An Unwilling Accomplice

by Charles Todd

  “My parents are dead. My only brother died when he was twelve.”

  There was a knock at the door and before any of us could speak, it opened and Barbara Neville came in.

  “You’ve had enough time to evaluate his condition.” Instead of taking the chair she’d occupied before, she walked past Simon and stood on the far side of the hearth.

  “I’ve made my decision,” I said, carefully choosing my words. “I think the Major should return to Dorset for further treatment. Or if there are no beds for him there, they will find another suitable place.”

  I was watching her face as I spoke. Her jaw had tightened, and she reminded me of someone expecting a blow.

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Have you considered,” I asked, “that the brain is unmapped territory. With time, Major Findley could become violent, even vicious. You might find it nearly impossible to manage him.”

  There was alarm in her gaze now. “That’s ridiculous!” she snapped.

  “Is it?” Simon asked. “You have no experience of war wounds.”

  Before she could turn on him, I rose.

  “I think this is something the two of you would prefer to discuss in private.”

  The Major and Miss Neville interrupted me in a rush, their voices clashing.

  The Major said, “You don’t intend to leave me here—for the love of God—”

  While Miss Neville was saying, “You have no idea what you’re doing. It’s my house, I’ll decide—”

  I held up my hands for peace. They stopped at once.

  I said, “You can’t hold him prisoner, Miss Neville. If you want to keep him here, you must see that he’s properly examined. And then you will have to consult his wishes.”

  The uproar began all over again. The door opened and Mrs. Neville stepped in, adding her own voice to the argument.

  Barbara Neville to my astonishment was now in tears, although I couldn’t tell whether they were fury or grief.

  There was nothing more I could do. I glanced at Simon, and the two of us moved toward the door. No one stopped us. I’d delivered my verdict, and now I was no longer important to any of them.

  We walked down the passage and through the high-ceilinged hall, had nearly gained the motorcar when Barbara Neville came rushing after us.

  Her face was streaked with tears.

  “You think you know. You think you understand. But you’re wrong, you’ve meddled, and now it’s hopeless.” With that she turned on her heel and went inside, slamming the door hard behind her.

  It rattled the tall windows above us.

  Amazed, I stood there, staring after her.

  “I think she loves him. She must. After all.”

  “She has a clever way of showing it,” Simon replied as he bent to turn the crank. “There’s something you haven’t thought of. If anything happens to her, who will inherit that house and the Neville fortune? She may not want to marry, but she must have a child. A legitimate heir. On that previous visit, when she asked you how healthy Findley was likely to be, after injuring that leg so badly, she was probably trying to discover whether he could give her a child.”

  It was something to consider. Barbara Neville, like so many women of her class, had less freedom than I did.

  He got in beside me, and we drove toward the gates.

  “They ought to be closed,” I said, putting my hand on the handle, preparing to open my door.

  “If they want the gates closed, they can come out and shut them themselves,” he said, not pausing for me to get down.

  We had nearly reached the tumble-down ruins of the barn. I said, “Simon. What about Phyllis Percy?”

  We had forgot her.

  “Have we missed her, do you think?”

  “I can’t believe we have.”

  “Then we should drive as far as Lower Dysoe. In the event she got a late start on her marketing.”

  We were halfway to Lower Dysoe when I spotted Miss Percy coming toward us, a market basket in both hands. Why was she so willing to walk such a distance each day?

  She was smiling shyly as we approached, not encouraging us to stop and chat, but acknowledging the fact that we’d rescued her during the storm.

  Simon slowed. “Can we give you a lift?” he asked.

  “Thank you, no. I’m on my way to Middle Dysoe. It’s just ahead.”

  I didn’t think she was. The shops there were little better than the village at her back.

  I opened my door, and she looked toward me, alarm in her face. “I need to stretch my limbs,” I said. “Do you mind if I walk a little way with you? The Sergeant-Major has business in Lower Dysoe. He’ll collect me when he’s finished there.”

  She couldn’t say no. I was already getting down, and the roadside was free to anyone who cared to walk along it.

  I waved cheerily to Simon, who let in the clutch and drove away.

  “My name is Crawford. Bess Crawford,” I said. “I don’t recall whether or not we introduced ourselves the first time.” When she made no effort to tell me her name, I went on as if that didn’t matter. “Could I carry one of those for you?” I gestured toward the baskets.

  “No—thank you—that’s not necessary,” she said politely but surprisingly firmly.

  “Of course. They must be empty now.”

  We went a little way in silence. “Why do you walk such a distance to Upper Dysoe? I’ve seen you there, I think. Surely Mrs. Chatham has a pony cart or even a carriage.”

  “I like—I enjoy walking.”

  “You must. It’s miles each way. It must feel longer, with the market baskets full.”

  “What do you want?” she said then, afraid to look at me. “Why are you asking so many questions?”

  “I’ve been searching for someone,” I said gently. “I’m sure he doesn’t want to be found. I’m sure he’s happy where he is. But he belongs in hospital.” I wasn’t sure how much she knew about Sergeant Wilkins, how much or how little of the truth he’d told her.

  “I’m afraid my sister and I lead very quiet lives. We seldom go out, we seldom entertain guests. She’s in deep mourning. You must have seen the crepe on our door.”

  “Yes, of course, I’m so sorry,” I said. “But you haven’t answered my question.”

  Color rose in her cheeks. I hated pressing her, and I felt a surge of guilt. But did she know that the man she was concealing might be a murderer?

  She couldn’t have heard about the killing in Ironbridge. Not this far south, and I wasn’t sure if it had been in any of the London papers.

  “The only ill person I know of is Miss Neville’s fiancé, Major Findley. Perhaps you’ve received faulty information.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. But rumor has it that he’s presently living in the empty cottage on your sister’s property.”

  She whirled to face me, one of her market baskets colliding with my leg as she did. But she didn’t apologize. Instead I read fear in her eyes, and a mounting anger.

  “Someone has lied to you,” she told me.

  “Miss Percy, is it your sister who is keeping this wounded soldier hidden? Or is it you?”

  She walked away from me, then, moving briskly, her head down, and I was nearly sure she was crying.

  I didn’t follow her. I had done all I could. I had no authority to question her, or to force her to answer truthfully.

  I could contact Scotland Yard and tell them what we suspected. But what if it wasn’t Sergeant Wilkins? Only a deserter who had found sanctuary and a kind heart? For that matter it could be this young woman’s sweetheart, hoping that no one would search for him here.

  I waited where I was for Simon to come back for me. When at last the motorcar appeared in the distance, I glanced up the road. Phyllis Percy was still walking briskly, her face turned away from the road, her shoulders hunched, as if she had heard the motorcar coming and dreaded the possibility that we would stop her again and ask questions she didn’t want to answer.

  Sim
on knew at once that I’d had no luck. “You can’t blame yourself,” he said quietly. “Wilkins is a dangerous man. He’s killed once, and Warren’s wounding could also be his work. Phyllis Percy isn’t safe. She knows too much. If she becomes a problem rather than a protector, he will do whatever he has to do.”

  He turned the motorcar, driving in the opposite direction, back toward Little Dysoe.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Give her time to reach Middle Dysoe. She’ll feel safer there.”

  I repeated our conversation for Simon’s benefit, and he listened carefully.

  “She’s hiding something,” he agreed when I’d finished. “She may have fallen in love with him. She’s young. Alone. He may appear a romantic figure to her, in trouble and in need of her help.”

  I sighed. “She and Barbara Neville aren’t so very different, are they?”

  “That’s true, in a way.”

  We’d traveled well beyond Little Dysoe, now. These strange rounded hills with the road snaking around them were beginning to flatten.

  Simon was already slowing, preparing to go back the way we’d come.

  He was looking over his shoulder to be sure the road was clear while I was looking at the hillsides, wishing Major Findley had told us what he’d seen while he was trying to get away from Windward.

  And there, just cresting the last hill but one, pausing to stare toward us, was a man in uniform. I could see only his head and shoulders. He’d stopped before he’d come into full view.

  “Simon—” I exclaimed, reaching out to catch his arm. “Look.”

  The motorcar was broadside in the road. In the distance I could hear a horse-drawn cart coming toward us at a fast clip. Simon leaned across me to look in the direction I’d indicated. And as he did, the figure didn’t turn but simply backed away, his shoulders and then his head disappearing from our sight.

  “Damn,” Simon muttered under his breath, and then smartly maneuvered the motorcar so that it had cleared the road just as the cart was upon us.

  It was a farm cart bringing vegetables to market, dark green cabbages, golden yellow gourds, deep red beets, and a scattering of carrots and parsnips. I had just time enough to note what it was carrying before we were safely out of the horses’ path. As it was, they snorted and pulled to the far side of the road. The farmer, sitting high above his crops, glared at us and told us to watch what we were doing.

  By the time the cart had moved beyond us, the figure up on the hillside was nowhere to be seen.

  “Can we catch him up?” I asked.

  “I doubt it. He knows the countryside by now. And we don’t.”

  All the same we moved out behind the slower farm cart, all the while scouring the hills now on Simon’s side of the road. To no avail.

  I asked, “He has a safe enough place to stay. A sanctuary. Why is he out walking the hills? If he wants to strengthen that leg, he should do it at night, when he’s less likely to be seen.” I put out a hand. “Yes, that’s what he must have been doing last night. He’s seen us, now, Simon. He’s put a face to us, this motorcar. Whether he recognized me at this distance I don’t know.”

  “It’s been an odd business from the start. Let’s hope it isn’t a blind end, like Cartwright and Findley.”

  We had reached Lower Dysoe, and the farm cart pulled over in front of one of the shops. Simon passed him and then said, “Do you fancy stopping and speaking to Mrs. Chatham? We know her sister is out of the house.”

  “On what pretext?” I asked.

  “The truth. Or part of it. That you’re a Nursing Sister looking for a straying patient. Tell her that Major Findley had spotted the man.”

  “And we’re hoping not to involve the police, because he’s been in trouble before.”

  He turned down the lane and drove on to the gates of Chatham Hall.

  They were open, and we passed through without any difficulty. I could smell the wafting woodsmoke from where the gardeners must be burning the debris of summer, trimmings, fallen branches, and leaves. It carried the scent of autumn.

  Simon stopped by the door, then asked, “Ready?”

  “Yes,” I said, nodding. “It has to be done, doesn’t it?”

  Without waiting for his answer, I walked up the broad steps and lifted the knocker. With its knotted bouquet of crepe, it rang dully. After a while, an older woman came to the door and looked beyond me toward Simon’s motorcar. I wondered if she had seen it when we’d brought Miss Percy home after the rain. Then her attention came back to me, and she said, “How may I help you, Sister?”

  “I’m so sorry to disturb you,” I said, indicating the crepe around the knocker. “But it’s very important that I speak to Mrs. Chatham.”

  “I’m afraid she doesn’t see visitors. And Miss Percy isn’t in.”

  I scoured my brain for a way around this problem, and finally said, “I’ve come from Lovering Hall just outside Shrewsbury. Perhaps you know of it?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Sister, I’ve never been as far as Shrewsbury. Only to Ludlow. If you’re seeking a contribution to a fund for wounded men, I can’t help you. Mrs. Chatham attends to all matters of charity.”

  “No, this isn’t a charity call,” I told her. It hadn’t occurred to me that she might think I was soliciting on behalf of wounded soldiers and their care. “I’m looking for one of our patients. He wandered off, you see. I know it’s a long way from Shrewsbury, but I wondered if you had seen him, if perhaps he’d come begging.”

  “Beggars generally go to the kitchen quarters, Miss,” she responded primly, as if it were not within the scope of her duties to attend to the needs of a beggar.

  “Yes, I know. The question is, has any of the household seen this soldier? He could be desperate for food,” I added. And remembering something from the past, I added, “Perhaps a chicken or two missing? Or some vegetables from the kitchen garden?”

  “We’re too far from the main road, Sister, and not easily found. I’d ask at the cottages closer to the village, if I was you. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

  It occurred to me that she was taking me quite literally—a beggar rather than a soldier in trouble. I said before she could shut the door, “I saw such a man on the skyline today, crossing one of the hills just beyond Lower Dysoe. I was hoping it might be the man we’ve been seeking.” In for a penny, in for a pound. “I met Miss Percy earlier. She felt I must be mistaken, that the soldier we saw might well be the man presently staying with you—”

  Her mouth tightened, and her eyes were hard as they looked me up and down. “I’m sure Miss Percy never suggested any such thing. I don’t know who you are, Miss, but I’ll ask you to leave now.” She swung the door shut almost in my face, and I heard the bolt slot home.

  I turned and went down the steps to the motorcar.

  “So much for our agreed approach.”

  Simon had heard most of the conversation, I didn’t need to repeat it. As he let in the clutch and drove the rest of the way around the circle to where the drive began, he said, “Something is wrong in that house.”

  “Whatever it is,” I said, looking back at Chatham Hall as we turned into the lane, “they aren’t likely to confide in us.”

  “Let Inspector Stephens sort it out.”

  “Perhaps we’re going at this backward. There could be a perfectly good explanation here. That man might be Mrs. Chatham’s husband. She might not be a widow after all, but if he’s been severely wounded, with no expectation of recovering, he might have chosen to let the world believe he’s dead.”

  “It’s possible.” Simon glanced at me. “Is it likely?”

  “We’ll leave for London tomorrow,” I said. “I wonder if Major Findley will decide to go with us.”

  “It’s best to leave well enough alone there, Bess.”

  We fell silent. I was bound to report the conditions under which a patient was living, whether in a private home or a clinic. And while the Major had not been mistreated�
�in fact I was sure he’d been looked after properly in many respects—a doctor would have something to say about his endangering life and limb trying to escape. As for Maddie, Miss Neville had had no qualms about consulting him, because he could be trusted to hold his tongue. He knew who buttered his bread.

  Did he owe that same allegiance to Mrs. Chatham?

  I said, “I should like to speak to Maddie again.”

  “He won’t tell you what you want to know.”

  “He might, given the new direction of our interest.”

  “Worth a try.”

  But he wasn’t in when we went to his cottage. A passerby, seeing us there, called, “He’s been summoned to a farm. Nora Fletcher’s baby is on its way.”

  Babies took their time.

  Thanking him, we returned to the motorcar.

  “You must be hungry. Shall I bespeak sandwiches and a bottle of wine from The Shepherd’s Crook? We could picnic.”

  I smiled. “Yes, I’d like that.” I knew better than to suggest we simply have our meal in the common room. Simon wouldn’t have allowed it.

  “I’ll leave the motorcar here and walk down to the pub.”

  Simon was gone for more than half an hour. I got out and walked about a bit, hoping that Maddie would come back sooner rather than later. But there was no sign of him.

  Pacing the scruffy yard in front of the cottage, I turned to walk back the other way. And as I did, I saw Miss Percy coming out of the greengrocer’s.

  Her market baskets were full. I wondered again why the kitchen garden at the house wasn’t sufficient to meet the needs of the occupants. From what I’d seen, there was only a small staff, which meant that rooms must be shut off, perhaps an entire wing, and cleaned infrequently. Even without entertaining or receiving guests, the work of caring for a house that size was never ending. The dusting and polishing, the sweeping, cleaning the grates and the hearths, seeing to the laundry and ironing, changing beds—the list was long, and the kitchen staff would have to see that everyone was fed. There would be no idle hands. Who then would have the time to plant and care for a garden, when there was money to buy what was needed? Indoor servants could hardly be asked to take on that duty as well.