think that would be quite a relief. But how to prove any of this? It won’t be easy. The police had convinced themselves that their case was strong enough to send Peregrine Graham to Barton’s. They won’t wish to reopen the case.”

“But it was Jonathan the rector saw leaving the doctor’s surgery the night that—”

I stopped. I’d believed all along that it was unlikely that Jonathan had visited Ted Booker. And of course he hadn’t. That was why he hadn’t spoken up at the inquest.

It must have been Timothy in Jonathan’s borrowed greatcoat—and Jonathan had lied for his brother.
Again.

Shanta came in with a fresh pot of tea and a fresh pitcher of milk.

She poured two cups, passed them to us, and then said, “You are looking very glum. Drink your tea and have something to eat. It will do you both a great deal of good.”

I said, “Shanta. What did you think of Peregrine Graham?”

She considered the question and then answered me. “There is a darkness that follows him like a shadow. I’m very glad that you weren’t eloping.”

I couldn’t touch my tea. The feeling that Peregrine would die before he could be taken back to the asylum grew stronger with every passing minute.

Every wasted minute…

“Melinda.” I was on my feet and heading for the door. “I must borrow your motorcar. I’m sorry, I can’t wait for Ram. I must go.” Ram drove sedately, not the way I intended to drive. Before she could say anything, I went up the stairs nearly as fast as Peregrine had done, caught up my hat and coat and gloves, and was on my way down the back steps to the barn where the motorcar was kept. I heard Melinda calling to me from a doorway, but I didn’t stop to hear what she had to say.

The motor was still warm and turned over with only one revolution of the crank. I drove out of the barn, leaving the doors wide behind me, and went down the drive at a clip that was reckless in this light. I kept my attention on the headlamps as they swept the road while I went through the map of Kent in my head.

There were two ways to reach Owlhurst, or the road leading to it, where Barton’s stood. Jonathan would have taken the more direct. And so would I.

I cleared my head of every thought, concentrating on the road. If I could catch them up before they reached Barton’s—surely Peregrine would wait until they were almost there. He’d be searched at the door, and then it would be too late. Somewhere before the asylum. I could picture that lonely stretch of road just before one saw the walls around the property. There? Sooner?

The roads were winter poor, and in daylight it would have been mad enough to drive at this speed, but I kept it up. They had a head start of what? Twenty minutes? Thirty? Thirty was too long. I’d never make that up.

I narrowly missed a ewe wandering across the road, and again someone on a bicycle, who yelled imprecations in my wake. I prayed I wouldn’t meet anything larger. At this speed, I couldn’t stop in time.
Is it worth taking your life in your hands?

I had no answer to that. Would I have agreed to carry a message to Arthur’s brother, if I’d been able to look ahead into the future?

I had no answer to that either.

I was within five miles of Barton’s, cursing under my breath, knowing I was too late, far too late. And then, over the soft murmur of the Rolls motor, I heard shots echoing across the fields. I’d been close to the fighting. I’d fired side arms myself. I could recognize their sharp reports.

Gripping the wheel hard to hold back my fears, I tried to determine where the sounds had come from. To my right—and surely just ahead.

But to my right was only a tangle of briars and dead stalks of last summer’s wildflowers, and on the far side of that, out of range of my headlamps, the flat blackness of what appeared to be a fallow hop field.

I lifted my foot from the accelerator, prepared to find the Graham motorcar stopped in the middle of the road, and I put out my hand for the brake, to keep myself from plowing into it.

But the road ahead was empty….

I was about to pick up speed again when, peering through the windscreen, I noticed that beside me, the tall winter-dry brush along the verge had been flatted by something heavy passing over them and crushing them.

I hadn’t even had time to react to that when from the same direction I caught the sound of raised voices, angry and rough.

Barely a minute had passed since I’d heard those first shots, and now there were two more in rapid succession, hardly distinguishable, and someone cried out in anguish.