A Question of Honor: A Bess Crawford Mystery

by Charles Todd

  The transfer to the waiting train went smoothly, from long practice. I overheard one of the officers making his report about the submarine to the men who had come aboard.

  One said, “They’ve got two ships already, the bastards.”

  But not this one.

  We loaded the last of the patients, I cleared the paperwork as quickly as possible, and then the train was pulling out, gathering speed.

  I had a moment of alarm, wondering if somehow Corporal Caswell had managed to escape in the darkness. I couldn’t imagine that it was possible, but I’d had no time to watch him or to warn the Sisters handling the transfer to keep an eye on him.

  Making my way through the carriages, I found him at last. He was sleeping. Sister Waters smiled. “I gave him a little something. He was worried about the ship being sunk.”

  He had worried about what was to happen to him in Dover, I thought to myself, not about any submarines in our vicinity.

  “Good work,” I told her. “We didn’t want him to alarm the others.”

  I spent the hours into London on my feet, most of my time with the serious cases. They had been jostled and moved and jostled some more, and I had to look for any bleeding that had broken through or stitches that had been pulled.

  Finally, wishing myself a bed and an hour of sleep, I saw that we were coming through the familiar outskirts of the city. Our speed dropped and there was a bustle to get everything ready for what happened next. My serious cases were to go to hospitals in London, and I’d been told ambulances would be waiting. The others would be parceled out to another train or to lorries to carry them to their destinations.

  When I had signed the last voucher and seen the last patient on his way, I looked around for my kit, intending to find a cab, go to Mrs. Hennessey’s, and fall across my bed in a stupor.

  Instead I saw Simon standing there, my bag in one hand.

  “Welcome to London. I’m under orders to take you directly home. Your mother put pillows and blankets in the rear seat. She felt you might need them.”

  “Bless her! Yes, I do. But a cup of tea first would be wonderful.”

  “A fresh Thermos on the seat. She’s thought of everything.”

  And five minutes later I’d turned in my ticket, walked with Simon the short distance to his motorcar, and was handed into the rear seat.

  I remember the lights flashing by as we cleared the city, and then in the dark of the countryside, my eyes would stay open no longer. The next thing I knew, Simon had lifted me out of the motorcar and my mother’s voice was saying, “Her room is ready, you know the way.”

  I awoke the next morning in my own bed, the draperies drawn and the room dark enough that I could have slept until noon. But I was up and dressed and down to breakfast by eight o’clock.

  I was not surprised to find my mother, the Colonel Sahib, and Simon already there, just filling their plates.

  “I didn’t expect to see you for hours,” Mother said. “Here, take my plate, I’ll make up another one.”

  Sitting down at my usual place and picking up my napkin, I said, “I slept amazingly well. I must have been very tired.”

  “You were,” Simon told me. “I don’t think you spoke a word the entire drive.”

  “Just as well,” my father said, smiling. “It will save her from having to give us the same account. All right, eat your breakfast, Bess, and then we’ll talk.”

  Still sitting around the table fifteen minutes later, I began my explanation about Corporal Caswell. “And so I thought,” I said, coming to the end, “it was better to keep him under our eye than let him go to a clinic in Essex or Derbyshire. Were you able to convince Dr. Gaines?”

  “I had no trouble at all,” my mother said serenely. “I told him that the Corporal was one of ours, a black sheep who needed looking after, whether he liked it or not, and Dr. Gaines was in complete agreement with me.”

  I suppressed a smile. Dr. Gaines was no match for the Colonel’s lady.

  “And what are we to do with him?” my father asked, in an interested tone of voice, as if I were about to describe the disposition of a new piece of furniture.

  “I don’t know,” I said, being baldly honest.

  “He’s not a kitten or a puppy,” Simon put in. “He could very well be a murderer five times over. Longleigh House doesn’t know about that.”

  Which was very true. I had in fact put the staff there in danger.

  “He may well try to escape,” I said, “but he’s clever enough to realize that if he harms anyone in the process, he’ll be hunted down.” I could only hope that was true.

  “There’s that,” my mother agreed.

  “How soon will it be before he can be returned to duty?” my father asked.

  “A good six weeks,” I replied. “At least.”

  “Then we shan’t have to make any decisions right away,” my mother said, always seeing the practical side of any problem.

  “Just how guilty is Lieutenant Wade?” I asked. “According to Mr. Kipling’s friend, there is some question about the murder of his parents. And even Simon, here, looking into the Subedar’s past, thought there might be some question about the man’s brother.”

  My father sighed. “God knows, Bess.” And then as if the question were forced from him, he asked, “Has he changed?”

  “He has learned to live by his wits,” I said, taking my time to give a fair answer. “He can be utterly charming when it suits. And very determined when he is crossed. The odd thing is, I’ve never seen him really and truly violent. Yes, there was that incident of Sister Bennett’s tray. But he did that deliberately to stop me from seeing his face.” I couldn’t help but think to myself that Lieutenant Wade might have taken a chance and killed me on at least two occasions, silencing the only person who knew who he now pretended to be and where he could be found. And yet he’d never laid a finger on me.

  “Wade was always straightforward. No guile. That’s why I could never quite believe that he was a murderer. That he’d worked with me for weeks and I never once saw anything that in retrospect I could consider an indication of his guilt. And yet all the evidence points strongly to him.”

  “If he didn’t kill his parents, if the Subedar’s brother had learned from the servants that Lieutenant Wade was leaving very early the next morning, he could have seen his opportunity to enact a little revenge and put the blame on the son of the house. I am almost willing to grant you that. Mostly because there seems to be no motive, except to spare them the knowledge of what he’d done in England. But there appears to be a very strong motive for killing the Caswells.” Simon got up to refill his cup.

  “He asked me if I knew how his parents were,” I reminded the table at large. “Was that guile? Or did he truly not know because he’d thought he left them well, asleep in their beds?”

  “If he wanted to throw off suspicion, he would have done just that,” my father commented.

  It was an endless circle. We talked for a little while longer. And then the Colonel Sahib said, “I’ll give him a few days to settle in at Longleigh House. To feel safe there. But I think it’s time I went to visit him.”

  There was a silence around the table. I had never wanted my father drawn back into the fate of Lieutenant Wade. And here he was, perforce, right in the middle of our dilemma.

  Simon was saying, “That’s a very sound idea. It’s one thing to talk to Bess, here, and quite another to face you.”

  My mother had the last word. “In the meantime, I think we need to identify the last two people in that photograph. Who knows what we might uncover?”

  Later in the afternoon when my mother came to find me, I was sitting in the garden trying to read. After more than an hour I was still on page two of the book when she sat down near me and looked out across the lawns.

  “I think,” she began, “it’s just as wel
l that this has happened. About Lieutenant Wade. It’s upset the Colonel Sahib, I know, but like a festering wound, it needs to be lanced and given a chance to heal at last.”

  “I never intended to do more than find him and hand him over to the MFP. I can’t even remember when the doubts began. I expect it was when Simon found out about the Subedar’s brother. If part of the story was false, then why not the whole?”

  “Bess, darling, if he’s innocent, we need to know that too.”

  “I keep remembering how angry Captain Bingham was about the past. And even Alexander Hughes.” That brought with it a new train of thought. “Teddy—an ambulance driver—tried to avoid Captain Bingham. And he thought he recognized Lieutenant Wade. I was too worried about getting my charges back to England to open that door. Now, it seems odd that he was afraid of Captain Bingham but not of Lieutenant Wade. You’d have thought it would have been the reverse, if he knew what the papers had been saying about the murder of the Caswells. But what if he was the other boy and he recognized the two men from growing up with them in the Caswell household?”

  “Do you know his last name?”

  “He’s just—Teddy. I don’t think I ever heard him called anything else.”

  “Let’s go back to see Miss Gooding. And take your photograph with you this time.”

  “Wasn’t there some charity event or other where we could meet Lady Campbell?”

  “My dear, I’d forgot. It’s today. This evening. We must hurry if we’re to dress and make it to London in time.”

  As we went indoors, my mother suggested that I wear my uniform, as visiting hospitals was one of Princess Mary’s interests. Simon appeared just as we were going down the stairs, and Mother said, “There you are. I was hoping to see you. Could you possibly drive us into London?”

  “Give me five minutes,” he replied, and was gone.

  “There. We’ll arrive in style and won’t have to concern ourselves with what to do with the motorcar.”

  We were fashionably late when we arrived, but Princess Mary wasn’t there yet, though the hostess was expecting her at any moment.

  She came in five minutes later. I’d seen her in photographs but never in person. She was close to my own age and very attractive. It was whispered that she was strong-minded, and she was close to her elder brother, Edward, who was also rumored to have a mind of his own. The Christmas Gift Box presented to all the troops in 1914 had been her idea, subscribed by a grateful nation. My parents had given generously to it.

  She greeted our hostess and then was presented to the dignitaries before mixing briefly with other guests. Seeing my uniform, she came to speak to me, asking where I had served and how I had found my training.

  “Difficult but useful,” I replied, and she smiled.

  “I admire all of you in the Nursing Service,” she said and moved on to the next guest.

  Turning to look for my mother, I saw that she was talking to a young woman with auburn hair, a high-bridged nose, and a strong chin. She was handsome in a very aristocratic way. She looked familiar. The chin, I thought, but I had no idea who she was.

  I crossed the room and my mother made the introductions.

  I found myself shaking hands—fingertips brushing briefly—with the former Hazel Sheridan. She was looking at my uniform with some disdain, as if thinking I should at least have made an effort to dress for the occasion. I was amused because Princess Mary, a King’s daughter, had considered it a badge of honor.

  “I’ve just come from France,” I said with a smile. “I ran into Teddy there. He remembers you from your years at The Willows.”

  Her face froze. “I’m not acquainted with anyone called Teddy. What is The Willows? A restaurant? Should I know it?”

  It was a quick recovery. She must, I thought, have steady nerves.

  “I do apologize. I was certain you’d remember. I have the loveliest photograph of you as a little girl. It was taken with the rest of the children one Christmas.” I was being impossibly rude, and I regretted it, but I wasn’t sure I would have another chance to speak to this woman. She wouldn’t be as accessible as Captain Bingham or Teddy or Sandy Hughes. Not given her husband’s position. “I bought it at the charity stall in Petersfield. The one you were so anxious to have.”

  She darted a glance at my mother. “I don’t know any Caswells. I’m sorry.”

  “And such a tragedy about Mr. and Mrs. Gessler dying in that fire. They did such fine work.”

  She opened her mouth to correct me, not the sort to suffer fools gladly. She knew very well it was his daughter and not his wife who had died in that fire. But she snapped her jaw shut just in time. For a moment we stared directly at each other. I could see the cold calculation in her eyes. Then she said in a low, harsh voice, “I have no connection with any of this. Now I’m walking away. Please don’t follow me.”

  I could feel myself blushing, the blood rushing up into my face. I turned slightly so that no one else could see it.

  My mother said soothingly, “Bess, that was very rude. But very effective indeed. I think it’s time to pay our respects to the hostess and be ready to take our leave as soon as Princess Mary does.”

  It was not done to leave a function before royalty did.

  We sipped the lemonade and ate one of the little cakes, and then Princess Mary was saying good-bye, thanking the guests for their generous contributions to the cause of caring for soldiers and their families in time of need. We had done our bit as well, which eased my conscience a little over my behavior. At least there had been no other witnesses to that conversation.

  My mother and I were only a few minutes behind in our farewells.

  Outside the hotel where the Charity Reception had been held, we looked for Simon. He saw us and brought up the motorcar.

  “Is it too late to drive to Petersfield tonight?” my mother asked as he held her door and then mine.

  “Better tomorrow morning, I should think.”

  “Then let’s make our plans accordingly.” Before he could ask what had transpired, my mother told him. “In ordinary circumstances I’d have been shocked and furious, but Bess found out what she wanted to know. And it was clear that the last thing Lady Campbell wanted was to make a scene with a member of the Royal Family present. But if looks could kill . . .” She let her voice trail off.

  I said, “She recognized Teddy’s name. She knew who I was talking about.”

  “Yes, she pretended otherwise, but I was watching her eyes.”

  I sat there, looking back to the arrival of the Subedar, playing it over and over again in my memory.

  “Simon. The ambulances came in just after the Subedar died. First one, and then not far behind, the others. If Teddy was driving that ambulance, if he found the Subedar out in the middle of nowhere, he would be able to understand him, wouldn’t he? Or even if he couldn’t, the Subedar might have confided in him. It would explain why he wouldn’t speak in English to anyone else, even to me.”

  “Do you think this man shot the Subedar? Bess, he’s a conscientious objector.”

  “He doesn’t want the past brought up again. He avoids Captain Bingham. He thought he recognized Lieutenant Wade, although he was confused about just where he’d seen him. And both times Lieutenant Wade had been very ill. But Teddy won’t let it go. And in the end, he’ll remember.”

  Simon commented, “There may be something else in his past that he doesn’t want to remember. Not necessarily The Willows.”

  A slight change in his voice made me wonder if there were memories that Simon himself didn’t want to recall.

  But I didn’t pursue the thought, and neither did my mother.

  By the time we reached Petersfield the next day, the market was in full swing. This time in place of the charity stall was one decorated with bunting and flags, and behind the counter were two pretty girls supporting the same c
ause we had contributed to last night. We went over to put coins into the large earthen jar set between them, and we were told that if at the end of the day, anyone guessed the amount collected, he or she would win a prize.

  The prize was sitting in the back of the stall for all to see. It was a rectangular lacquered box on brass feet with squared corners and trimmed in gold. Across the top galloped a hunt, beautifully etched in gold with a fine brush. High grass encircled the sides, and in it lurked the prey the hunt was chasing, well concealed and watchful—gazelles and tigers, deer and wild boar. Only these huntsmen were mounted on horses and elephants, followed by beaters and servants and musicians on foot. It was exquisite Indian workmanship, and I realized who must have donated it.

  My mother said as she dropped a pound into the earthen jar, “What a lovely box that is. Could I see it?”

  “We aren’t supposed to let anyone touch it.”

  “Then perhaps you would lift the lid for me so that I could see inside,” she said sweetly.

  Reluctantly one of the girls lifted the top, and I could see that the inside was covered in what appeared to be gold leaf.

  It was also empty.

  Mother thanked the girls and we strolled on. “I was hoping there might be letters or some such inside.”

  “Someone must have emptied it before donating it to the sale.”

  “And tossed any letters into the fire. Worst luck.”

  Simon was waiting outside the square on Church Street, and we drove on to Miss Gooding’s house.

  She took to my mother immediately, as most people did, and while Simon was once more filling the coal scuttle, I made tea in the tiny kitchen. Remembering Miss Gooding’s straitened circumstances, I had brought a little of our precious store of tea, a small jug of honey, and a tin of biscuits.

  I could hear the conversation in the front room, and I knew when the framed photograph came out of the covered basket we had carried it in.

  Miss Gooding was telling my mother that she had just such a one as that by her bed, and my mother said, “They were the dearest children. Here’s Tommy Wade, and there’s his sister Georgina next to Gwendolyn. That’s such a pretty frock Georgina is wearing, isn’t it? And that must be the little Mayfield child, who died so young. He’s standing next to the Bingham boy, who joined the Army like his father before him. That must be Alexander Hughes, the one with the limp after hurting his foot trying to ride Gwendolyn’s horse. The other girl is Hazel, isn’t it? The children used to tease her and call her Witch Hazel. But she married a baronet, didn’t she? He’s an equerry to one of the Princes. She’s quite fashionable now. And the last child—Teddy . . .” Her voice trailed off. “I do believe I’ve forgotten Teddy’s surname. Isn’t that awful?”