A Question of Honor (29 page)

“He wouldn’t have had a revolver as an ordinary rank,” Mother was saying under her breath, “but he wouldn’t be the first to pick one up as a souvenir.”

She went back to the plants and found a pretty low-growing ground cover with lavender flowers. “I’ll take this one,” she told the young woman, and paid for it. “And that trowel as well. I’ve misplaced mine. Yes, thank you.”

We paid for the plant and the trowel, and my mother said, “I think it’s time we go to the churchyard.”

I carried the plant while she took up the trowel and then at another stall she saw a pair of gloves for the garden.

Laden with our purchases, we went into the churchyard and I pointed out Georgina Wade’s grave. My mother got down on her knees and, drawing on the gloves, took the trowel from me and began to dig in the soft earth by the headstone. “Poor child. She deserves something, doesn’t she?” With my help we planted the ground cover in the center by the headstone. Patting the earth around it, she said, “There. We need a little water to settle it in.”

I looked up. “Here comes the sexton,” I said under my breath.

“Perfect. I thought we might get his attention very quickly.”

She rose, and dusting her gloves, she pulled them off. Handing them to me along with the trowel, she looked around, and seeing the sexton apparently for the first time, she walked toward him, smiling.

“Just the man to help me,” she said brightly. “I need a little water. Is there any to be had close by? Or must I ask at the pub?”

“You need permission to plant flowers on the graves,” he said.

“Oh, surely not,” she answered. “I’m a member of the family. And look at the other flowers there and there and even over there.”

“What family?”

“The Wade family, of course. Cousins on my mother’s side. That’s why we’re here, to remember that poor child.”

He stared at my mother. “I don’t believe you.”

“Why ever not?” Mother asked sharply. “My daughter here found the grave for us, and I’ve come to take care of it.” When he stood his ground, she added, “If you don’t believe me, I have a photograph of Georgina. And a chair that was hers. They were being sold at the charity stall, believe it or not. I’d asked Mr. Gates to keep them, and someone made a terrible mistake.”

I could see him taking in what she had to say. She gave him a moment. “Now about that water,” she pressed.

“You’ll have to go to the pub,” he answered ungraciously.

“I understand your nursery grew the flowers I just put in. You must enjoy working with them. I was quite impressed with your stall. Did I see azaleas there? I’m sure I did. Was your father a plant man as well?”

His face was rigid, dark color coming up under his weather-roughened skin. “Leave my father out of this.”

“I don’t see why I should. Like father like son, only you chose not to go into the Army. At least that’s what Hazel Campbell tells me. We saw her just the other night, in London.”

“I don’t know anyone called Hazel Campbell.”

“But you must know her. She was one of the children at The Willows when you were the gardener’s boy. Surely you haven’t forgotten? Well, I don’t have time to stand and chat, I need to find some water. Good day, Mr. Lowell.”

And she walked away, with me in her wake.

“That should confuse him,” she said as we walked out into the square. “But the question now is, what did Hazel Sheridan have to hide?”

“If she was marrying into Society, being drawn into the murder of the Caswells wouldn’t endear her to her husband’s family.”

“I must have a friend who knows something about her background. It’s worth pursuing. Let me think where to start.”

We found the pub and went inside. The polished brass at the bar reflected the dark beams and the lamplight. My mother walked up to the barman, smiled, and said, “I should like to buy a little water for the plants I just put in by my niece’s grave.”

“Yes, of course, madam,” he said. “There’s no charge, but I’m afraid you’ll have to bring the container back. I don’t have a pail.”

She agreed, and he went behind the bar, came back with a jar, and filled it for her.

Thanking him, she left and we started back toward the churchyard. “Marianne Thorndyke,” she said.

“Sorry?”

“I can speak to Marianne Thorndyke. I’m sure she can tell me what I need to know about Lady Campbell. Or if she can’t, she’ll know someone who can.”

I laughed as we walked back to the church. Depend upon my mother to know where to turn.

There was no sign of the sexton when we reached the churchyard and made our way to Georgina Wade’s grave. We watered the little plant well and then my mother stood back. “There. Something good has come of this.”

We returned the jar to the pub and went to look for Simon. He was standing near the Lowell nursery stall, and he looked up as we approached.

“What did you say to that man? He left the churchyard as if all the imps of hell were at his heels.”

I told him.

“That was pushing rather hard, wasn’t it?”

Mother shook her head. “If we don’t, who will? And I knew you were close by.”

“Have we finished here?” Simon asked.

“Yes, I think so,” I answered. And he led us back to where he had left the motorcar.

When we got there, Simon put out a hand, telling us to wait while he went forward.

He came back to us and said, “Someone searched the motorcar.”

“Dear God,” I said, “did he find the revolver? Or the photograph?”

“Neither. I had them with me, in case.”

I
t was late when we reached Somerset, and we fell into our beds, exhausted.

But the next morning my mother was dressed and ready to go. “The proper time to call is in the afternoon, but Marianne won’t mind if I show up in the middle of the morning. Simon will drive us. She’s always been quite fond of him.”

And so it was we drove into Glastonbury to call on Marianne Thorndyke.

She had moved to the family home there when the Zeppelins began dropping bombs on London. Her husband was an undersecretary at the Foreign Office and couldn’t very well leave. And so she was very glad of company, and Mother used the excuse that I was at home on leave to explain our early call.

Mrs. Thorndyke greeted me warmly and welcomed Simon like an old friend. She ordered tea and asked all the news.

When there was an opening in the conversation, I said, “We were in London for a charity event on my last leave, and Lady Campbell was among the guests. I’m sure I’ve met her before, but I can’t think where. Who was she, before her marriage?”

“I believe her name was Felton.”

“Felton.” I frowned. “That doesn’t sound quite right.”

My mother said to me, “Wasn’t her father something in the Civil Service in Delhi? Perhaps that’s where you saw her, my dear.”

“Yes, that’s possible,” Mrs. Thorndyke replied. “Her parents died quite young, in a cholera epidemic, and she was made the ward of Sir James Felton. They were related through her mother. Sir James wanted her to take his name because he had no children. I believe it was while she was living in London with him that she met her future husband.”

I knew who the Feltons were; they had made their fortune early on in India under Robert Clive and had inherited the title from a senior branch of the family. I also knew that the Feltons were probably more Victorian than Victoria, upright to the point of rigidity. I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that it was Sir James who suppressed any connection with the Caswells. And Hazel Sheridan would have been happy to comply.

“What was her name before she was Sir James’s ward?” my mother asked.

“You know, I’m not sure I ever heard it.”

“Where was she schooled?” I asked.

“In Kent, I believe. The daughter of a friend was there at the same time.”

An impeccable background, with no mention of her years with the Caswells. Or their murder.

“That’s interesting,” I said, trying to look perplexed. “I met someone in France, an English officer, who knew her in Hampshire, where she lived with a family until she was old enough to go to boarding school.”

“Hazel Felton? He’s mistaken, of course. There’s a Hazel Gallagher who lives in Hampshire. Portsmouth, in fact. She’s the daughter of a Naval officer in the White Fleet. The sweetest girl.”

“Has Miss Gallagher ever lived in India?” my mother asked. “Or Ceylon?”

“No, her mother is an invalid, not up to traveling abroad.”

“I’m sure I’ll remember later,” I said, smiling. Mrs. Thorndyke was my mother’s friend, and I couldn’t press her any further.

Our hostess turned to Simon, who was standing in his favorite place, by the hearth, asking if he believed that it was possible that the war would end before Christmas. “We’d thought,” she added, “that when it began, it was sure to end by Christmas. And we were deeply disappointed.”

Whatever he knew, Simon gave her a summary of the speculations in the London newspapers, and she was grateful for his opinion. And then it was time to take our leave. Mrs. Thorndyke politely asked us to stay for lunch, but we as politely thanked her profusely and said our good-byes.

As we left, Mother said with a sigh, “Well. I don’t know that we’ve learned anything that’s helpful, except the fact that Hazel Sheridan has erased her past very efficiently.”

“She must have been infuriated when she received a letter from Gwendolyn Caswell, asking why she and her parents weren’t invited to the wedding,” Simon replied. “She could hardly explain to anyone why these people were asking to be included.”

“A reason to kill three people? I’m not sure,” Mother commented.

“It’s odd that she was offering bribes to Miss Gooding and Lowell, the sexton, so soon after the fact. You’d think,” I went on, “that she would be grateful the Caswells were dead and stay as far away from Petersfield as she possibly could.”

It was Simon who made the most cogent argument. “I can see that she might bribe Miss Gooding, who had probably stayed in Petersfield after the rest of the staff found employment elsewhere. The question is, how did she know to offer Lowell a bribe? If she wanted no part of being reminded of her past, then why seek out the gardener’s boy?”

“Lieutenant Wade, Captain Bingham, this man Teddy, and Alexander Hughes. All of them had very sound reasons for killing the Caswells. Why not one of them?” my mother asked. “It doesn’t seem unlikely.”

“Because,” I said, thinking it through, “each of them had more to lose than to gain from murder. While Hazel Sheridan had the most to gain.”

“I think she’s right,” Mother said after a moment. “But did Hazel kill them or did she pay Lowell to do it for her? And how did she come by the revolver?”

“They were sitting in their chairs in the parlor,” I pointed out. “Would they have received Mr. Lowell there? A tradesman would have come to the kitchen door.”

“He could have done, the staff had been given the afternoon off. He could have walked straight through the house,” Mother said, “but as soon as he showed his face, Mr. Caswell would have risen from his chair and asked what he wanted.”

Simon spoke. “She didn’t bribe anyone until after the fact, after the police were stymied. If they’d taken someone into custody straightaway, she would never have needed to come back to Petersfield.”

“I think,” I said, “it’s time for Lieutenant Wade to tell us what he knows.”

Chapter Twenty

W
e came home to find my father there. He’d been at Sandhurst for several days, and he was working in his study when we knocked and were admitted.

After telling him what we’d learned, we asked if he had had a chance to visit Lieutenant Wade at Longleigh House.

“No, to my sorrow, I haven’t,” he admitted. “This talk of an Armistice has kept all of us busy.”

“Could we go this afternoon? You can see why we need to speak to him now. Or rather, to persuade him to speak to us.”

“Bess, I don’t think the four of us arriving on his doorstep would persuade him to tell us anything. I’ll go alone.”

“If you do, he’ll think I’ve broken my promise and you’re there to see to it that he’s taken into custody. Let me go as well.”

“All right,” the Colonel Sahib agreed reluctantly.

And so it was that after lunch my father and I got into his motorcar and set out for Longleigh House.

“Does it bring back memories,” he asked after a time, “this drive?”

“Yes. I haven’t heard from Captain Barclay for over a month. I hope he’s safe.”

“He is. I’ve kept up with his career. A pity he’s planning to join his father in the family enterprises. The Army could use his experience.”

“I don’t see him lecturing to recruits,” I said dryly.

“No. But he’s a good man.”

As we approached Longleigh House and were about to turn up the drive, I said, “How shall we begin? This won’t be easy, will it?”

“Let Lieutenant Wade—Corporal Caswell—make that decision for us.”

When we arrived, we were taken directly to call on Matron, and she had tea brought in. After asking my father what he knew about the course of the war, she asked how my time had been spent in France. I told her about the influenza hospital, and she nodded.

“It hasn’t spared us here, either, sad to say. But Dr. Gaines is recovering, and so are the three patients we have in quarantine.”

As we finished our tea, she turned to the Colonel Sahib. “This isn’t a social call, I’m sure, much as I’ve enjoyed our chat. Did you come about anything in particular?”

“We’d like to speak to Corporal Caswell,” I said. “If that’s possible.”

She took a deep breath. “He hasn’t had an easy time of it here, my dear. The officers shun him, of course, but Dr. Gaines had set up a special course of treatment before he was taken ill, and the Sisters have carried it out to the letter. He’s in his room on the first floor. He takes his meals there. It might make his life easier if the others see Colonel Crawford calling on him.” But there was doubt in her voice all the same.

“I’m sorry to hear that he’s had trouble fitting in. I was more interested in the medical care he’d received,” my father said as we rose to leave. “I can’t think of anyone better at dealing with his wounds.”

“I agree. But sometimes healing comes from within, as well.”

She was about to summon someone to take us to Corporal Caswell’s room, then shook her head. “You know the way, Sister. It might be better if you go alone.”

Matron walked with us as far as the staircase and was still standing at the foot when I looked back from the landing.

We found the room without difficulty. I remembered it as fair-sized and sunny. I knocked and then opened the door, as one of the staff would. Lieutenant Wade was sitting by the window looking out on the garden. Some of the patients had taken it upon themselves to keep the flower beds tidy, but it was still a ghost of what it must have been. A book lay open in his lap, and he was in a wheeled chair, with his injured leg elevated.

“Hallo, Corporal,” I said, coming into the room.

He knew my voice. Swinging around so fast that the book went flying, he saw first me and then, behind me, still in the open doorway, my father.

There was nothing he could do. I watched a train of emotions flick across his features and knew he felt cornered, and as a result, his anger spilled over.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

My father took a chair and brought it forward for me, then went to stand by the hearth, his elbow on the mantelpiece, the picture of a man relaxed and in no hurry. “To see how you are faring,” he said mildly.

“As you see, still crippled by this leg,” Lieutenant Wade responded harshly. “They put me on this floor purposely to make it impossible for me to escape.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” my father told him. “Bess here has served at Longleigh House before. Perhaps she can explain that decision.”

I smiled. “Really, it’s a matter of what room is available when you arrive.”

A silence fell. Lieutenant Wade was still glaring at us.

There was nothing for it but to start somewhere. I chose what I thought would be the most roundabout way, to give the Lieutenant time to collect himself. “I was in London not long ago with my mother. A charity affair. And Hazel Sheridan came to it with Princess Mary. Lady Campbell, she is now. Her husband is a royal equerry.”

His eyes were suddenly shuttered, and I realized he was about to lie. “I don’t believe I know her. Should I?”

I had inadvertently touched a nerve, and I quickly shifted my approach, choosing the most charged answer I could think of.

“A summer’s day in 1908. Coming out of the Caswell house just as you were arriving?”

It took all the skill he possessed to answer calmly, “Nonsense.”

“And perhaps she told you how the Caswells were trying to ruin her chances of marrying the man she was very much in love with, and that she had come to plead with them to let her be happy.”

An eyelid betrayed him. Twitching as he tried to keep any reaction out of his face. “If you want to make up fairy tales, go somewhere else.”

“Did you believe her? Did she throw herself on your mercy? Did she cry and tell you they deserved to die for what they’d done to the children in their charge? Your silence allowed her to marry that man, to have a child, to be accepted socially in the highest circles. Did you think about that on the long cold nights in Afghanistan, hiding in the hills? Or crossing the mountains in Persia, when you were exhausted and friendless and lost?”

“You’ve taken leave of your senses, Sister Crawford. None of this is true.”

“Did it occur to you that if you were taken prisoner and sent back to England for trial, you would have to sacrifice yourself or tell the truth about Hazel? Was that why you left the regiment without speaking to the Colonel Sahib, because you couldn’t answer his questions without consigning Hazel to the hangman?”

“Stop. I don’t want to hear any more of this. I don’t have to listen.”

I rose. “I’m so sorry. I’d hoped you might want to know that Hazel has tricked you just as she’s tricked everyone else.” I started for the door. “We found the revolver in a broken vinegar jug in Miss Gooding’s shed. Now she’s the chief suspect, not you.”

“
Liar!
” he cried, and I looked back, thinking he was about to rise out of his chair. Instead he was pounding the arms in impotent fury.

My father wheeled on him. “Mind your tongue, Lieutenant. My daughter doesn’t lie.”

I was just crossing the threshold. I turned and said, “Hazel Sheridan wasn’t your little sister, fragile and in need of your protection. She was nothing like Georgina. Don’t you remember? And because you think you failed Georgina, you’ve protected Hazel all these years. Did you know, when I first heard that you were alive and in France, I wanted to see you hang, because of what you did to the regiment?” I could hear footsteps on the stairs, and I added hurriedly, “All the same, I shall keep my promise, Corporal Caswell. I have no desire now to see you punished for something you didn’t do.”

We were in the passage, the door shut behind us, on our way to the stairs when I heard him cry out. The Sister just coming up rushed past us, intent on going to his aid.

I put out my hand and smiled at her, saying, “It’s all right, Sister. He’s just had bad news.”

My father said, “I’ll go back to him, he won’t care to have you see him cry.”

And he turned, went to the door, and opened it, shutting it firmly behind him.

Still uncertain, the Sister went on her way, looking over her shoulder once to assure herself all was well. I waited where I was, at the top of the stairs. Below I could hear all the familiar sounds. Of crutches and canes tapping across the bare floors, of wheeled chairs squeaking as they rolled, men laughing, a Sister leading her charges in exercises to strengthen a limb and counting out loud. An out-of-tune piano was being played with more gusto than skill and men were singing to it, a rather bawdy song from the trenches.

A doctor was calling for an orderly, two Sisters were on their way out the door, their voices rising to where I stood, and Matron was giving instructions to someone.

It was odd to stand here and not hurry to carry out my next duty. I was about to find someone and ask if I could speak to Dr. Gaines when the door to Corporal Caswell’s room opened and my father said quietly, “Bess.”

I turned and saw that he was waiting for me.

I went quickly to him, and as he ushered me into the room, he said, “I think you’d better hear this.”

Lieutenant Wade was sitting where I’d left him, his head in his hands. I couldn’t see his face. I could only hear him clear his throat, as if he’d been crying and was trying to hide it.

“I’m tired,” he said then. “I’ve run for so long. Changing identities, hiding in the shadows. I was going to stay on the Continent, but it wasn’t my home. And I was homesick, I wanted to come back to England somehow. Finally I hired out on a small merchant ship trading up and down the coast. When we came into Whitby, I jumped ship and left there before I was expected back on board, well before the hunt for me was up. I had some money, so I changed my appearance and did whatever work I could find. I told most people that I’d lost my fiancée and had taken to a gypsy way of life to forget. They were generally sympathetic, but sometimes there was trouble, and I had to move on. When the war came, I enlisted. They were happy to have me, no questions asked, and for the very first time since I walked away from the garrison, I had a home. Even so, I was different, never really accepted, but when I rose to Corporal, I had a position of some authority and that was all right. I could manage. Sergeants and some of the Lieutenants asked me why I hadn’t trained to be an officer, and I told them I was the black sheep of the family and preferred anonymity.” He started to shrug and remembered his collarbone. “It’s been a long road.”

He wasn’t asking for our sympathy. For the first time he was able to tell the truth, and it seemed to make him feel something I couldn’t quite define. As if he were freed of a great burden, I thought, or could feel himself a man again.

My father was sitting in the only chair now, facing the Lieutenant, and I stood behind him.

“Welcome home, son,” he said quietly, the Colonel to a wayward recruit.

A
t first he refused to talk about what had happened in 1908. But my father told him sternly that the time had come to do his duty. “Whether you choose to stand up in a courtroom and tell the truth, you owe it to me to clear up the past. The regiment was not to blame for your desertion, but it redounded on us all the same. Some thought we had deliberately let a murderer escape, that I had somehow warned you in time.”

I don’t think that that had ever occurred to the man before us, hunched over in his wheeled chair. He looked up, staring at my father with shock in his face.

“No one warned me. When I learned that the MFP had come, I knew that someone must have seen me leaving Petersfield. They couldn’t have known who I was, of course, not after so much time, but eventually the police or Scotland Yard or someone would work it out that I’d been there. I’d stopped by my sister’s grave, you see, before going on to the house.”

“What did you mean to do there?”

“I only wanted to confront them. To rid myself of the demons I’d carried so long. When my sister Georgina died, I thought—I thought they had refused to call in a doctor soon enough because I was such a thorn in their sides. That it was my fault that my sister died. Gwendolyn said as much, she told me outright that I had only myself to blame. Little Alice’s death brought it all back, you see—I thought the Middletons must be no better than the Caswells. I was wrong, of course, but how did I know? I wanted to make them pay for Mrs. Standish’s suffering. I was going to unmask them as the monsters they were. Only they were as cut up by Alice’s death as her parents were, and it was genuine grief I saw, not crocodile tears. That’s when I decided to go to Hampshire and face the Caswells down. I should have done it years before, long before I joined the Army, but I couldn’t. I had shut off that part of my life, and I didn’t want to relive it.”

“And that’s when you saw Hazel Sheridan. She told you that the family was deciding to take in children again, and she couldn’t bear it,” I said.

He frowned. “Who told you they were starting up again? I thought no one else but the two of us knew. Hazel and I.”

“Miss Gooding had seen the advertisement in the
Times
.”

“Then it
was
true. Afterward I sometimes doubted it was. At any rate, I went into the house to see if they were wounded or if she had really killed them. They were dead, there was no doubt there. I walked out again, and by that time Hazel had left. I thought she might have gone to the police, that if I stayed, I’d be forced to give evidence against her as a witness. I walked away to protect her. But I saw the newspapers before I sailed, and the police had nothing to go on. There was some mention of asking Scotland Yard to take over the investigation. Several people reported seeing a stranger in the town. One described me as wearing the uniform of an Army officer. There was no mention at all of Hazel. I was glad she hadn’t confessed. If anyone deserved to die, it was that family. I sailed for India satisfied that she was going to be safe.”

“But
you
weren’t,” my father said.

“No. Scotland Yard was more thorough. They had only to find out that an officer had got down from one train and an hour later got on the next train south, heading for Portsmouth. When they looked into sailings, they could have come up with a list of names. It was only a matter of asking the servants if they recognized one of them. I hadn’t considered that, you see. I wasn’t used to having to hide my actions. I worked it out later, far too late to do anything about it.”