An Unwilling Accomplice

by Charles Todd

  What’s more, who would have time to care for a wounded soldier?

  Miss Percy started my way, then stopped short when she recognized me. I realized that she must have a pressing need to speak to Maddie, because she took a deep breath and resolutely came straight toward his cottage.

  I said as soon as she was in earshot, “I’m sorry. Maddie is out. I’ve been waiting for him myself.”

  “Oh.” She looked toward the cottage. “My sister’s migraine—she doesn’t have any more of her powders.” I could guess what she was thinking, that it would mean either waiting and being caught out in the dusk, or walking all the way back in the dark, in the hope of finding him in later.

  I wondered if the powders were for Mrs. Chatham, or the man Simon had seen stepping out the kitchen door late at night.

  “Don’t you have horses?” I asked.

  “The Army took them all. It was early in the war, the house was closed up then. There was no need to keep one back.”

  Which explained why Simon hadn’t mentioned seeing or hearing them in the outbuildings.

  “Would you like me to ask Maddie for the powders? He must know what you need. We could drive them over to Lower Dysoe then. If it would help.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “No, I couldn’t possibly put you out on my account. I’m sure it can wait one more day.” She had set her baskets down and now leaned over to lift them again.

  “Shall I tell Maddie, if I see him, that you will come tomorrow?”

  “Yes—no. I can’t be sure when I’ll be coming in.”

  Before she could turn and walk away, I said, “I am so sorry I badgered you with questions. It—it’s because I’ve been anxious about finding our missing patient. He can’t manage on his own, and it’s possible he may’ve been hurt trying to steal a horse. I don’t want to bring the Army into this problem if I can help it.”

  “We’re a household of women,” she said wearily, as if no longer able to hide her feelings. “If we’d seen this man, we’d have reported him, wouldn’t we? To Maddie, to the police in Biddington, to the vicar there.”

  “And if he couldn’t be handed over to the police?” I asked gently. “If that would mean jail or worse, what then?”

  She lifted her chin. “Fortunately we haven’t been faced with such a decision.”

  And she walked away, without her powders.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  NOT TEN MINUTES later I saw Simon returning with a wicker basket in one hand.

  As we drove out of Upper Dysoe, I told him about my brief conversation with Phyllis Percy.

  “Yes, I saw her walking past the pub. I asked Tulley about her. He seemed to know less than the barkeep in Biddington. All he could tell me was that the house had been closed up when Chatham went to France. His wife chose to stay in London where she had a better chance of seeing him during his leaves. By the time she came back to Warwickshire, there was only a skeleton staff. Able-bodied men in France, younger women doing some sort of war work. One former maid is driving an omnibus in London. She was a friend of Violet’s.”

  We’d driven out of Upper Dysoe, looking for a picnic site. Simon slowed a little when we came abreast of the barn. Since the fire it offered very little in the way of charm.

  “We’ve never been any distance down the lane past the barn,” he said. “It’s where the sheep go when they cross the road. Shall we explore?”

  “Why not?” We’d tried once before, but the grass had been too high and there had been no sign of any house. But where the sheep grazed, there must be a quiet meadow.

  We turned off the road, bumped and bounced past the barn and then forded our way through the high grass that brushed against the sides of the motorcar. It was much easier than attempting to walk through it. No one had driven down this track in years, and even the ruts had begun to fill in a little, helped by the passage of many hooves. We crossed a stream on a low bridge that rattled alarmingly, and then rounded the hill. Spread out before us was a small meadow, what appeared to be a lambing pen, though it had suffered from disuse, and on the next rise, a shepherd’s hut. Isolated and quite pretty, with a small flock of sheep that lifted their heads to stare at us. Where the lane broadened, we came to a halt.

  “The sheep are downwind,” Simon told me with a grin. He took the rug out of the boot, and spread it over the dry stalks of daisies and other wildflowers.

  I joined him on my side of the basket, and he added, “It’s not a Fortnum’s hamper.”

  I laughed as I lifted the cloth and peered inside the basket. In place of the wine was a jug of water and two tin cups.

  There were pork pies, thick slices of local cheese, and a half dozen boiled eggs. A pair of dark red apples sat on top.

  “No bread,” Simon informed me as I took out one of the pewter plates and began to help myself. “Apparently the noon diners ate the lot.”

  “This is such a lovely spot,” I said. “And quite hidden. You’d never guess it was here.”

  “Actually, if my sense of direction is right, the flour mill is just over there, behind the trees. The mill wheel must be fed by the stream we crossed.”

  I turned to look, but even the rooflines were lost in the trees that followed the stream. “Grazing, running water. I’m not surprised the sheep come here.”

  We ate our meal, watched by the inquisitive ewes. Some of them had black faces, others had white. Finally losing interest when it was apparent we weren’t sharing with them, they went back to grazing.

  I took my apple and walked closer to them as I bit into it. They moved aside a little but didn’t seem to fear me. Already growing their winter coat, they were rounded and fat, unlike the skinny, shivering ewes after spring shearing.

  Continuing to the shepherd’s hut, I peered in the only window. Turning quickly, I called to Simon.

  He rose and came directly to me, leaning past me to look in the window too.

  “Someone has been living here,” I said. “Look, there’s a coverlet on the bed, and there on the shelf, in that dented tin bowl are apples very like the one in my hand. I see the remains of a meal on the table too.” A shallow enameled basin served as a plate. In it was a rind of bacon with a heel of bread.

  Simon walked past me and opened the door. On a shelf was a bit of cheese wrapped in a cloth, and there were several tins of food as well. A battered teapot sat next to a tin of tea, and another bowl held fresh eggs. Someone had raided a henhouse. An old oil lamp with a cracked shade sat on a low stool. The oil was cloudy, the wick untrimmed. But I thought it still worked.

  “A shepherd?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so. Whoever comes here lives frugally, at a guess making the best of what he found here or scavenged elsewhere.”

  “But someone would notice if he came into the shops—he’d be marked down as a stranger almost at once. And there would be gossip about him. Which means he must go quite a distance to buy what he needs.”

  “The Major?” Simon suggested. “Was this his hideaway?”

  I frowned, considering the possibility. “I think he spent time in the old barn, but could he have made it this far? After all, we turned back once. How would he have found it?”

  “There was the man walking over the hills. The one the greengrocer saw. If he lives in Chatham Hall, why has this hut seen recent use?” He pointed to the bacon.

  I had finished my apple and was about to toss the core aside when I thought better of it. Except for the bent stalks of grass, there was nothing to show that we’d been here, in this secluded place.

  “Here’s a better explanation. We saw that someone had been using the old barn. What if the Major had frightened him off, and he retreated to this place? And he’s kept it because he’s not certain how far he can depend on Phyllis Percy’s kindness.” I paused. “Do you think he’d harm her? Or trust her to keep his secret?”

  “I’ve never seen a shepherd with those sheep,” Simon commented thoughtfully. “They seem to roam at will this time
of year.”

  “Where could they go?” I agreed. “There’s almost no traffic on this road, and the people who do use it would be aware of the flock.”

  He turned to look around. “The lambing pen, this hut, even the barn. My guess is that they haven’t been kept up since before the war. A new pen must have been built elsewhere. A more convenient one.” He pulled the door closed. “When winter comes, this hut will be too cold to live in without a fire.”

  “And that’s why he’s staying at Chatham Hall. But he hasn’t given up the hut.”

  We walked back to the remains of our picnic, carefully packing up the lunch basket, leaving behind not so much as an eggshell to be found. I drank the last of the water in the jug, shook out the cups, and added them as well, along with our apple cores. Simon shook out the rug and folded it, restoring it to the boot.

  We drove back the way we came, both of us hoping we hadn’t flattened the grass too noticeably. But if he came here after dark, he might not see it.

  “Shall we come back tonight?” Simon asked.

  I smiled. “You’ve been reading my mind.”

  Passing through Upper Dysoe on our way to Biddington, we saw Maddie just coming back from somewhere, his satchel over his shoulder. We didn’t stop.

  “How will you manage it?”

  “The flour mill is closed at dusk. We’ll take the motorcar that far, and then I’ll go the rest of the way on foot. I’ll try to find a way from there to the hut, around the flank of that hill. The problem will be the sheep. But I saw the lay of the land, I can find a place where I can watch the hut without being seen.” He looked across at me, half serious, half teasing. “You must promise me you won’t come after me this time. Whatever happens.”

  “It’s too exposed,” I agreed.

  And we left it at that.

  As soon as it was quite dark, Simon and I set out for the mill. It was hours earlier than our previous foray, but we found the mill shut up and no one around. Still, he pulled the motorcar into the deepest shadows he could find. “Here,” he said, and I felt something drop into my lap. It was the little pistol he’d given me from time to time to protect myself. “It was in my valise. Try not to kill anyone. But shoot to kill if you must.”

  He took the rug from the boot and put it to hand if I got cold, for the temperature was once again falling. And then he disappeared into the night, in the direction of the hut.

  I waited fifteen minutes, in case he came back again for some reason.

  And then I got out of the motorcar and tried to find my bearings.

  There was the road, of course. The only sensible way through these hills. But the mill sat down a lane on a dammed-up stream, and if Simon was right, it was the one we’d crossed on that rickety bridge on our way to the hut. If Simon could ford it, he’d soon be in the rather triangular-shaped meadow where the sheep grazed and we’d had our picnic.

  There was no reason I couldn’t find my own way to the stream, far enough that I’d be able to see if a lamp was burning in the shepherd’s hut. It wouldn’t be—couldn’t be—visible from the mill or the ruins of the barn or the road. Someone would have gone to investigate long before this.

  My eyes were accustomed to the dark now. And my shoes were sturdy. All the same, I reached into the boot and found Simon’s torch, in case I needed it.

  Keeping to the shadows, I made my way to the bottom of the mill yard where high grass began. I wished I knew just where Simon had gone through it, to save some time, but it had been too dark to be sure. I plowed into the grass, moving slowly so as not to make any noise. I soon came to a low stone wall. I couldn’t tell how far it ran in either direction, but I thought it must mark the boundary between the Warren property and Neville land. It was just high enough to stop the sheep from wandering over to the mill and falling into the millpond.

  Clambering over it, I knocked a stone off the top and it tumbled down the far side. I froze as I heard a sneeze. And then there was movement immediately to my left. I fumbled in my pocket for the little pistol. Then I realized that whatever it was, it was going away from me, not toward me, as if some of the sheep had been sheltering against the wall, out of the rising wind.

  I could just make out half a dozen shapes ahead of me. Something or someone sneezed again, and my heart thudded.

  Somewhere in the depths of my memory, I recalled that sheep sneeze when they’re wary or nervous. Was that true?

  I stood still, waiting for them to settle again. It occurred to me then that whoever used the hut had a very fine ring of sentries in these sheep. They must be used to his coming and going now. But if anyone else came through—a different smell, perhaps—they would be the first to realize it.

  After a time they seemed to have found a new bed and I moved forward, watching that I didn’t step on an outstretched hoof or stumble over a huddled body.

  A dozen steps later, I came to the stream. It was madness to try to cross it in the dark but I could follow to my left and surely find a vantage point.

  Just then I saw the black bulk of the hut—and there was a square of light from the window. A dim glow, as if the lamp wick had been turned well down, so that whoever was inside could see what needed to be seen and no more.

  I crouched down beside a clump of briars, and my heart nearly stopped when something jerked almost under my skirts and went haring off back the way I’d come. A small rabbit? I didn’t know, only that I’d come so close to crying out that I wanted to sit down and steady myself. But there was no place to sit.

  I stayed where I was until my ankles and knees were complaining. The light didn’t move, and the door to the hut remained closed.

  Carefully standing up so that my blood could circulate a little, I waited.

  Sometime later, the lamp went out. There had been a brief silhouette thrown against the window, and then darkness.

  After a moment or two, the door must have quietly opened. The next thing I heard was the snap of a twig in the high grass. It sounded terribly loud in the stillness.

  I had no idea where he was going. To the barn? To the road? Or had he discovered that Simon was somewhere out there in the night?

  I turned and made my careful way back along the stream, searching for the wall. I found it, cut through the high grass easily enough—and somehow lost my bearings before I reached the mill yard. Instead I found myself within sight of the barn ruins.

  And I very nearly blundered right into him.

  It wasn’t Simon, I would have sworn to that.

  He’d stopped in the shadows near the barn wall, and I thought he might be trying to be sure the road was empty.

  An owl that had been hunting in the ruins flew up and climbed sharply. It must have startled him—I’d caught my breath myself—because I heard him clear his throat, as if to cover his instant of panic.

  He began to walk on, out to the road, turning in the direction of Lower Dysoe, moving at the steady ground-covering pace of a soldier on a night march. He limped a little, but he was making reasonable time.

  I waited until he was far enough away, intending to find my way to the mill yard before Simon came back.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement. Someone came over the wall near the gates to Windward, dropping silently into the heavy grass growing along its base. He crouched there, then slowly straightened, turning to look my way.

  Simon? But what was he doing across the road? Had he nearly been caught and tried to lead whoever it was away from where I was waiting with the motorcar?

  I looked, but the figure I’d seen by the barn was out of sight now, already around the bend in the road.

  I wasn’t sure Simon had seen me, but I thought it likely that he’d sensed me there, beyond the barn. He didn’t signal to me to come across the road, and so I stayed where I was, waiting.

  He started down the road away from me, keeping carefully to the shadows, moving cautiously, as if he were on night patrol, following our quarry.

  I watched him out of
sight.

  Did he intend for me to bring up the motorcar? Or stay where I was? It would make more sense to catch him up in the motorcar.

  After no more than half a dozen steps, I changed my mind. I had the pistol now. Simon was unarmed.

  Swinging around, I crossed the road and began to walk in the same direction.

  The night was quiet. I would be able to hear a lorry or a cart coming toward me or from behind me. But I took no chances, staying to the shadows wherever possible. Walking at a steady pace, I took care not to run up on Simon if he’d had to stop and wait for the man ahead of us to move on.

  I’d reached the outskirts of Middle Dysoe. I was wary now. This was a hazard I’d not considered. I stopped and looked for Simon. But of course I couldn’t see him. If I could, then one glance over his shoulder and our quarry would also be able to.

  I waited where I was, counting to one hundred. I’d reached ninety when I heard a dog bark in a window above the general store. Someone called to it to be quiet. I began to move again, and then was nearly undone when someone opened a cottage door and threw out a basin of water, shutting the door again as a woman’s voice called from another room. As I paused in the doorway of a bungalow, I heard a sleepy child’s voice singing a nursery song off key, a woman’s voice joining in.

  It must be nearing ten o’clock, dinner over, the children put to bed, and a man stepping out for a last pipe or cigarette. Somewhere behind me I could smell tobacco. I took my time, moving on. Once out in the open road again it was growing quite cool, and I was grateful for my coat. Overhead the stars were crisp and clear, Orion shining brightly.

  I hadn’t seen Simon for some time. I had no idea how far ahead of me he was, but it was certain he hadn’t turned around and started back. I was beginning to worry. Should I have brought the motorcar after all?

  Before very long I spotted the broken wall with its covering of wisteria. I stopped well short of it.

  Had our quarry chosen to go through the front gates of Chatham Hall or the farm track on the other side of Lower Dysoe?

  I felt too exposed standing here on the road, but I was reluctant to move around behind the wall and into a nest of spiders. After a few minutes I hurried around the corner and up the lane, past the several cottages, to the wall surrounding Chatham Hall.