An Unwilling Accomplice

by Charles Todd

Not Who. Hoo. I’ve come about Hoo.

  It was a flat marshy finger of land that jutted out into the sea between the estuary of the River Medway in Kent and the lower Thames. There were a handful of small villages there, mostly on what was considered higher ground. Best known for its bird colonies and for the hulks of wrecks strewn about the shoreline, it had had a long history, back to Roman times and even before.

  I reached out and caught Simon’s arm.

  “What was he doing there?” I asked urgently, and Simon questioned my father. Then he passed on the Colonel Sahib’s reply.

  “Training exercises. They were secret. I haven’t been involved with those. But the Colonel knew about them. Apparently they have been shut down this close to the end.”

  It made no sense.

  Simon turned back to the telephone. I could hear my father explaining something at length.

  Simon thanked him, and asked if he wished to speak to me again. I sent my love to him and to my mother, and put up the telephone.

  “Wait until we’re outside,” he said, and we walked out of the hotel in silence, to where we’d left the motorcar. It was well past teatime, the streets all but empty as the wind gusted through them. I could feel it swirling about my shoulders as Simon quietly explained my father’s response to the questions about Hoo.

  “Your father has given us what we need. I don’t know how much Scotland Yard has been told. Bare bones, most likely. But here’s the truth. Lessup had spent the war working with recruits out on the Hoo Peninsula. A great deal to do with trenches, ours as well as the German ones. And all quite secret. There was an accident one morning and a number of men were wounded, several men killed. Among them, Wilkins’s brother. There was an investigation into the deaths, even some talk of a court-martial for Lessup, but this would have made too much information public.”

  “Dear God. Do you think Wilkins believes these two men are responsible for his brother’s death?”

  “If he does, the question is, how did he find out? The Army wouldn’t have told him the details. Or given him Lessup’s name. But coupled with the photograph Jester’s witness brought in, and the name of the victim, Scotland Yard must have begun to ask questions. Your father couldn’t find who the other man is. He’s afraid it might be the officer who decided not to pursue a court-martial. Effectively clearing Lessup of charges. Or the corporal who took the official blame and was reduced in rank for carelessness. He’ll continue looking.”

  Lessup. An officer. A private.

  Did Sergeant Wilkins intend to kill all three?

  “I wish we knew more about him. The one living with Mrs. Chatham and her sister. I wish we could have linked him to the Hoo. But it doesn’t matter, does it, as long as Sergeant Wilkins believes he knows? Even if he’s wrong.”

  “At least when we speak to Mrs. Chatham, we’ll have more than supposition to go on. She deserves to be warned. We can’t wait for Scotland Yard to act.”

  We sat in silence for a long moment. It was the break we’d been searching for. And we’d found it because we’d discovered there were two men.

  “Bess, shall we have dinner at a decent restaurant before driving back to Lower Dysoe?”

  “I’m not hungry, Simon. I have the strongest feeling that there isn’t much time left.”

  After a brief stop for petrol, a packet of sandwiches to take with us, and a thermos of tea, we set out for Biddington. The wind had dropped with sunset, but the air whistling around the motorcar was distinctly cold. I longed for the rug in the boot, for the tiny heater was struggling to warm my feet much less my shoulders. But I didn’t want to stop for that or any other reason.

  I said, “Sergeant Wilkins didn’t waste much time finding his first victim and dispatching him in Ironbridge. Why has he taken so long with this man?”

  “He may not be sure he’s the right one. And the man in Chatham Hall hasn’t been as accessible as Lessup. He’s cautious.”

  “The man who came out of the Hall’s kitchen door and the man you saw standing in the doorway of the empty cottage. Were they the same?”

  “I thought at the time they must be. Now—now I’m not so sure.”

  “And which man were you following from the shepherd’s hut? Which one was waiting by the gates to Windward?” I asked.

  “At a guess? I’d say it was Wilkins in the hut. The man at the gate must have come from Chatham Hall. But how did he know he was being stalked? Had he seen Wilkins somewhere? Or had Phyllis Percy put him on his guard after you began to ask questions? It’s even possible Lessup’s sister wrote to him, warning him to be careful.”

  The sister Inspector Jester refused to let me speak to. We had been left in the dark from the beginning. The wonder was that Scotland Yard hadn’t found Sergeant Wilkins and taken him into custody long since. Why hadn’t the Yard come to Lower Dysoe before now?

  Simon kept his eyes on the road, making what time he could. The rain had left puddles in the ruts, and we splashed through them. Once a badger ambled out from the grass along the verge and stared blindly at our powerful headlamps. We managed to avoid him somehow.

  Thinking about it, I said, “A man with something to hide could easily start to worry. The thing is, training accidents do happen. I know that as well as you do. Why was this one so appalling that it calls for revenge?”

  “I think because so many men were involved, and the inquiry into it reached a stage that court-martial was considered. Whatever went wrong, the Army tried to cover it up, because what was being done on Hoo was already secret. To a grieving brother, the official account must have appeared to be a tissue of lies. And it probably was. But for very different reasons. If Wilkins was having nightmares about his brother’s death and brooding over it while in hospital, he could have convinced himself that revenge was expected of him.”

  After a while Simon and I shared the sandwiches and I passed him a cup of tea from the thermos. Mine was warming my fingers nicely as I held it in both hands, and I sipped it slowly.

  Finally the lights of Biddington loomed out of the darkness. First a cottage or two, and then the village seemed to rush at us, shops and pubs and houses and the square-towered church near the High Street.

  Our rooms were still available at the inn, and after Simon had seen to that, we decided, late as it was, we should still speak with Mrs. Chatham and her sister. I felt a wash of relief that Simon agreed with me. That niggling feeling of being too late hadn’t gone away.

  We set out again, following the road to Upper Dysoe, and we were just passing the turning to the miller’s yard when I stopped Simon. “This is the time of night when the man in the hut is on the prowl. Be careful.”

  He switched off the lights and slowed to a crawl. Now we could just see the road ahead. To our right was the old barn, to our left the distant gates of Windward.

  “There!” Simon whispered, pulling up the brake.

  At first I couldn’t see anything. Peering through the windscreen, I finally caught the barest hint of movement where Windward’s wall cast its long shadow. Just then a figure appeared at the bend in the road where there was no concealment, hurrying to leave the open as quickly as possible.

  “We might have bumped right into him,” I said, still whispering, although no one but Simon could hear me.

  We gave him five minutes and then went in pursuit. Simon kept well back, and I was beginning to fear we might lose him. The cold wind forgotten, I bit my lip anxiously, my gaze on the road, watching for any sign that we’d overtaken him even while I wanted to urge Simon to close the gap.

  We were no more than a hundred yards from the lane leading to Chatham Hall when Simon pulled to the verge. “Better to walk from here. Are you game? Or would you rather wait in the motorcar?”

  “I’ll go. If you lose him, I can return and drive on to Chatham Hall while you search. We still need to warn those two women.”

  We got down, starting toward Lower Dysoe. Soon enough we saw the wall ahead of us, and by silent agreement w
e stopped there to look for Sergeant Wilkins. We could see no one down the lane toward the Hall, and no one ahead of us on the street. He’d disappeared.

  And that was worrying.

  “I’ll go back to the motorcar,” I said in a whisper.

  “Do you have your pistol?” Simon asked softly.

  I took it from my pocket and put it into his outstretched hand. His fingers were warm, mine icy. I had forgot my gloves. They were in my kit in Biddington.

  I was about to turn back when a figure detached itself from a deep-set doorway near the end of the village. And almost at once, it stepped swiftly, back into the shadows.

  “He’s seen us,” I said. “Still, we’ve found him.”

  “Stay where you are.”

  Someone was emerging from the farm lane that led to the tenant cottages.

  Beside me, Simon quietly retrieved the pistol from his pocket. It was no good at long range, but he could move fast if he needed to.

  The figure from the lane came toward us. He was taking his time, searching the shop fronts and alleys between shops and cottages.

  Without warning the man who was in the doorway stepped out. He’d have been seen sooner or later, but he chose the element of surprise, forcing the other man to stop in his tracks.

  They stared at each other. We weren’t close enough to tell whether they were speaking or not.

  I stood on tiptoe to whisper in Simon’s ear. “He spoke to the man on the bridge. They talked first.”

  Simon broke into a run, with me at his heels.

  But before we could reach the two men standing in the middle of the road, the one from the farm lane moved, his arm swinging up fast.

  I cried out, “No,” certain that he was about to shoot. “Please, no.”

  Instead he struck the other man, putting his shoulder into the blow, and his victim dropped like a stone at his feet. Turning on his heel, he raced for the shelter of the trees and the farm track.

  It had happened so fast. Simon got there first, kneeling over the fallen man. He looked up at me as I reached them.

  “He’s unconscious. There’s a pulse.”

  “There’s blood on his chin,” I said, pointing to a dark, wet patch just below the corner of his mouth.

  “I’ll stay here. Go fetch the motorcar,” Simon told me. “Hurry.”

  I set off at a trot, very glad that the motorcar was closer, but I was out of breath by the time I’d reached it. Bending to turn the crank, I prayed it would fire on the first try.

  Driving as fast as I dared, I reached Lower Dysoe to find Simon holding a small crowd of men at bay, talking to them. He looked up, clearly relieved as I came into view, and as I stopped, pulling up the brake, he was saying, “You can see she’s all right.”

  They turned to stare at me. I could tell they were local men, and they had stuffed their nightshirts into their trousers, hair still tousled from sleep, to rush to the scene.

  “We heard a woman cry out,” a square-set man in his forties said. “Was it you?”

  “Yes.” I didn’t know what Simon had been telling them, but I hazarded a guess. “We saw this man here being set upon, and came to his rescue.”

  “And what were the two of you doing walking through the village at this hour?” another man demanded.

  “I told you,” Simon said, his voice weary, as if he’d repeated the same story over and over again. “We’ve been searching for my brother. If you don’t believe me, ask Mrs. Chatham. Or Miss Neville. They will vouch for us.”

  I wasn’t all that certain about either of them.

  “Who was it set upon him?” someone asked. “There’s no one else here.”

  “I don’t know, I tell you. He disappeared. It could be any one of you.” That brought a growl of protest. “Or someone bent on robbery. He came from there.” Simon turned to point to the farm lane into Chatham Hall.

  We could be here most of the night, arguing. There was no constable in Lower Dysoe to settle matters.

  The man on the ground was moaning, coming round. I said, in Matron’s firmest voice, “He needs a doctor. Sergeant-Major, lift him into the motorcar, if you will, and we’ll take him to Maddie.”

  That gave them something to think about.

  Two men stepped forward to help Simon put our victim on the rear seat of the motorcar, while the others stood back, watching, still of two minds.

  I covered him with the rug Simon handed to me and came around to my seat. Simon thanked the men who’d assisted him and walked around to his door.

  Then, as a parting shot, he told them, “If I were you, I’d make sure none of the shops have been broken into.” The suggestion worked.

  That sent several men running to look, one switching on a torch to examine a door.

  We turned the motorcar in the muddy street and drove sedately out of the village, only picking up speed when we were well out of sight. Simon stopped just short of Middle Dysoe, pulled to the side of the road, and got out. I heard him in the boot, searching for something. He came back with rope in his hand and opened the rear door.

  Our passenger was still dazed, but he roused as Simon leaned in and tied his hands together, looping the rest of the rope around the man’s ankles. I could see the whites of his eyes as he watched.

  “A precaution,” Simon told him briskly. “Until we know what we’ve got.”

  He said nothing, just lay back against the seat as if he felt sick.

  “Who are you? Why did you and that other man argue?” I asked, trying to get a better look at him. But it was hopeless, the shadows in the motorcar too deep, and the man, whoever he was, refusing to open his eyes again.

  I said to Simon, “Bring the torch, will you?”

  But our prisoner cried out, and Simon answered, “We’ll be at Maddie’s soon enough.”

  We drove on to Upper Dysoe, and it was Simon who knocked on Maddie’s door.

  I’d expected him to be asleep, but a light shone in the window, and when he came to the door almost at once, fully dressed, I saw that he’d been sitting at the table he used for his surgeries, reading. The book lay open, the lamp beside it, and a pair of spectacles marked his place on the page. I had a feeling that he often stayed up late, unable to sleep.

  He said at once, his voice carrying, “What’s the trouble? What do you need?”

  “We have a head wound,” Simon told him, and came back to help our prisoner, first freeing his ankles.

  The man moved reluctantly from the rear of the motorcar, stumbled, resisted Simon’s arm for a moment, and then leaned heavily against him, as if his head was spinning.

  I was just behind them, and I closed the door, shutting out the night. Maddie was removing the lamp to a tall stool on the far side of the table, folding his spectacles, and setting them with the book on a shelf by his bed. He placed a clean sheet over the tabletop and went to the dry sink where there was a pitcher and basin to wash his hands. Meanwhile Simon was lowering our patient onto the table, removing the rope and neatly coiling it.

  “A precaution, to keep him from hurting himself,” Simon said blandly.

  I moved to one side for a better view. As Simon stepped away from the table, I gasped, feeling shock ripple through me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I HARDLY RECOGNIZED the man lying on the sheet. As Maddie lifted his head to place a pillow beneath it, I stared.

  He had closed his eyes, as if to shut out what was happening to him. I could see the bloody knot and scrape on his chin, and my first thought was that it hadn’t been made by a fist, but by a heavy stone held in a hand.

  Although he was fairly clean shaven, his hair was poorly cut, as if he’d tried to do it with a knife. He wasn’t in uniform, wearing instead a heavy jumper over a flannel shirt and dark brown corduroy trousers, both of them well worn. What struck me was how thin he was, as if he had had very little to eat for a very long time. Dark smudges below his eyes told of pain and weariness.

  I realized all at once that he was gaz
ing at me. He tried for defiance, failed, and simply shut his eyes again.

  It was Sergeant Wilkins. We had found him at last. And, thank God, before he could kill again.

  A wave of relief swept me, and I felt vindicated for the days and nights spent away from my family and all that was so dear to me. For keeping Simon beside me, and accepting his help in my determination to find this man.

  Maddie was bending over him, testing the jaw, frowning as he reached for a wad of cotton wool and deftly bathed the still weeping scrape.

  Simon, watching him, was silent.

  “There’s a bit of dirt and grit here,” Maddie said, showing us the cotton wool. “Was it a stone that struck this man?”

  It was an echo of my own thought. I told him about the confrontation and the blow that had knocked the sergeant down. “I don’t know what was said between them, but it ended then and there. The other man simply walked away.”

  “It’s a wonder the jaw isn’t broken,” he went on. He didn’t ask what we were doing in Lower Dysoe at that hour.

  Maddie’s question brought the scene vividly back to me. I hadn’t seen Wilkins’s attacker stoop to pick up a stone. He couldn’t have known that Wilkins was there waiting. Yet he’d come prepared for trouble. A stone against a revolver.

  But why had he left the house at all? To protect the women living there?

  And where was the revolver? What had become of it? Looking down at the sergeant, I couldn’t see anything as bulky as a weapon hidden in his clothing. Simon must also have looked for it while he was tying the man up, but he hadn’t mentioned it. I turned and went out to the motorcar, thinking he’d managed to hide it there. I couldn’t find it. But then he’d hanged Lessup. He hadn’t wanted to give him an easy death. Was he planning to do the same with this victim? There were enough trees in the park . . .

  I came back in, and as Maddie worked, I said, “Sergeant Wilkins? Can you hear me?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Maddie glanced up at me as he finished cleaning the wound and reached for antiseptic powder and a dressing. Then he bent over his patient and lifted an eyelid. “Was he unconscious for very long?”