The Return of Captain John Emmett

by Elizabeth Speller

  'Why on earth should she feel guilty?' Laurence jumped in. 'She's the last person who should feel guilty. John was off in Germany before the war, then he was fighting in France, then he became il. She'd hardly talked to him properly for years.'

  'I rest my case!'

  Laurence gazed out of the window. He didn't want to continue the conversation. But Charles, apparently oblivious that he was treading on eggshels, went on,

  'The thing is that a murderer wouldn't realy help. Murderers have their stories too. Their reasons. The people they crossed. The people who did them down. Mrs Christie can leave their world behind on the last page but a real murderer's story doesn't end on the galows.'

  'Extreme violence changes everything for ever,' Laurence said, and then, in a more conciliatory tone he added, 'There is one loose end, though. Tresham Brabourne gave me another name—the junior officer who sneaked on Hart to their superior officer and got him charged. If I could track him down and if he survived the war, that would be informative. Man was caled Liley, Ralph Liley.' He looked at Charles expectantly.

  Charles shook his head. 'Never heard of him. But I'l ask around.' He sounded tired. He fumbled for his pipe and then gazed out at the darkening day.

  Laurence rested his aching neck against the back of the seat. He couldn't think straight. Was it possible the man who told them the news of Tucker's death had deliberately misled them to put them off the track? He thought not. He realised now that the landlord had been amused when they'd been making their not very subtle enquiries.

  Charles had been right, of course, Tucker had provided the easy solution. But if Tucker was out of the picture, then the murder of Jim Byers and any possibility of John having been murdered became much harder to link.

  On the blank margin of his paper he wrote down the name of everybody connected with the execution of Edmund Hart. It was an untidy list because in some instances he either didn't know the name or had only a rank or a partial name. He drew a line through those he knew were dead or disabled. The list became much shorter. He wrote down a second list of everyone he knew of who'd been there when John was trapped in the trench fal and repeated the process. Again, it was not a long list, though he had less information this time. Only Leonard Byers was on both lists. Then he added Eleanor Bolitho. She was not there but she'd nursed John at both periods in his life.

  Finaly he set down the names of anyone else he could think of who had been significant in John's life in recent years. After Eleanor this had just six names on it: Mary, Mrs Emmett, Doctor Chilvers, George Chilvers, Mrs Chilvers and an unknown army friend who had visited him in Holmwood. He added Minna's name at the top with two question marks. She was dead, but she was the only possible link with the word 'Coburg' on John's note.

  Obviously John was the man who had attacked Tucker but it had happened wel before Tucker's death. Could John have returned to Birmingham after the initial fight and kiled him before kiling himself? Everyone agreed Tucker had enemies but one of them was certainly John. Instead of looking for Tucker as a potential kiler of John Emmett, what if he discovered it was the other way around? It was John who had been arrested for assault, John who had been put in a nursing home to avoid prosecution.

  What if these enquiries turned up something worse for Mary? He knew that was one reason he'd avoided going to the police in Birmingham. When John went absent, could he have traveled al the way to Birmingham to deal with Tucker? Was that where he was in those missing days? If Tucker had died in January or February, it was too late, but if he'd died earlier, it was just possible John could have been involved and he certainly had a motive. It would help if he had the dates, which meant he would have to contact the police after al, although he would be surprised if they hadn't made their own inquiries as to whether the dates fitted, given the earlier attack.

  He recaled the various descriptions of John as much improved in the last weeks before his death. He was talking more, he seemed to have had a burden lifted from him. Might it have been because he'd finaly dispensed his own sort of justice? If John had kiled Tucker, then his own suicide became more comprehensible.

  By the time they puled into London, Laurence was hungry and thirsty, and Charles was snoring. The air felt wintry. They shared a cab, which dropped Charles off first before going on up to Bloomsbury.

  'Thank you,' Laurence said. 'It was much better having you there. If ever I can reciprocate...'

  'You can,' said Charles, patting his pocket. 'Two tickets for the Varsity Match. First time at Twickenham. New beginnings. Come with me and cheer for the dark blues.'

  Laurence smiled. 'Of course.' Then before Charles went in, he remembered one thing that had been on his mind since the morning. 'Is there a river in Birmingham?'

  'The Rea, not one of the great waterways of the world or, indeed, England. Not, I'm afraid, one of which poets sing. Or can pronounce, realy.'

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Delicate ice crystals radiated across the inside of Laurence's bedroom window when he woke late the next day. As he waited for some water to heat for shaving—it must be the coldest day of the year so far, he thought—he picked up a monograph on the church of St Alfrege but soon found his thoughts drifting back to Birmingham.

  The violence of Tucker's end added to a list of possible murders, yet removed the most likely perpetrator. It was just feasible that John could have kiled Tucker, although the deaths of Byers' cousin and Mulins had taken place wel after John's own. Laurence found himself more rather than less determined to get to the bottom of things.

  When he reread the list he'd made on the train, his instinct was that Eleanor Bolitho was the key to it al. The more he thought about it, the more he saw a discrepancy between Eleanor's insistence that Wiliam must be protected from reminders of the war, and the feeling he got from the man himself who appeared to welcome company. Was Eleanor worried that Laurence might let slip something that she would rather her husband didn't know, or that Wiliam might tel him something she wanted to keep hidden? Eleanor had lied about how wel she'd known John. What else had she lied about?

  He decided that the only way to make sense of this was to try to see her again and tel her he knew she had been to Holmwood. If he could put pressure on Eleanor to help him, things might start to fal into place. Nevertheless, when he left his flat, he almost changed his mind. The sky was heavy; freezing rain was turning fast to snow and by the look of it there was much more to come. By the time he was on the bus, the snow was coming down heavily and they made slow progress.

  He had come to assume that Wiliam, at least, would always be at home. But nearly an hour after he set out, he stood on the doorstep outside their flat, having rung the bel three times, feeling that certainty, among others, seep away from him. He had been fired up with a determination to confront Eleanor. She had, of course, a right to privacy, but he needed to be certain what her part was in John's death. What did she know? What had she guessed? He was convinced that she was withholding knowledge about John from him and, more importantly, from John's family. From Mary.

  The weather continued to deteriorate. He stepped back to look up at the three-storey building; the Bolithos' windows were dark. He had been prepared for Eleanor to be angry or even to refuse to let him in, but not for her absence. He felt in his pockets for a piece of paper, but as the only pencil he had on him was broken, there was no way he could leave a message. Anyway, he had wanted to catch her without her being forewarned. The snow flurries were now obscuring the view to the end of the street: he couldn't just stand between the pilars of the stone porch and wait in the cold. The black-and-white lozenge-shaped tiles beneath his feet were already partly obscured by white and the street itself was completely covered.

  He puled the brass bel knob one more time. He thought he could hear it jangling somewhere in the building, but he moved away immediately, knowing it was no good. He slipped on the lower step and swore loudly.

  Eventualy he puled up his colar and set off back towards Kensington H
igh Street. An absolute peace descended as he walked by. He gazed into a bay-fronted room where a woman was already drawing the curtains. Smoke and snow bilowed over a chimney. He turned the corner, into a street that bore slightly downhil, becoming aware that he had to be careful not to fal. He looked down at his feet. He could already feel the wet seeping in and cursed the fact he had not worn sturdier boots. As he trudged on, he wondered again why he was pursuing al this. There was nothing to pursue realy. A man had died, one of milions in the last seven years or so. He had no moral imperative to find out exactly why or how; despite what everyone assumed, he had not been a close friend of John Emmett. There had already been a perfectly thorough judicial examination by the police and coroner. He felt cross with himself, with the situation and with the weather so early in the winter.

  As he looked up, a cumbersome shape caught his eye between the swirls of snow. Whatever it was, it was moving slowly and unevenly towards him, though many yards away on the other side of the street. Thinking it was a woman caught out with a perambulator, he moved to help her, but even as he speeded up, the shape twisted, then seemed to sprawl sideways and stop. He tried to run towards what was evidently some kind of accident. As he got closer it dawned upon him that it was a wheelchair and before he could identify the faces he realised it must be Eleanor and Wiliam. Eleanor didn't see him, even when he was only a few yards away from where the chair had tipped over. Wiliam was stil half in it and seemed to be trying to pul himself clear. Eleanor had her arms under Wiliam's and her elbows were tucked into her sides as she tried to move him. Her boots were slipping and she heard Laurence only when he spoke their names. He looked first at Eleanor. Her face was grim and determined, but was lightened by relief as she recognised him.

  'Could you steady the chair?' he said as he leaned forward and checked that Wiliam was simply stuck, not injured.

  He placed his arms round the man's waist, but when the weight of him started to shift, he staggered slightly before regaining his balance. The unfamiliar distribution of Wiliam's legless body caught him by surprise and he felt a twinge of pain in his back. Suddenly he was standing, bracing himself, legs apart, with Wiliam pressed against him and his arms round his waist almost as if they were dancing. He could feel the slight roughness of the man's cheek, the dampness of his scarf.

  Eleanor had got the chair upright; the edge of the tartan blanket seemed to have caught in the wheels and she tugged it angrily. Laurence lowered Wiliam onto the seat while she held the handles. He had always thought how wel Wiliam looked but now he saw the invalid in him: his eyes were closed, his face grey and his lips blanched, only the tip of his nose a bluish red. Eleanor glanced at Laurence and for a moment there seemed to be unfeigned gratitude in her face. Though her eyes were fierce, there was something else there; she was biting her lip and looked close to tears.

  Wiliam's eyes jerked open. 'Helo.' The bleakness of his appearance disappeared as he tried to smile. 'A knight in damp but shining armour,' Wiliam said. 'We hadn't quite foreseen the weather changing so swiftly. Stupid of us. Felt a bit like Captain and Mrs Oates. Noble but foolish.'

  The snow was settling on him and the tracks behind them showing where they had come to grief were already vanishing. Laurence took the handles from Eleanor. She nodded.

  'Hold on,' he said.

  The chair jerked forward, slewing to the side, and Wiliam coughed, but then it came under control. Laurence kept going rather than risk it stopping. It must always be quite a heavy task, even without the snow, which had brought the couple close to disaster on this occasion, and Eleanor was far slighter than he. He manhandled the chair off the pavement and across the road, with Eleanor beside him. On the far side she took off her sodden gloves and stopped as he tipped the chair back a little, then helped guide the wheels to the pavement. Her knuckles were raw and red.

  Finaly they reached the bottom of the steps. There were only three but the snow had piled up against them. Laurence couldn't imagine how the Bolithos got in and out, even at the best of times. Should he try to lift Wiliam again? But Eleanor turned to the side, where there was a smal tradesman's gate he'd hardly noticed before. He helped her pul it open against the snow and, once through, they were in a narrow but more sheltered passage. It led to a bolted door with two sturdy planks nailed to the step. For the first time Eleanor looked a little more cheerful.

  'Ingenious, don't you think?'

  It was a relief to get inside. No fires were lit but it was warm compared with the street. Wiliam removed his gloves and scarf with stiff arms.

  'Go and sit down,' Eleanor said as she spun the chair round towards the hal. 'I'm going to heat water and help Wiliam get into some dry clothes.' Wiliam made vague gestures of protest.

  'Do you need any help?' Laurence said.

  'Could you light the fire? Hang your coat there.' She gestured at a row of hooks.

  He wandered into the dark drawing room and pressed his face to the window. The snow seemed to be stopping. He picked up some matches from a brass holder, turned on the gas tap and lit the mantles. They popped for a minute, then began to glow as he knelt to light the paper spils and ignite the coal already laid in the grate. He could hear Eleanor and Wiliam talking although their words were indistinct. The fire flickered and caught.

  Even as the day outside finaly disappeared, this room looked as bright and warm as when he had first come here. He looked at the drawings that had created such an impression on him on his first visit. There was a good head and shoulders one of Eleanor. Standing by it now, he saw that Wiliam had sketched her in red pencil. It was dated only the year before. On an oak side table his eye was caught by a snap of her that he hadn't noticed either; it was taken a while back—she was with a smal group of nurses standing outside a building that from its shutters looked French or Belgian. He had to look hard to pick her out with her linen veil low on her forehead. On the other side of the table was a formal photograph of her and her son. He bent over to see Nicholas looking rather solemn as he sat on his mother's knee.

  Eleanor, too, looked a little sombre as she gazed down at her child, her arms encircling him. Laurence focused on her image: she was quite different in stilness. In the flesh, the impression she gave was dominated by animation and inteligence and, of course, her striking colouring. In repose and in monochrome, she looked quite ordinary: just a mother with her son.

  He didn't hear her when she came in the door behind him. There were spots of colour high in her cheeks and he waited to gauge her mood. She fiddled with a smal silver brooch that held her blouse colar together at the neck.

  Eventualy she said, 'Thank you. I've helped Wiliam to bed to rest with a hot-water bottle.' A smile flickered. 'Do sit down, Laurence. I'm not about to show you the door this time. We wouldn't have got back without you.'

  She sat down heavily in a deep chair with her legs straight out in front of her and her head back against the cushions. Her shoulders slumped. She gave him a rueful look.

  'Obviously I would never have left the house with him if I'd thought it was going to snow, but these shorter days drive Wiliam mad—just sitting at the window watching the moving world. He needs to get out. He can go short distances on his own but only in fine weather. Winters are long for us.'

  'It must be hard,' Laurence said, meaning for her, but she took it as referring to her husband.

  'It is. Very. Wiliam is only thirty-two. He's inteligent, curious. What's he supposed to do with the rest of his life?' She jumped up, as if putting an end to reflection. 'Now, I'l fetch you some tea. I expect you're as cold as the rest of us.'

  She was gone for another ten minutes or so. He puled his chair nearer the fire and held out his hands to the flames, though there was no real heat in them yet. He stood up when she came back and took the tray from her. She poured from an old ironstone teapot and they sat opposite each other.

  'He's asleep, thank heavens,' she said. She stil looked very pale. Her eyes were red-rimmed. 'Now—presumably you were trying to find us
at home this afternoon?' she said. 'Unless, of course, you've got other friends in the area?'

  He nodded. 'Yes, I'm sorry. I know you don't want to speak to me. I don't usualy pester people but I just sense you know more about John Emmett than I do.

  Probably, more than anybody and I don't even know what kind of thing it might be and now's not the time.'

  This evidently amused her. 'Wel, I'm hardly going to attack you now, am I? And obviously you are never, ever going to give up. You're deceptively determined, Laurence. You must have made a formidable soldier.'

  Laurence explained briefly about finding Calogreedy and then Byers. He didn't protect Eleanor from the details and he could tel that she had not known the whole story. Her face twisted in shock and disgust but then she surprised him.

  '"We were together since the War began,/ He was my servant and the better man."'

  He must have looked perplexed because she said, 'It's Kipling. Your Calogreedy and Byers. They reminded me of it.'

  It lightened the atmosphere. He liked the lines.

  'Look,' she went on, 'I'l try to help you although there are things you simply have to swear not to share unless I say. But I don't know where to start. Why don't you ask me questions?'

  He thought for a minute.

  'Did you know about the execution?'

  'Only the fact of it. No details. Not that it was an officer. He told me once and never spoke of it again. He didn't speak much by then.'

  'Do you think John kiled himself?' he asked, after another pause.

  'No, the war kiled him,' she answered quickly, 'whoever puled the trigger. In himself, I think he was getting better. Next?'