A Duty to the Dead (28 page)

I
WAS ALREADY
braking hard, with all my strength, weaving across the road and slewing sideways as the motorcar came to a halt that felt as if it had jarred my very teeth.

Peregrine had walked away from the asylum—he could have remembered this stretch—

Pausing only to pick up the torch that had been sliding wildly about beneath my feet, I was out of the motorcar and running toward the hop field. But the torch’s beam was weak, and I had to concentrate on the broken stalks, which caught at my ankles and threatened to pitch me headlong. Then I reached the plowed ground, stiff with frost, and at last could cast my light toward the dark, quiet shape that was a motorcar, barely silhouetted against the sky.

In the silence I could hear my own labored breathing and the muffled sound of my boots as I ran and from somewhere what I thought was someone weeping.

At last my torch illuminated the shining metalwork of the Graham Rolls, the motor still ticking over. But there was no sign of Jonathan or Peregrine or the policemen. Something was glittering in the rear seat, and I lifted the light for a better look.

It caught the buttons of a constable’s uniform. The man didn’t stir, and I could see as I came closer that he was slumped to one side, as if he were badly hurt.

Oh, Peregrine…why didn’t you trust me?

But he had never been taught trust.

I shone my light full in the constable’s face and realized that he was unconscious, his jaw slack. I could hardly see his features for the spreading mask of blood, almost black in this light, that ran down from a long furrow at his temple and dripped onto his tunic. His helmet was askew, knocked to one side, strap dangling. It was Constable Mason. I pulled off my driving gloves and probed the wound, touching bone. I could even see it briefly, white—and not splintered.

Four bullets
…. That’s what Peregrine had said: he had four shots, and he could kill three other people before he turned the pistol on himself.

The poor, unsuspecting Constable Mason must have been the first victim. But Peregrine had missed his shot, thank God, and the man would live.

Where were the others?

I reached into the motorcar for the headlamp switch, and suddenly there was a brightness that opened up the night.

The other constable was just ahead of the motorcar, perhaps ten feet from the bonnet, as if he’d been trying to follow his attacker. He lay on his face, not moving. I bent over him. He was dead, there was nothing more to be done for him. I moved on.

That made two….

Where was Jonathan? Where was Peregrine?

I turned to scan the fan of light, my own shadow cast like a black monster far ahead of me.

Something moved, then rose from the ground, hunched over as if in pain, and then the figure dashed out of the glow of the motorcar’s headlamps, into darkness.

“Peregrine—!”
I cried. “No, please wait—”

But he was gone, vanished into the night.

I ran forward to where I’d first seen him, and there was Jonathan, lying on his side on the ground, his military greatcoat almost blending into the trampled earth around him. One arm was flung
across his face, concealing it. Falling to my knees beside him, I gently lifted it, and he rolled over onto his back with a grunt that told me he was still alive.

More than anything at that moment, I wished I could bring Mr. Appleby here and make him look at the consequences of his spiteful telephone call. I wanted him to see what men do to each other when goaded beyond what they could bear.

I ran my hands over Jonathan’s chest, looking for a wound, and I found it, bleeding freely but not heavily. Pulling off my scarf, I wadded it in a ball, unbuttoned his coat and then his tunic. I shoved the scarf against his shirt, jamming it as best I could against the place where the bleeding was heaviest, then buttoned the tunic over it to hold it in place.

As I worked, I realized that something was hurting my knee, and looked down. There was Jonathan’s service revolver—it had been drawn and was lying under him. He must have tried to defend himself and the two unarmed constables.

I had to get these men to a doctor as quickly as possible. And there was no one to help me.

I sprang to my feet, trying to judge whether I could bring the motorcar this far without bogging down, and how best to loop back to the road. And only then did I notice that someone else was lying in the field, outside the perimeter of the headlamp’s reach. I could only make out the shape of a man’s boot and a lump beyond it that was his body.

I blinked.

Peregrine hadn’t made it to safety after all. As I hurried toward where he lay in a crumpled heap, wounded or dead, I knew that Jonathan wouldn’t have missed his own shot. He was too good a soldier for that.

Then I was beside him, kneeling in the hard earth again, calling his name. His face was in deep shadow, but as I shone my torch into it, his eyelids fluttered, and he said, quite clearly, “Diana?”

“It’s Bess Crawford, Peregrine.”

“So it is.” He winced and lay still.

I could smell burnt wool, sharp and strong. Setting down the torch to search for a wound, I felt blood warm on my hands on both sides of his shoulder, high up. The bullet must have gone through. To get to his coat buttons, I had to turn him over. He cried out, and said something I couldn’t catch. His breathing was fast but steady, and there was no froth of blood on his lips that I could see. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or dismayed that he would live.

I rocked back on my heels, thinking. I could do nothing more here, in the dark, without bandages or good light.

But where to find help?

Peregrine had told me once that there was only a skeleton medical staff at the asylum in the evening. Would anyone come back with me? It would take too long to drive to Owlhurst and bring Dr. Philips here.

The best I could do was try to ease the motorcar forward and somehow manage to get everyone in it.

Beside me, Peregrine stirred. “Watch—”

I took his hand. “It’s Bess Crawford, Peregrine. Can you stand? If I help you, can you get to your feet?”

“Where’s my brother?” His voice was terse, angry.

“Just there. He’s badly hurt. Please, Peregrine, you must help me.”

He frowned, dark lines across his forehead, giving him a sinister look in the torch’s light. I’d seen the same shadows once in his sickroom. “No—”

I turned and hurried back to the motorcar. It was my only hope now. When I got there, I looked at Constable Mason. He was awake, his eyes wide and frightened in the light of my torch. I didn’t think he knew where he was, and proof of that came quickly as he lost consciousness again.

No help there. I got behind the wheel, and just barely touching the accelerator, I felt the tires bite and the motorcar move forward. Thank God. A month or so earlier, and the earth would have been soft enough that I wouldn’t have made it.

I’d have to leave the other constable. It would be nearly impossible to get the two living men into the motorcar, much less a dead man. But I guided the car toward him and examined him again to be certain.

As I knelt there beside him, the torch in my hand died. I thought,
Oh, God, what next?

A man’s voice broke the silence, from some distance away, and I nearly leapt out of my skin.

“What’s happened? I heard shots.”

It sounded a little like Robert’s voice. The baritone of a big man.

I couldn’t see him, but he could see me, quite clearly.

I crouched by the constable, a frisson of uncertainty running through me.
What was he doing here?
“Robert? Is that you?”

To my left, Peregrine tried to shout something, and I was momentarily distracted.

“I say—you there—what’s going on?” the man called again, closer this time.

And then something was hurtling toward me from outside the rim of light. I could hear it coming, breathing hard, and as I got to my feet, braced to meet it, a large dog rushed up, tongue lolling, barking as if to say,
Look what I’ve discovered.

Its owner stepped into the edge of the motorcar’s headlamps and stopped, staring. He carried a shotgun, broken, over his arm.

“What’s going on here? Is that a policeman?”

I’d never seen the man before. Relief washed over me and I could almost feel my heart slowing to its normal rhythm.

“I was driving by when I heard the shots,” I said. “My own motorcar is on the road. I’m a nurse—these men are badly hurt. Can you help me get them to a doctor?”

“A nurse? From Barton’s?” He sounded skeptical. Of course—I wasn’t in uniform.

“No, Owlhurst. Please, we mustn’t waste time.”

He walked nearer, and I could see he was a farmer, broad shouldered and strong enough to help me lift a wounded man.

“Is that one dead?” he asked.

“Sadly. Yes. We must leave him for now. But there are two others.” I gestured in the direction of Jonathan and Peregrine.

The dog, disturbed by the scent of so much blood, was frisking around, whining now.

The farmer called him off and waited while I got back behind the wheel. As he glimpsed Constable Mason in the rear, he said in a shocked voice, “There’s another policeman!”

I didn’t answer him. Driving the vehicle gingerly forward again, I came to where Jonathan was lying, Peregrine just beyond him. The farmer followed on foot.

Peregrine was conscious, though in great pain, trying to raise himself and look the stranger over.

“It’s all right,” I said, getting out once more. “Can you stand? Between us we ought to be able to help you.”

He managed it after a fashion, with support. I thought the shot had struck his collarbone or his shoulder, for there was no touching him on that side. He wasn’t coughing, which was a good sign. Still, his face was a ghostly white in the light of the headlamps as we got him to his feet and he walked the short distance to the motorcar, clinging to my good arm. The pain must have been excruciating, each step jarring the wound. Putting him into the rear seat beside Constable Mason was difficult, but Peregrine accepted the situation in grim silence, his jaw set. For the first time I could see a resemblance to Arthur in his last hours, that same will reflected in his brother’s taut face, paring all emotion down to one intense resolve.

Mason was awake again, trying to make sense of what was
happening and who we were. I told him I would explain when there was time.

Jonathan was another matter. There would be no help from him. I quickly shoved his revolver into his greatcoat pocket, out of sight, and explained to the farmer what he must do. I heard something behind me and whirled in time to see Constable Mason nearly tumble out of the motorcar, catch himself, and while he was still doubled over, vomit violently before shambling unsteadily toward us, his sense of duty stronger than his dizziness. With his help we settled Jonathan’s limp body into the front seat and shut the door. Constable Mason leaned heavily against the wing, breathing hard from the exertion. I felt like joining him there, every muscle in my body complaining from the effort I’d made. Thank God, my arm had healed sufficiently.

As I got in beside Jonathan, I studied his face. I didn’t like the look of him, but all I could do was to make certain the scarf was still pressed in place. I thought the bleeding had stabilized, but that could be bad news, not good.

Constable Mason roused himself and joined Peregrine in the rear seat, inadvertently jarring him as he tried clumsily to climb inside.

I heard Peregrine swear fiercely under his breath. He’d said very little since I’d found him. I think he knew there would be no escape now and was resigning himself to his fate.

Turning to the farmer, I said, “Please. You must follow me in my motorcar—out there on the road. We must go to Owlhurst.”

For an instant I thought he was about to refuse me. Then he said, “Who shot these men?”

I told him truthfully, “I don’t know.”

He nodded, whistling up the dog, and went striding across the trampled field toward the road.

It was a bumpy ride, making a looping circle across the field and back to the verge where this motorcar had run off into the underbrush. I could hear Constable Mason breathing hard, and Peregrine grunting through clenched teeth.

On the road the farmer was straightening up Melinda’s vehicle and making room for me to pass. The dog’s head was turned toward us, ears pricked, as if making certain we were coming.

“Sorry,” I said, “I’m so sorry,” as we bounced hard back onto the road. And then I was gunning the motor, overtaking Melinda Crawford’s motorcar, heading to Owlhurst. In a matter of minutes we were flying past the brightly lit asylum, almost blindingly bright in the moonless night, and then it was gone, and I was gritting my teeth as I tried to avoid the worst of the dips and ridges of the unmade surface. I couldn’t help remembering how close I’d come to tumbling out of the dogcart when the wheels went off the road, wondering if any of my passengers would make it back alive if I overturned us. But time was critical, and casting a glance whenever I dared at Jonathan’s gray face, I made the best time I could.

Twice behind me, I heard Constable Mason retching as he leaned out his window.

Peregrine asked at one point about Jonathan. “Is he still alive?”

And all I could do was nod my head.

Behind us, the Crawford motorcar kept pace with the farmer at the wheel, its headlamps lighting up our interior, sending shadows dancing around us. Jonathan’s breathing was suspiciously quieter. I sent up a silent prayer that we wouldn’t encounter anything out here—a wandering dog, a man walking home from a pub, someone on a horse, a lorry. It was a narrow road, with little space to overtake.

Constable Mason said, “I’ve the devil of a headache.” And then to me, “I don’t remember you driving us.”

I said nothing, concentrating as we came flying into Owlhurst. It was a quiet time of night, the road blessedly empty, and I kept up my speed as we reached the cricket pitch. And then we were coming up on The Bells. By the garden gate was the Graham dogcart, and two men were just coming out of the pub door, staring at us as we passed. I almost didn’t make the turning at the church, slowing in the nick of time, and then there was the doctor’s surgery just ahead, and I felt like crying with relief.