An Unwilling Accomplice

by Charles Todd

  There was a thick-trunked tree just beyond the wall, and I decided that it provided as good a vantage point as any. I could see the road from there and anyone coming or going from the Hall. I swung myself over the wall just as I heard the gates of Chatham Hall swing closed, the distinctive snap as the heavy latch touched the heavy plate.

  After some minutes a figure came toward me down the lane, moving slowly, limping a little, as if footsore. It wasn’t Simon.

  I clutched my tree trunk and held my breath, waiting for whoever it was to pass. Was he taking his evening stroll around the estate, after walking all the way from the shepherd’s hut?

  He went on past me, reached the junction with the main road, and turned toward Middle Dysoe.

  Why did he come this far on foot, only to go back? It made no sense.

  I waited, expecting to see Simon following him. But there was no sign of him. I looked down the lane toward the Hall gates, but it was empty.

  Now I began to worry in earnest. What had become of Simon? And what should I do? Go to look for him? But I had no feeling where I’d lost him. The only thing I could think to do was keep an eye on our quarry. At least I might find Simon if I did that.

  I stepped out from behind my tree, and with a last glance down toward the gates, started forward. When I came to where the lane reached the road, I peered up and down it. In the distance someone coughed. He was still heading for Middle Dysoe then.

  Keeping my distance, I walked on, my ears straining to hear anything that could tell me what lay ahead. It was one thing to trail Simon, quite another to be so close to our quarry. A light cloud cover had shut out the starlight now, and several times I lost sight of him, only to pick him up again in the distance as he moved along the road.

  When we reached the outskirts of Middle Dysoe I glimpsed the figure ahead of me as he paused. I realized suddenly that he must be gazing at the buildings on either side of the street, searching for something. Or someone?

  I don’t know what alerted me. But I knew all at once that he was about to turn around and walk back the way we’d just come.

  There was no cover to be had. Frantically looking behind me, I could see nothing but the road running toward the base of the next hill. I was well and truly caught.

  I could climb . . .

  And so I did, going up the nearest hill like a monkey, and then dropping flat. I was on the side of it, not really at the front. I lay there, my face in my arms, praying that my petticoats didn’t show like a beacon against the darkness of the hillside. And I kept the little pistol in my hand.

  I could hear him walking toward me, and I shut my eyes. But he went past me without looking up. I waited for some time after he’d rounded the next bend, then clambered down, brushing at my coat and skirts as I reached the level of the road.

  I set out after him, wondering what had possessed him to come this far and then turn back. Had he forgot something? Had he seen me and was he even now looking for me?

  It didn’t matter. I walked all the way back to Lower Dysoe, and rounded the last hill just in time to see him turn down the lane toward the gates. I followed as closely as I dared, taking refuge once more behind my tree trunk. In the distance I heard the low sound of the gate opening. Moving diagonally toward the house, I searched for a vantage point where I had a clear view of the main door. This time I’d make very sure he was inside.

  But it didn’t open. Instead a side door swung wide, light spilling out brightly across the lawn. He stepped inside and the door closed behind him. The light was cut off.

  I stayed there a good ten minutes or more, but he never reappeared.

  As I started back toward Middle Dysoe, I tried to think. Where had Simon gone? Was he waiting by the empty cottage on the grounds, unaware that the man had used the main gates instead?

  Well. Simon was no fool, he’d stay where he was until he was satisfied that he’d done all he could.

  And so I began the long cold walk back to Upper Dysoe and Mr. Warren’s mill, where the motorcar was waiting. This time, I’d drive the distance.

  I made it without incident, got into the motorcar, and after a bit, pulled up the rug.

  The night grew colder, and I shoved the torch beneath the rug, turned it on with my hand shielding it, and looked at the watch pinned to my dress.

  It was going on midnight.

  Had something happened to Simon?

  I felt uneasy, as if sitting here was the last thing I should be doing. But unlike the cavalry, I could hardly go charging in to save the day.

  I tried to tell myself all was well, and the harder I tried, the more I knew it was not.

  I got down from the motorcar and went around to turn the crank.

  And Simon’s voice said softly, “Wait.”

  I straightened up, looking for him, and then he materialized out of the shadows, a darker shadow moving toward me.

  “Going back to Biddington without me?” he asked, keeping his voice low, but I could hear the amusement in it.

  “I thought by this time you might need rescuing.”

  “Once or twice I wished for the pistol I’d left with you,” he said grimly.

  “What happened?”

  “Not here. Not yet.” We stood by the motorcar for several minutes. And then Simon turned the crank himself, and with the headlamps off we rolled down the lane’s slight incline toward the main road.

  “I wanted to be sure I hadn’t been followed in my turn,” he said as we passed through Upper Dysoe. “I lost him after he turned in past the barn, and I stayed concealed for a good half hour until I was sure he wasn’t standing in the shadows, waiting me out.”

  “Which barn?” I asked, confused.

  “The one that burned. He came back there.”

  “Did he?” I was surprised. “When? What on earth for?”

  “I’d give much to have an answer to that myself.”

  I remembered the powders that Phyllis Percy had been so eager to replace, the ones she claimed her sister had used up. Was it for the man hidden in that house? Was he in pain, and he walked through the night because he couldn’t bear it otherwise? Did he find it hard to sleep or fear crying out in his dreams? At the hut, only the sheep would be frightened.

  Simon pulled up outside the hotel. “It was worth following him tonight. Still, careful as I was, he must have known I was there. He stayed in the shadows, close by the cottage wall, but appeared to be reluctant to go in, where he could be cornered. Patient devil. Rather than compromise the house, he finally left.”

  “Simon—he left by the front gate and returned the same way. I saw a side door open and admit him.”

  Even in the darkness I could feel his gaze on me.

  “You—what did you do? Follow us?”

  “I know you told me to stay by the motorcar, but I wanted to know, Simon. I was sure I’d be safe enough. You were between us. But that’s when I watched him leave the grounds and come back again. Standing near the kitchen gardens you probably couldn’t see that door open or shut. I saw him walk in.”

  I could almost feel his fury, sitting there beside him in the narrow confines of the motorcar.

  “You promised me—”

  “I didn’t promise. You never asked me to promise, Simon. I did what I thought best. And no harm came of it.” Except where I’d had to climb that hill and lie flat.

  “Damn it, Wilkins knows you—you could have been in trouble.”

  “But I wasn’t. I wasn’t, Simon. I was sitting in the motorcar when you came back to the mill.”

  We’d turned to face each other. I was looking for a way to divert his anger, for I was too tired and cold to argue with him.

  And that was when it struck me. All my fatigue vanished with the horrifying possibility.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “SIMON. DO YOU think—what if we’ve been following two different people? Not one, as we’d believed? Because I was sure you were just ahead of me. I thought you’d been following this man from th
e hut to see where he went.”

  He stared at me. “That’s not possible. Findley is still on crutches.”

  “No, think about it. What if one man is hiding, just as we thought, with Mrs. Chatham and her sister? And what if Sergeant Wilkins came here because that man is his next victim? It would explain why Miss Percy is so protective. If it became general knowledge that he was at Chatham Hall, he’d have been in worse danger. As it is, the sergeant has been moving heaven and earth to find him. He may even have thought at first that Major Findley was his target.”

  “Good God,” he said, and I watched as his weariness vanished as swiftly as mine had done. He considered all the ramifications, taking his time. And then he nodded. “We’ve been thrown off the track by the Major. He was here, he was wounded, he sent those pleas to Sister Hammond. But she never considered it might be Findley, did she? She was afraid it was either Wilkins or Captain Cartwright who’d written.”

  “That’s because she believed Major Findley was safe with Miss Neville, who probably had led the doctors in Dorset to believe she was taking him to London. And perhaps she did just that, then decided he was too difficult to be cared for in town.”

  “Tell me exactly what you did.”

  I started where I’d nearly blundered into our quarry by the burned-out barn. “And when you came out of the shadows by Windward’s gates, I decided to see where the chase would lead.”

  “But I wasn’t anywhere near Windward’s gates. Bess, I followed him from the hilltops. I thought he might be too clever and double back. I’ve done much the same thing along the Northwest Frontier, where the terrain was much rougher. All I had to do was be certain I didn’t stand out on the skyline.”

  “I followed two men. The one from the old barn and the one from the gates. Didn’t you see us?”

  “I was generally ahead of him well before Middle Dysoe. There was just one man. Bess, are you sure?”

  Whoever was by the gates had stayed well back. As had I. If Simon had been too far ahead to see us, who was the second person, if not Wilkins and whoever was living at Chatham Hall?

  “I saw two men walking toward Middle Dysoe. If you were up on the hills, how do you account for them?”

  After a moment, Simon nodded. “I can’t.” And then he added, “It appears you’ve been right all along. This was the place to search.”

  “Lessup, the man who was killed at Ironbridge, had returned home on extended leave. Wherever he was posted before, I expect Sergeant Wilkins couldn’t reach him. And the same could be true of whoever it is in Chatham Hall. He can be reached now. Don’t you see? And what about Miss Percy and her sister, if Wilkins corners the other man? How much danger are they in? The servants sleep at the top of the house, they won’t hear anything until the next morning, unless he’s forced to use the revolver.”

  We sat there, staring up at the facade of the inn. Simon was frowning. “We must find a telephone, Bess. I need to ask the Colonel to look into Wilkins’s military records. And Lessup’s as well. He has the seniority to open them, even if they’re secret. There must be more to what lies between them than we know. Then we should telephone Scotland Yard.”

  “Where will we find a telephone at this hour of the night? Stratford?”

  “It’s very late, Bess. Go to bed, and we’ll deal with this in the morning.”

  “You won’t decide to go back and search for Wilkins?”

  “I promise.” I handed him the rug and left him there. But once in my room I went to the window and looked out.

  Simon was just crossing the yard to the inn door. I drew my curtains and undressed in the dark, wondering if I could even shut my eyes, much less sleep.

  A watery sun greeted me the next morning. The water in my pitcher was cold, but I bathed anyway before dressing. I’d just wound my hair into a knot at the back of my neck, so that it would fit nicely under my cap, when there was a knock at my door and Simon called my name.

  He stood there with a jug of hot water in one hand, and with the other he balanced a tray with my breakfast on it under a napkin.

  “You’re dressed,” he said, surprised. “But that’s good, we can leave in an hour.”

  I was ready well before the hour, and Simon escorted me down to the motorcar, setting my kit in the back before settling the bill.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I asked the man at the desk. There’s a telephone in Warwick. It’s at an hotel there. From what he tells me, it’s more accessible than the one I used in Stratford. Shall we give it a try? I brought our luggage in the event we have to stay the night. I have no idea where your father might be.”

  The Warwick Arms was such a contrast to Biddington that I had to smile when we stepped through the door into Reception. Well-dressed guests were just leaving the dining room, and I thought perhaps there had been a wedding party.

  There was indeed a telephone, we were told by the rather haughty man behind the reception desk. But it was for the use of guests.

  We had to tell the clerk that it was urgent military business that had brought us here before he pointed us toward a passage behind the stairs. The spacious telephone closet had velvet seats on either side of the small table that held the instrument. In the cubby beneath the telephone were hotel stationery and a fountain pen.

  “Will you call or shall I?” I asked.

  “Your mother would be happy to hear your voice. And if your father isn’t there, she won’t be worried.”

  I put through the call and waited for it to ring in Somerset. After a moment or two Iris primly answered.

  “Hallo, Iris. Bess here. Is my mother at home, by any chance?”

  “No, Miss, she’s traveled to Gloucester only this morning. She’ll be that sorry to miss you. But your father is here, and about to leave for London. Shall I fetch him?”

  “Yes, please.”

  I waited, and finally my father’s deep voice came over the line. “Bess? Are you in London? I’m on my way in less than half an hour. Shall I meet you at the flat?”

  “I’m in Warwick, I’m afraid. But all is well. Simon is with me, and there’s a puzzle we can’t solve on our own. We thought perhaps you could help.”

  “What took you to Warwick?”

  “There isn’t time to explain, and we aren’t very private here. I’m perfectly fine and hope to be in London shortly. Speak to Simon.”

  Just at that moment a group of people, chatting together down the passage, staring curiously at us as they walked by.

  Simon said, “Hallo, sir.” He glanced at me with a wry smile as he answered something my father was saying. “She’s safe and very much herself, sir.” And then he went on in Hindi, outlining what we needed to know about Sergeant Jason Wilkins. “Anything in his background that might explain why he killed one man and could very well be stalking the next. And why he might have it in for Henry Lessup, his first victim. There’s bound to be a connection. It might help me understand what’s happening.”

  There was a pause as my father asked a question. And then a longer exchange began. I listened to Simon’s side of the conversation, trying to piece together what was being said on both sides.

  At last Simon put up the receiver. “It will take some time. I expect we’ll be here for the better part of the day.”

  We left the motorcar where it was and five minutes later found a tea shop where we could sit in a quiet corner. The drizzling rain that we’d met on the outskirts of town moved on, and we walked for some time, admiring the castle and taking shelter in St. Mary’s from a heavier shower. That was followed by a cold wind. I thought about France and the mud and cold rain, and men blowing on their fingers in the dark, waiting for the first sign of dawn and the next push. We stopped in another tea shop for tea to warm us. The windows were steamed over in the cold air and it was quite cozy inside, the tables spread with white cloths embroidered with strawberry blossoms. All the while Simon kept an eye on the time. A little after four o’clock we returned to the hotel. Some
one else was in the telephone closet, and we waited with what patience we could muster for the man to finish his conversation.

  “A penny for your thoughts.” Simon dropped a penny in my hand.

  I smiled. “They aren’t worth a farthing. I was thinking about the witness in Ironbridge. The young pregnant woman. She was walking home across the bridge and passed a murderer. I wondered if he’d taken pity on her. Or if it was just the fact that he didn’t know where to find her afterward. After he’d killed Henry Lessup.”

  “We’ll be in time, Bess. I shouldn’t worry.”

  But I did.

  And then the telephone closet was ours.

  I waited tensely while Simon put through the call.

  We had to try twice more, because the telephone at the other end was engaged. I was inordinately relieved when my father answered. I watched Simon’s face and realized that the Colonel Sahib hadn’t found anything useful.

  He turned to me. “Do you have any other suggestions? It seems that until now, Wilkins has had an exemplary career. Good man, no marks on his record, nothing that would indicate an unresolved problem.”

  I tried to think. We knew so much—and so little—about this man.

  “His family. A sweetheart, a broken engagement?”

  Simon relayed the answer. “His pay went to his mother as long as she was alive and then was sent to his bank.”

  “Yes, I’d forgot, his brother died earlier in the war. All right, what about Lessup?”

  Simon turned back to the telephone. After a moment, he said to me, “His brother was killed. But not in France, oddly enough. In the Hoo Peninsula.”

  I stared at him. The Hoo Peninsula.

  I could hear the young woman’s voice, recounting what she’d seen on the bridge the evening of the murder. And what the killer had said to Henry Lessup when they’d met in the center of the bridge.

  Well, well, there you are. I’ve come about Who.