The Return of Captain John Emmett

by Elizabeth Speller

  'Did something happen at Holmwood?' he said and then added, because it seemed unfair to mislead her, 'I know you visited him.'

  'Yes, I did,' she said, without hesitation. 'He asked me to, so I did. Twice. As for Holmwood itself, I hated him being there but honestly it was no worse than many places and better than some. The old chap—'

  'Chilvers.'

  'Yes, Chilvers. At heart he genuinely cared, I think. I mean, he liked having his own little kingdom but, unlike his son, he wasn't interested in the things money could buy—and, believe me, money there was, aplenty; they charged a fortune, based on a few good results. I think Chilvers believed in what he was doing. He was interested in them al, which is a good start.'

  'I thought you'd complained.'

  'It was young Chilvers and poor staff that let him down. I suspect they didn't pay wel enough to find the right men after the war. Chilvers fils was too greedy and Chilvers père too oblivious to the realities. George Chilvers caused problems that his father was too blind or too weak to see and which the staff were too intimidated to bring to his notice. He was an unpleasant man. He loved the luxuries but, unlike his father, he didn't give a moment's thought to the inmates. In fact...' she stopped and seemed to consider her next words. 'I think he actualy enjoyed their predicament. I mean, I didn't see him with them very much but what I did see, I didn't like. You get a feeling for such things in my line of work. You'd think everyone working with the sick would be kind, or at least decent, but there's something about vulnerability that attracts the rotten sort too. He was rotten through and through.'

  The vehemence of her words left Laurence expecting more but she lapsed into silence.

  'Did he hurt John in some way?' he asked.

  'Not physicaly. Even at his worst John had a sort of strength. He had a dignity that never left him. George Chilvers' sort go for the weak.'

  Laurence found himself hoping George Chilvers had never known about John's failures during the execution of Hart.

  'Of course Chilvers hated the fact that they'd al seen active service,' Eleanor said, puling on a spiral of hair, 'while at the same time gloating over his own cleverness at avoiding it and somehow believing he would never have crumpled as they did. I know for a fact that where procedures were unpleasant or painful, Chilvers would always be overseeing them or pushing the limits: straitjackets, electrotherapy, cold hoses, enemas, that kind of thing. He'd use therapeutic treatments devised by his father as weapons against the most fragile. Of course, then they'd come to dread them. In fact, one poor young man threw himself off the roof when he'd thought he was going to be discharged but his family insisted he stay a little longer for more treatment.' She sat forward, her cup cradled in both hands. 'I loathed George Chilvers. Did you know that Chilvers has a wife—Vera?'

  Laurence nodded. 'She was a patient once, wasn't she?'

  'Had been. Before the war, when they took women as wel. She was only young, delicate, and had the misfortune to be an heiress with no living parents. Her uncle had her committed after a suicide attempt and George Chilvers moved in on her. Poor little thing basked in this worldly young man's interest, no doubt. Eventualy, around the time she turns twenty-one, Chilvers père is prevailed upon to pronounce her of sound mind and discharge her, just in time for Vera to use that sound mind to pledge herself to his son. She was away from home when John was first there. In Switzerland in an institution, he thought—al very circumspect. When she returned, John met her a few times. She was sweet, he said, and liked to pick the roses and so on in the gardens.

  'He was kind to her; John was always so nice to anyone in trouble; that was his downfal. I don't think Chilvers was treating her very wel. That's what John thought. He said she was like a child in many ways and terribly lonely. But his help misfired as poor Vera fel madly in love with him and trailed around after him, posting bilets-doux under his door. Of course it soon became obvious. George Chilvers was furious. He might not have been interested in his wife beyond her fortune but he wasn't about to be humiliated by her flagrant obsession with John. John, of course, couldn't go off anywhere else so he was a sitting duck, first for Vera and then for that vile man.

  'George had restrictions put on John's movements. That's why he was pushed up to the poky rooms on the top floor under constant supervision. The ones where the lights were left on al night. Where doors were locked from six to six. It wasn't because he was at risk. It was to punish him and to stop Vera getting to him.'

  She leaned forward and her voice became more indignant.

  'John wasn't that il when he was sent up there. But he deteriorated. He was in a room where the previous patient had been driven to kil himself. They removed everything with which he could hurt himself, from shoelaces to china plates to tin spoons—even his pen. The sheets up there were made of canvas, which couldn't be shredded. It was definitely not a situation that John in particular should have found himself in; George knew it, too. It wasn't about an ilicit trip to London.'

  Brabourne had said much the same thing about Tucker, Laurence thought. The deadly intuition of a sadist.

  'But it was more than that,' she went on. 'Chilvers actualy threatened him. His weapons were formidable: restraint, drugs. Some of the other staff were kind but Chilvers held the power.'

  'But you went out with John?' Laurence was sure Eleanor had accompanied John on his birdwatching walk down the river.

  'On my first visit we could walk about—even outside. I took Nicholas with me, but on my last visit there was nothing like that. No freedom.'

  'Did George Chilvers speak to you?' Laurence said.

  She waited a long time before answering. He had the impression she was trying to decide whether to tel him the truth.

  'Yes. He had seen us walking in the gardens the first time I went and something in our demeanour made him suspect that I wasn't John's sister. He had an eye for these things.'

  'What did you say?'

  'I protested and played the outraged relative. Wel, it was either that or tel the truth and I wasn't about to gratify him with that. But I was nervous that his real sister—your Mary—would turn up and he'd mention me to her. I could imagine him forbidding me from visiting.'

  He had the impression she was about to say more but when she didn't Laurence finaly brought himself to say what he'd come for.

  'It was you John left the money to realy, wasn't it? I mean, it was nominaly left to Wiliam, because he could justify that, but it was because of you, I think. You and Wiliam were a married couple. It didn't matter who got it, you'd both have the benefit of it without Wiliam being humiliated.'

  'What on earth gave you that idea?'

  'Because the incident in the trench colapse was nothing in the scale of things. I kept thinking it felt wrong. Men were dying or being injured, horribly, every day.

  Trenches colapsed pretty often. Probably the death of a man caled Perkins, Sergeant Tucker's partner in crime, was the most significant aspect of that accident. And Wiliam's part in puling John out was prompt and efficient, but he didn't do most of the digging. In fact, it was Tucker, John's enemy, who extracted him and saved his life. I kept thinking, why did Wiliam get left money when Tucker didn't. And then I thought—forgive me, Eleanor, but it's true—it was simply because Wiliam was married to you. John wanted you to benefit, either because you nursed him when he was injured or, perhaps quite simply, because he loved you.'

  She didn't answer at first. Then she looked up and, to his surprise, she said, 'No. He didn't leave it for me. I promise that wasn't why.'

  He was embarrassed. He'd been certain John was in love with her and she with him.

  'I'm awfuly sorry,' he said.

  'No, don't be. There's some truth in what you think, but the bequest wasn't because of me, or only obliquely.'

  'Did he write you a letter? At the end?' It was a sudden guess. Could he have posted one to her before he died?

  She sighed. 'Yes. Yes, he did, although I never read it fuly. I saw it only when Geo
rge Chilvers brandished it at me some weeks after John's death. He'd stolen it somehow. I think he half hoped I would try to seize it and then he could have al the fun of seeing how far I'd go to read it. Perhaps he was hoping I'd end up wrestling him for it. Odious, odious man.' Her apparent sarcasm was belied by the slight wobble in her voice.

  'I think other letters may have gone missing. Correspondence to him as wel as from him.'

  'Of course they have,' she said. 'When John absconded, I imagine Chilvers was terrified he'd tel people outside what had been happening. About Chilvers'

  personal vendetta. John stil had contacts. Visitors. I'd posted letters for him once. Probably his sister did too. Ones he didn't want to leave in the hal at Holmwood for posting.'

  She paused and poured them both out some more tea.

  'John was melancholy, damaged, but extremely rational. He believed in justice. So I bet Chilvers made a clean sweep of John's belongings. Then when John was found dead, wel, Chilvers probably destroyed them to save Holmwood's reputation. They'd already had a couple of suicides apart from the one I've told you about. And what if John revealed Chilvers' treatment of his wife or Vera's love letters to John turned up? George Chilvers might even have seemed like a suspect. Not for murder, necessarily, but it would seem like provocation. John kept a diary from time to time too when I knew him. Do you think his sister has that?'

  Laurence was almost certain she didn't. 'How do you know al this?' he said.

  'Because the letter Chilvers was taunting me with was one John had left for me, and not yet posted. Chilvers was almost proud of his daring. He never even let me see it properly, just one paragraph while he kept hold of it, so I don't know if it talked of suicide. On the whole, I think it was just a letter. I'd had others. Because if it was a suicide note, the coroner would have had a right to it and its contents would have become public and there were things that John had written in that paragraph that he wouldn't have wanted revealed publicly. But Chilvers stole it and blackmailed me with the contents. That's the kind of man he is.'

  'Blackmail?' Laurence was startled.

  'Yes. Plain and simple.'

  'But you were supposed to be John's sister—or was he blackmailing you because he'd discovered you weren't?'

  She gave him a slightly pitying look. 'Wel, hardly, I don't think it's a crime to claim to be someone's sister.'

  'But you hadn't got any money, then,' he said.

  'He didn't want money. He wanted me. To take me to his bed. He wasn't put off by my hatred. He was aroused by the idea of my loathing him and stil having to give myself to him. That's how he was. I only agreed to meet him because he led me to understand that he had held back some letters of John's to protect the family.

  He thought he could coerce me because there was information in the letter that was potentialy very damaging to someone I love.' She blushed, but not at the revelation that Chilvers desired her, Laurence thought, but with anger.

  Laurence frowned. 'Wiliam?' he said, slowly, wondering what on earth John might have known about Wiliam that might be damaging.

  'You're dogged but you're not a natural detective, Laurence,' she said. 'If it wasn't for the simultaneous pursuit of true love—I assume you are in love with Mary Emmett?—I'd suggest you gave it up. No. Not Wiliam. Or Wiliam only in part. Nicholas. My son, Nicholas.'

  Suddenly he understood. How stupid he had been. But he waited for her to tel him.

  'Nicholas isn't Wiliam's son. He's John's. John was acting as a father in providing for a son. He saw him only a couple of times but he did love him. In that paragraph Chilvers was brandishing, John said that loving me and becoming Nicholas's father, even though it had not been intentional, had been the one good thing in his life. Chilvers was jubilant to have that knowledge.'

  'Does Wiliam...?'

  'Does Wiliam know? Wel, yes, of course he does or I wouldn't be teling you.' She looked amused. 'Nicholas looks pretty much like his father.'

  Laurence thought back to his brief glimpse of the child and the photograph on the table. Nicholas was darker haired than Wiliam or Eleanor, certainly, but perhaps you saw what you expected to see. However, his overwhelming feeling was one of happy surprise. She obviously noticed because she looked more relaxed than he'd ever seen her. The fiery intensity faded from her eyes.

  'I think there's a picture of him with John's things,' he said. 'I'd assumed it was John himself, but it is probably Nicholas.'

  She nodded. 'I gave him that the last time I saw him. I'm glad he had it.' Then she added, 'The discretion is for Wiliam's sake, you see, not mine. That was the mistake George Chilvers made. He thought I'd deceived Wiliam. But Wiliam and I could never have had children. His injury was widespread to his back as wel as his legs. We can never have a marriage in that sense. But in other ways, we are very happy. He has been immensely kind to me. I was pregnant. He was an invalid. We take care of each other and he loves Nicholas as his own. He understood my feelings for John. He is an exceptional man and I am very lucky.' Her face was calm.

  'I caled George Chilvers' bluff,' she said. 'Refused point blank. Told him there was no secret there. Threatened to report him to the police, and like al of his sort his threats melted away. I wouldn't have reported him, of course. Wiliam knows, but everyone else believes Nicky to be his own son. I don't imagine Wiliam ever told you I knew John Emmett? He wouldn't have wanted to you to make any connection.'

  Laurence thought how open and frank Wiliam had seemed. But now it appeared even he had things to hide.

  'You never wrote to the Emmetts after John died, did you?'

  'No.' She looked embarrassed. 'Wiliam asked me to but I couldn't risk contact.'

  'But if George Chilvers panicked and drove around for hours searching, before caling the police, it does suggest that even though he might have worried that blame for John's death might be laid at his feet, he certainly wasn't directly responsible for his death,' Laurence said.

  Then, realising that he had never told her of his suspicions, he explained, as simply as he could, the strange coincidences that he had uncovered while trying to understand John's state of mind. She did not look scornful as he would have feared before today; instead she was obviously concentrating.

  'In fact you were the first person to suggest he might not have kiled himself deliberately,' he said. 'An accident, you thought.'

  She smiled. 'An accident I hoped, I think. Even murder would, oddly, be a lot better than having to accept that someone at the centre of your world, your son's father, would rather be dead.'

  'So you don't see Chilvers as a murderer?'

  'Much as I'd like to lay it al at his door, I don't. He's greedy and a buly, not a kiler, though his actions might wel have contributed to John's state of mind.'

  'When did you hear from John for the last time?'

  She thought for a minute. 'I had a letter from him about this time last year. He sounded better. I think because he was in London, meeting someone who he thought would help him. He'd been moved or disturbed—I'm not sure which realy—by al the hoo-ha in the papers about the Unknown Warrior. He was more open, more reflective. I was surprised he'd got away though.'

  'Was that alowed, generaly?'

  'Rarely, I think. It must have meant he'd eased himself from George Chilvers' clutches. Dr Chilvers used to encourage patients to walk localy with family or friends who visited, as long as they were wel. We had gone out to walk along the river together on that first visit eighteen months ago. Nicholas was very little. It was lovely. George was away.'

  Again, Laurence found this picture of normality comforting.

  'But of course they were very careful at Holmwood and I can't think they would have countenanced a trip away unless it was crucial—a family funeral, perhaps

  —and, I imagine, accompanied by a trusted family member. I suppose he simply picked his moment and left.'

  'Do you know what he was doing in London at al?'

  'No. I have a sense that the other person wasn
't a close friend but I don't think that's because of anything specific. He thought it would be a turning point. But who knows what of?' She screwed up her eyes, thinking, then jumped to her feet. 'Wait. I've got some letters in the other room.'

  She disappeared out of the door but was gone only a short time. She came back carrying a smal box, set it down on the table and began rifling through it. She took out a tied packet of letters, puled out one, then another, read a couple of lines and smiled. Laurence longed to be able to read some but knew he couldn't ask.

  They were part of an intimacy she had struggled to maintain. She held one up and he saw the large, slightly childish script.

  'He had pretty dreadful writing,' she said. Very quickly she picked one out. 'He went to a hotel, I remember now, though I've no idea if he actualy got there.

  The Connaught. That's it. Hotel writing paper.' She looked down. 'He just says he's looking forward to a good tea. He's almost joly. But then I never heard from him again and he kiled himself a few weeks later.'

  Laurence could hear in her voice her attempt to be matter-of-fact.

  'He could have been seeing lawyers or something, I suppose?' he said, although Mary had said he'd remade his wil after the war and there was no indication he had revised it. He tried to picture the hotel. 'Where is it?' he said. The name rang a bel.

  'Carlos Place, it says, Mayfair.'

  He shook his head, trying to remember where Brabourne had been interviewed about Hart's execution.

  'It's caled the Connaught now, after some useless princeling,' she said. 'But before the war it was the Coburg. Do you remember? They had to change it because it was German. Pretending al the time that the veins and arteries of our own dear royal family weren't running with German blood. I stil think of it as the Coburg, though.'

  'The Coburg?' he said.

  Eleanor was stil looking at the letters.

  'The Coburg. Of course.' He almost laughed. 'John wrote down the name on a note in his room at Holmwood—Mary had it—and there I was dreaming up an international conspiracy.'

  'You idiot,' she said, visibly amused.