by Charles Todd
“I find I’m in need of exercise. Being shut up here in the house has been very uncomfortable.”
“You are free to walk down to the strand whenever you care to.”
“Am I?” I countered. “I expect I made enemies the other night, and I feel it’s unwise to show myself there.”
“The odd thing is,” he said, coming to the point, “no one saw you leave for this . . . bit of exercise.”
So that was it. I smiled. “I don’t care to be watched either.”
“My dear, it’s for your own good. Walking to Swansea is not wise. For one thing it’s a distance, and for another, the state of the road is unpredictable. You could twist an ankle and have nowhere to turn.”
“I’ve decided that I shan’t be trying to walk to Swansea or anywhere else,” I told him then. “But one day there will be someone who isn’t afraid of taking me up in his—or her—motorcar. My father is a high-ranking officer in the Army. A man who has the ear of important people in London. He’s probably searching for me now, and I would not wish to be in the shoes of anyone who stood in his way.”
There. I’d done what I could to pave the way for Simon’s return.
Mr. Wilson’s eyebrows rose. I could imagine him wondering how much of this warning to take back to whoever had sent him.
“I don’t think anyone would wish to stand in his way,” he said then. “But of course he must find you first.”
That was a warning meant for me. I thought of Oliver being left in that cave to die. But surely that must have been Ellen’s work, however odd that seemed. Oliver had left here in her motorcar, and he’d been in no state to come back on his own. Nor was there any way that a villager out here could have reached him in hospital. If Ellen had actually delivered him there.
“Someone will tell my father where to find me,” I said with a smile, “if only to prevent the Army from descending on this village and conducting a thoroughly unpleasant search. Who knows what they might turn up?”
He stared at me. “I’m only trying to protect you,” he said finally. “It’s my duty to try to prevent trouble.”
“Thank you, Rector. I appreciate your concern.” I rose, ending the interview. He turned and walked to the door. I followed.
For the first time he made a comment that I was sure hadn’t come from Mr. Griffith or Mr. Burton or even Mr. Dunhill. “You don’t understand. You threaten the livelihood of too many people,” he said on the threshold. “That’s not wise.”
“I didn’t choose to stay here. Perhaps if Mr. Griffith had dealt with Mr. Morgan’s nightmare instead of trying to frighten him, I’d have returned to Swansea the next morning as arranged, and you wouldn’t have been troubled by my presence here.”
“As I understand it, Mr. Morgan was a little too curious about a family heirloom on the mantelpiece. Mr. Griffith was worried he might take it.”
I remembered the ornate cross in Rachel’s bedroom. Someone in her family must have saved that too from the wrecked ship—or from the bodies of the drowned.
I wanted to ask how many such “heirlooms” were scattered about the village, but I knew it was unwise.
When I didn’t reply, he nodded, put his hat on his head, and walked down the path to the road.
I watched him go before shutting the door after him.
Chapter 18
When the sun came out in late afternoon, I walked as far as the overlook, and stood there for a time, watching the tide ebb and flow down on the strand. My coat had dried, although I’d had to give it a thorough brushing. It had been rather stiff with rainwater and I had no way of cleaning it.
As I watched, Mrs. Stephenson came out of her door, far below me. She stood there staring down toward the strand. There was something in the way she held herself that suggested she was still uncertain whether she could have saved her husband. It would haunt her, I thought, for as long as she lived.
My pistol in my pocket, I decided to walk down and speak to her. Passing the hedge by Mr. Griffith’s house, I was reminded of that heirloom. As I looked toward his cottage I saw him at his window, watching as he always did.
By the time I reached Mrs. Stephenson’s cottage, she had gone inside. I knocked at the door, and after several minutes she answered the summons. Her expression wasn’t friendly.
“Why are you here?” she demanded. “After what you did the other night?”
“I’m sorry. I was afraid a terrible mistake was about to be made.”
“I’m a patient woman. I can wait.” Her voice was cold.
Until I was gone? Or until there was more proof?
“I came to see how you are. You’ve suffered a very great shock, losing your husband. I can’t blame you for wanting to find out who killed him. But taking out your anger on the wrong man won’t make you feel any better. Or bring your husband back to you. Let me help you find the right person.”
“Step in.”
Surprised, I did, and she offered me a chair.
There was an awkward moment, and then she said, “I can’t get used to the silence. He was always around. I’d hear him even if I didn’t see him. If I didn’t, I knew it wouldn’t be very long before he’d be back.” Tears filled her eyes, but I quickly realized that they were angry tears. “Someone took him before his time. I can’t forgive that, no matter what Rector says.”
“Who held a grudge against your husband? Who could have done such a thing?”
“There’s no grudge. It’s the silver. It’s turned all of us into greedy monsters, wanting more and more. Needing it to get by.”
“But your husband wasn’t looking for silver, was he?”
“We all look for silver, there on the strand. It’s in our blood and bones, to look.”
But Oliver hadn’t been looking for silver when he was attacked—nor was he on the strand.
As she talked, it was clear that she’d listened to others discuss Philip Heaton and the money he was owed by her husband. I heard more than she realized. For one thing, no one liked Philip very much. For another, most of the men in the village were as uncertain about who had killed Edward Stephenson as she was.
She made tea after a time, and I sat with her, letting her talk. She told me about her husband, showed me a photograph of her son and daughter when they were young. “They escaped the peninsula. I don’t know that it did our boy much good. But Edith is happy enough.” There was a world of loneliness in her voice. “Now her father is buried, I expect she won’t come.”
When I rose to leave, there was an abrupt change in her. The loneliness and grief that had begun with the tea, that had seemed to be helping her face her loss, vanished as if they had never been.
“It was good of you to come,” she said, as if she actually meant it. And then, “Next time—when I find who did this to him and to me—don’t stand in my way. I’ll have my revenge, and neither you nor anyone else will stop me.”
And the door closed in my face.
As I turned away, I saw how late it was. In the cottage, with the curtains drawn in mourning, I hadn’t noticed. Sunset was just beginning to fade. There was still a faint afterglow as I reached the hedge by Mr. Griffith’s cottage and walked on to the road in front of Rachel’s house. I was just starting across it, my mind still on Mrs. Stephenson, when I glanced toward The Worm, only a black silhouette in the distance. It had been the guardian spirit of the peninsula for generations, but silver coins had been the village’s curse.
A flicker of light halfway to The Worm caught my attention, and I froze.
Had someone just lit a lamp in Ellen’s cottage? I was sure it hadn’t been there when first I’d looked that way. But there was a brightness just showing in one of the windows now.
Had Ellen come back while I was calling on Mrs. Stephenson?
I couldn’t believe it. But Simon wouldn’t have let a light show where anyone could see it.
I started down toward the cottage. Was she still driven to search for her grandfather’s silver? After what she
must have done to Oliver?
The farther I went, the clearer the lamp light became. And then it went out.
Even more uncertain, I kept going. I’d nearly reached the cottage when I glimpsed Ellen’s motorcar, well hidden at the side of the house. Only the gleam of the chrome radiator gave it away. And now I could see there was another lamp burning somewhere inside, its faint light showing through the curtains as I came to the path to her door.
How many people had seen her arrive? Mr. Griffith, for one, I was sure of that. It was close to the dinner hour, which meant most of the villagers would be in their kitchens at the rear of their cottages.
It was completely dark now. I hesitated. No one knew where I was. On the other hand, Ellen might have come back only to collect something, and she might be gone before morning.
I went up to the door and knocked.
I was almost certain she wouldn’t answer. And I could hear Simon’s voice in my head telling me I ought to turn and go. But I had my little pistol in my pocket. That was comforting.
I was just about to walk away when she came to the door, and I was shocked at the change in her. She was haggard, with dark circles under her eyes as if she hadn’t slept in some time.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
“To see if you were all right. And to ask after your friend Oliver. How is he? Did you reach the hospital in time?”
“Yes. Yes, he’s doing well,” she said brightly. “I called in to see how he was, just before I left Swansea.”
She was lying about looking in on him. And she wasn’t very good at it.
But I said only, “I’m glad. You look unwell. Is everything all right?”
“Oh, yes. I haven’t had much rest, worrying about my friend. I intend to go to bed shortly.”
“I won’t keep you, then. I saw your light, and I was concerned. I’m glad he’s better.”
She shut the door as quickly as she could, almost before I’d said good night and turned away.
I started up the slope, wishing I’d brought a torch, but then I hadn’t expected to be walking back in the dark.
Ahead of me was Mr. Griffith, coming my way.
I sighed. He’d want to know where I’d been and why.
I had just reached the coast guard station when he cried out a warning. I registered the sound of running footsteps behind me, and I ducked to make myself a smaller target. Something came down hard on my shoulder, striking a nerve and sending a searing flash of pain down my arm into my hand. I was barely aware of Mr. Griffith shouting again as he broke into a run toward me. I was trying to draw my pistol out of my coat pocket but my fingers wouldn’t work. Before I could turn and confront my attacker, whoever it was grunted and hit me again between my shoulder blades, knocking the wind out of me and sending me to my knees.
Then Mr. Griffith was there, and whoever had struck me was running away. I tried to turn, desperate to see who it was, but moving made the world spin, and I stopped.
I managed to say, “Did you see? Who was it?”
He was helping me to my feet. “It was dark. A woman—Ellen. It must have been.”
The dizziness was passing, my breathing returning to normal. I turned in his grip, but I couldn’t see anyone in that shadowy stretch between here and the coast guard station. And the running had stopped. Whoever it was must still be nearby.
“I need to search—help me.”
He was shaking his head. “She’ll reach her cottage before us. And you’ll need your wits about you when you face her.”
He was right, I couldn’t get to the cottage ahead of her. Not now.
Then I remembered the force of the blows. I looked down, scanning the ground around my feet. And there it was, among the loose chippings. A good-size stone. I freed myself from Mr. Griffith’s hold, and bent down to pick it up. I almost dropped it, the fingers on my right hand still numb. I caught it with my left.
“Here,” he said uneasily, “what do you want with that? She’s gone, I tell you. You don’t need to be afraid.”
The stone fit my hand well as I tested it. I could grip it and still use it to strike someone. I remembered the prehistoric ruins out here. A stone-age man would have found this to be a handy weapon.
There was no way to prove it had been used to hit me. Still, I held on to it.
Mr. Griffith was asking, “Sister Crawford. Where are you hurt?”
“My shoulder,” I said, still feeling the tingling in my fingers.” I thought it best not to mention the blow to my back. Mr. Griffith being solicitous made me wary.
“Here, I’ll help you to walk back. You need to sit down as soon as possible.”
At first I thought he meant his cottage, but realized a moment later he must mean Rachel’s. It was not that much farther, but my arm was aching, and between my shoulder blades there was what surely must be a gaping hole in my back. But of course there was no such thing, just my spine throbbing.
Mr. Griffith was scolding me as we started up the incline. “You weren’t wise to be walking out after dark.”
“I didn’t expect—they were men. The other victims.” I shook my head a little to clear it. “Are you sure it was Ellen Marshall?”
“It was a woman. Who else could it have been? And coming from the direction of her cottage? I saw her motorcar pass by not an hour ago.”
But I had just spoken with her, and she could have invited me in and hit me over the head there in the house. I had asked her about Oliver. Was that what had set her off? If she had fled here to avoid the police asking her questions about that cave, she might have been afraid I knew too much . . .
We had almost reached Rachel’s house. Ahead, a man came out of the church and started in our direction.
“Damn,” Mr. Griffith said under his breath, “Davis. The worst gossip in the village.”
I looked up, and thought I recognized Mr. Davis as one of the men who’d helped carry the blanket and the dead soldier in it.
He hesitated as he saw us, then picked up his pace to meet us just at the path to Rachel’s door. Looking closely at both of us, he said, “What’s wrong?”
I said quickly, “I tripped walking. Mr. Griffith saw me home.”
But Mr. Griffith spoke over me. “Sister Crawford was attacked—like the others. It was Ellen. Good thing I was there or she might have finished what she started.”
Mr. Davis looked from Mr. Griffith to me, peering at me in the dark. “I don’t see any signs of a beating.”
“Her shoulder. Look, there’s the stone Ellen struck her with. I saw it happen.”
I stepped away from Mr. Griffith. “We can’t be certain,” I began. “I picked this up as a precaution. That’s all.”
But Mr. Davis’s eyes had narrowed. “Are you sure?” he asked Mr. Griffith, ignoring me now. “She left. Ellen did.”
“She’s back. Not an hour ago,” Mr. Griffith informed him.
“It was dark,” I interjected. “And Mr. Griffith was some distance away.”
“It was a woman,” Mr. Griffith repeated. “Who else could it have been but Ellen?”
I was angry with him. He seemed to be relishing the story. But then he’d always been a troublemaker. Why shouldn’t he spread rumors now?
“Let it go. I’m not hurt, and there’s no proof. I’ve told you, I only picked this up for protection.” But Mr. Davis wasn’t listening.
“Why should Ellen Marshall attack the Sister?” he asked. “Or Stephenson for that matter? She brought that other man down here herself. I can’t see that she’d attack him.”
“God knows. Why is she ripping the cottage apart? Stripping the walls? And she took that man away with her. Who’s to say she didn’t murder him before ever they reached Swansea?”
It was far too close to the truth. I stared at him. But he wouldn’t look at me.
Mr. Davis was saying, “I’d best be going. Susan will be expecting me.” And with the briefest tip of his hat to me, he walked on toward the hedge and vanished down
the path.
“Why did you tell him that?” I said, turning on Mr. Griffith. I caught him off guard and saw a look of satisfaction on his face before he could change it. “You said he was the town gossip. He’ll spread your accusations to anyone willing to listen. And that will only cause trouble.”
But Mr. Griffith replied solicitously, “You’re home now. Ask Rachel to have a look at that shoulder.” And he turned his back on me, walking away
“Mr. Griffith—” I began. But he paid no heed.
I wasn’t up to running after him. After a moment I went up the path to the house and opened the door.
Rachel was just coming down the stairs. “Has your friend returned? I heard you speaking to someone just now.”
“Ellen Marshall has come back. I went down to the cottage. I wanted to know how her friend Oliver was recovering.”
“But you said—”
“I know. I wanted to see how she would answer me. And she lied.”
I didn’t want to answer any more questions. I went on down the passage to the warmth of the kitchen. My shoulder was troubling me now, and my back as well. But I smiled at Hugh as I came in, and asked if there was more tea in the pot. For he was just finishing a cup.
“You’re late,” he said, an echo of Rachel’s words. “That isn’t wise, Bess.”
“She went to call on Ellen Marshall. She’s at the cottage,” Rachel said from behind me.
“I heard the motorcar. I thought it must be her when it continued down the road. Bess? You’ve told us she’s all but a murderer. Was it a good idea to go there alone?”
“I don’t know,” I said, struggling to manage the teapot. “I wasn’t even sure she was there—I didn’t see or hear the motorcar. But there was a light showing in the window. And I was surprised.” I set the pot down again to keep from dropping it.
Hugh reminded me of Simon as he said, “You shouldn’t be so fearless, Bess. It will get you into serious trouble one of these days.”
But I thought he was feeling he should have been able to go with me down there, to protect me. And it bothered him that he couldn’t.