A Question of Honor (13 page)

The more I learned about Lieutenant Wade, the more confused I felt.

I left the churchyard and went in search of Simon.

But there was no sign of his motorcar or of him. He’d intended to drive out to The Willows later, to see if it had been sold. I couldn’t imagine that he’d decided to do that while I was making my roundabout way to the church.

Where, then, was he?

I cast about in the streets leading out of the square. I even went back to the church and the side gate where I’d come in earlier. But he wasn’t there.

It was unlike him to not be where I could find him. He’d been worried about me from the start. Then what could have delayed him? Had he encountered Mr. Gates and been held up longer than expected? It was very possible.

I started walking out of Petersfield in the direction of The Willows. I’d passed the last house before Church Street narrowed into the road that led west. Though the afternoon was warm and dry, The Willows was farther away than I remembered. I had at least another half mile to go.

And then around the bend came a motorcar, nearly sweeping me off my feet as it thundered past me, narrowly missing me.

Simon’s motorcar.

But that wasn’t Simon at the wheel. I’d swear to it.

I broke into a run. Something had happened, and I wanted to find Simon, to be sure he was all right. He could look after himself as well as any man and better than most. Then why was someone else driving his motorcar?

He wasn’t by the gates into The Willows, and he wasn’t on the drive. I cast about on either side of it, and the next thing I knew, the door of the house was flung open and Mr. Gates came roaring down the steps.

I turned to face him, thinking he was angry about the box I’d bought at the charity stall. But then he couldn’t have known who it was, could he?

“What are you doing here? I find you everywhere I look, I can’t escape you. Go away, in the name of God, and leave me in peace. I only want to be rid of this albatross about my neck, can’t you understand that?”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, standing my ground. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d attacked me. “I was expecting to meet someone in Petersfield, and he hasn’t come. But someone else was driving his motorcar just now, and I thought he might have come from here. I must find out if anything is wrong.”

He stopped some five feet from me. “Why should he come here? What possible reason can he have for interfering in my life?” He was all but wringing his hands, his anger giving way to self-pity.

“He’s not interfering. And I must find him. Won’t you help me? If not, will you allow me to look for him here on the grounds? He must be somewhere.”

“I don’t care where he is. Get off my property or I shall have you up for trespassing.”

The housekeeper came to the open door behind him, staring at us as we quarreled.

“What’s happened? I could hear the shouting.”

“We must send for the constable. At once,” he said, turning toward her.

“My dear, there’s no one to send,” she said plaintively, and he closed his eyes, as if this was too much to bear.

“I’ll leave,” I said, angry with him now, in spite of what I could see was a very disturbed man. “But if I don’t find my friend out there on the road, I shall come back, and I shall bring the constable with me, to sort it out.”

I turned to leave and had just reached the gates when Simon stumbled toward them from the road, his face a bloody mask.

“Bess?” he said, and I ran toward him, catching his arm.

“What happened?” I asked as he leaned on me for a moment, shaking his head to clear it.

“I’m all right,” he told me. “A little dazed still.”

I looked around and Mr. Gates was staring at Simon as if he’d seen a ghost. And then I realized that it was the blood on Simon’s face, almost obscuring his features.

I called to the housekeeper, “He needs help.”

She hesitated, and I could see that she was torn between refusing me and helping Simon. Finally she said, “The kitchen. This way.”

We walked past Mr. Gates, standing like a statue, his eyes unfocused as he looked into the past. Simon managed the steps somehow and walked into the house. We followed the housekeeper through the door beyond the stairs and down into the kitchen. What I’d seen of the rooms we passed was hardly what a potential buyer would find attractive. Janet’s mother had been right, the wallpaper was old-fashioned and dark, the furniture heavy and depressing.

We reached the kitchen and the housekeeper pointed to a chair. “Sit there. I’ll find water and some cloths.” She disappeared down the passage as Simon sat down.

“I’d bent over to turn the crank. There was no one else on the road, I’d have sworn to that. I think he must have come from the small copse—I’d left the motorcar there where it was half hidden, and walked as far as the gates of the house. No one was about, and nothing seemed to have changed. I went back the way I’d come. I don’t know what he had in his hand. I heard him just in time and ducked as he swung it, hard. Still, it caught me a glancing blow. I went down, and before I could roll, he hit me again. He got behind the wheel, and I managed to fling myself in the ditch before he could run me down. He tried twice, then gunned the motor and was gone. I think I must have lost consciousness—”

He broke off before I could ask if he’d seen the man. The housekeeper was coming down the passage, her heels clicking on the stone flagging. I went to take the basin of water from her, and she put the clean cloths down on the table.

Simon took one, dipped it the basin, and began to wipe the blood from his face. I could see the knot at his hairline and another on his cheekbone. He was lucky the bone wasn’t broken or his skull fractured. He winced as he touched the torn skin. It was bleeding freely, the way head wounds can, and I looked up to see the housekeeper swaying on her feet.

I caught her and sat her down. “Mrs. . . .” I began, about to tell her to put her head between her knees.

“Miss. It’s Miss Seavers,” she answered weakly, her gaze still on the bloody cloths and bloodier water in the basin.

“No, look away. He will be all right. Please, put your head down, that’s it, and keep it there for a moment.”

She did as she was told. After a moment she said, “We left my cousin in the drive.”

“He’ll be all right.” I hoped that was true. “I need to ask you something.” Out of the corner of my eye I could see Simon holding a compress against his head, leaning back in his chair. “Have you been clearing out the attics?”

“Yes.” She sat up too quickly, and I had to urge her to put her head down again. “We thought it might look—nicer. Cleaner and more inviting. I expect the Caswells never threw anything away. I sent several boxes of linens to the charity stall, and a box of children’s things as well. I don’t know how long they’d been up there. I wanted to keep the Dresden shepherdess, but my cousin wouldn’t hear of it. Or the sampler. He wanted to be rid of them.”

“Why?”

She sat up, shaking her head. “It brought back the past, he said. He wanted nothing to do with the Caswells. I’ve taken down the family portraits and put them out in the shed. A pity, but he said they were not by known artists, and worth very little.”

“The sampler. Do you remember the name of the child who embroidered it?”

“Barbara, I think it was.”

I felt a wave of disappointment. Simon was listening to the exchange, but he couldn’t know what I did.

“It wasn’t Georgina, by any chance, was it?”

“No, I don’t believe so. The box holding the shepherdess had
Georgina, on her birthday
written on the outside. I threw that away, because the charity stall didn’t care to have items identified. The sampler, of course, was different. But how did you know about these things?”

“I happened to see them at the charity stall,” I told her. “Has anyone else come looking for them?”

“There was a man here. Some time ago. He was collecting children’s toys and so on for the poor in London. I promised to let him have anything we didn’t want, but the box got collected with the other items for the charity stall. It didn’t matter, most of the items were not something poor children could play with very well. Like the shepherdess.”

“Did you know this man?”

“I didn’t. But he was very nice, and his concern for the London children was obvious even to me. He’d approached any number of people about this, he said. He was wearing the uniform of a wounded soldier, and his health wasn’t the best, he said. But this was a cause dear to him.”

I wondered about that. Miss Seavers was a kindhearted woman. A man appearing at her door could take advantage of that kindness. Proper housekeepers would have sent such a petitioner packing. Miss Seavers, a cousin acting in that capacity, was easier to appeal to. But what was this man really after?

Something from the past. Not the past of the Gates family but from the Caswells.

What was in this house that he wanted? I don’t think Miss Seavers—or even her cousin—had any idea.

I could hear footsteps on the stairs. I turned to Simon, whose color was better now, his face and hair cleaner, although there were still stains on his uniform and his hands.

Mr. Gates came to the doorway. “I think we have done enough to help this man. Please leave.” He was looking at me, not at Simon.

I thanked Miss Seavers as Simon put down the cloth in his hand and rose without a word. Mr. Gates stepped aside. I thanked him too as I left the kitchen and went up the stairs to the ground floor. I could hear Simon following me, but I didn’t turn. We went out the main door, and it was firmly shut behind us.

“What the hell is going on?” Simon asked quietly, catching me up and walking beside me now.

I told him.

He whistled under his breath. “What have we stumbled into?”

“I don’t know.” I looked at him. “Are you up to walking into Petersfield?”

“Yes,” he answered impatiently. After a moment he broke the silence that had fallen between us. “This doesn’t mean that Lieutenant Wade didn’t kill the Caswell family. There must be something else that would come to light if someone begins to look into the past.”

“Then that’s what cost Mr. Gessler and his daughter their lives,” I said.

“Why does someone else want that photograph? Does he know what it shows? Or is he taking no chances?”

“Sadly we can’t put names to those children. It might help if we could.” I cast a sideways glance at Simon, but he seemed to be managing well enough. And we had reached the outskirts now. “But how to begin?”

“God knows.” Simon put a hand to his head, and I realized it must ache abominably.

Why had he been attacked? What purpose would have been served if he’d been severely wounded—or killed? I didn’t want to think about that.

“Do you remember anything about the person who struck you?”

“There was no time, Bess. A man. Not as tall as I am. Slim. That’s about it. Could I recognize him again? I doubt it. I was too busy trying to stay alive.”

“Well, it wasn’t Mr. Gates, that’s certain. The sexton?”

“I don’t know.” Simon stopped and turned to me. “Is it too obvious that I’ve been bleeding?”

“Yes. Your cheek is beginning to bruise—very red, and raw. The lump at your hairline—”

I found my handkerchief and tried to blot the blood. Finally I shook my head. “It’s hopeless, Simon.” I looked around. “Let me find an apothecary shop and buy some cotton wool and plasters.”

“Yes, all right. I’ll stay out of sight.”

I hurried away, passed through the square and down the High Street until I came to an apothecary. I was just coming out with my purchases when I stopped short.

There was a motorcar parked not a dozen steps down from the shop, and I realized, looking more closely at it, that it must be Simon’s. I could have sworn under oath that it hadn’t been there when I went inside the shop. But then I’d been distracted. . . .

I turned and went to it for a closer look. I was right. And in the rear seat was a long cudgel.

Looking around, I could see no one watching. I set my purchases on the rear seat, then stepped around to the bonnet and turned the crank. Five minutes later, I was slowing beside Simon. He opened the passenger’s door and got in.

“Well, well,” he said.

“Look in the back.”

He did, and I heard him swear under his breath. “He meant to kill me.”

Would whoever it was have come next for me? Was that why the motorcar was left in plain sight, luring me to my own death? Or to frighten me into leaving? I felt angry suddenly. At Lieutenant Wade, at Mr. Gates and the Caswells, at whoever was behind this attack on Simon.

Picking up speed, I drove past The Willows, and as we came into the outskirts of the next village, where we could be seen by anyone looking out a window, I pulled to the side of the road and pulled up the brake. This was as safe as I could make it. As I retrieved the salve and the bandages, I asked, “Do you want to go to the Petersfield police? I think you should.” Trying to interject a lighter note to conceal my worry, I added, “I don’t know how you’ll explain this to my father.” I gestured to the bloody bits of cotton wool I’d been using on his face.

Simon ignored the last comment. “I’m not very clearheaded at the moment. And we don’t know who’s to be trusted in that village. No, much as I loathe retreat, it’s wiser to go on to Somerset. But I promise you, I shall find out who is behind this.”

His tone of voice warned me not to press.

He let me drive. I glanced his way from time to time, but his eyes were closed. I didn’t think he was asleep. After an hour or so on the road north he stirred and said, “Bess. I don’t like the direction this is taking. If Wade is in France, there’s more to this than we could possibly have imagined.”

I’d thought about that before, when I knew Lieutenant Wade had been wounded and at the Base Hospital in Rouen at the time the fire had been set.

“Simon. What if the photograph I bought in Petersfield is only part of the story? We showed it to the Gesslers. He couldn’t remember it, of course. All he could tell us was when it was taken and for whom. Not who the children were. But what if, after we left, those faces stayed in his mind. A photographer deals in faces. Or places. And in a day or two, let’s say, he begins to recall when he’s seen one of the children before. But as an adult, someone he photographed in another time and place. Like the racehorse or Queen Victoria in her carriage.”