A Casualty of War: A Bess Crawford Mystery (Bess Crawford Mysteries)

by Charles Todd

  I turned and walked back up the aisle, feeling depressed. There was no way on earth that Captain Travis had been shot by this cousin.

  Simon followed me out into the churchyard.

  After a moment, he said, “What do we do now?”

  I think he expected me to tell him, It’s time to go home, back to Somerset.

  Instead, looking up at the bare overlapping branches of the trees, I said, “I don’t know that Captain Travis would want this inheritance. You could tell he loved his home in Barbados. But he should at least have had a chance to make that choice for himself.”

  “There’s not much you can do, Bess. You have no legal right to intervene.”

  “I realize that.” I took a deep breath. “It just seems such a shame.” I was avoiding facing facts, but I needed time to come to terms with them. Simon wouldn’t let me have that luxury.

  “Is he mad, Bess? You’re trained to know what you’re seeing.”

  “He truly believed that it was James Travis who turned on him and shot him. When he came to his senses as we were examining him, he was furious. Well, I could understand that, he’d met James in Paris, and even though it was quite a brief encounter, I think they liked each other. You can sometimes decide on the spot that you might like someone. Or, for that matter, heartily dislike him. Of course it’s not always trustworthy, that feeling. But that’s not what you asked me, is it?”

  “No.”

  “Captain Travis told me in Wiltshire that even if he was mistaken about James Travis, he’s certain it was an English officer, and that the man would kill again. I didn’t know whether to believe him or not. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to come to Sinclair. If James was truly dead, there might have been a relative of his who looked enough like James that in the split second as he fired, the resemblance registered. But there isn’t a relative, is there? And there’s no way for anyone to find that Lieutenant now. Which means that if Captain Travis is telling the truth, he has no hope of ever proving it. So it really doesn’t matter what I think about his sanity. And I still haven’t answered your question. But here’s the problem, you see. When I met him in the canteen, he didn’t strike me as a man on the verge of breaking. That’s what I keep coming back to.”

  Simon was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I don’t see a solution. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”

  We turned toward the lane that led back to the inn, but when we got there, Simon asked, “Would you like to drive to the Travis house? Mrs. Horner told us it could be seen from the road.”

  I was grateful for the suggestion.

  Those who built grand houses preferred not to be stared at by their neighbors, and so the house was often hidden by trees or at the end of a long, looping drive that offered privacy. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to look.

  We took the main road out of the village and soon saw ornate stone posts that heralded an estate, but the gates themselves were closed. A small lodge just inside them had an air of neglect, as if it hadn’t been lived in for some time. Simon drove on, and then unexpectedly, through the trees, I could see the house. It was stone, in the shape of a B, and had at least three stories. There was a portico with pillars, and shutters at all the windows, even the tall ones.

  Small as manors go—given the tombs in the church, I’d expected to see something far grander—but a handsome property all the same.

  Simon found a place to reverse, and we drove back to the village.

  He said, as we came to the outskirts, “I’ll go on as far as the tea shop. It might be open now.”

  But it wasn’t.

  When we got to The George and started up the stairs to our rooms, the owner, a man in his late fifties, came out of the dining room and spoke to Simon.

  “We’re expecting guests tomorrow and will need the rooms you’ve booked. Are you leaving in the morning?”

  I spoke up. “We booked them for three days. I expect we’ll stay until then.”

  “But we’re expecting other guests—”

  Simon stepped in. “Then you must find other accommodations for them.”

  I had to smother a smile. Like my father, Simon had commanded men, and when he used that particular tone of voice, he got his way. This was no exception. The owner murmured an apology and disappeared into the nether regions.

  We continued on our way, but outside my door, Simon said in a low voice meant for my ears only, “I have a feeling someone would be quite happy to see the back of us.”

  “The Vicar’s wife was friendly enough, and Mrs. Horner was willing to speak to us. There was nothing then to indicate that Lieutenant Travis was a forbidden subject.”

  “The tea shop is closed. And the gates to The Hall. Now the rooms aren’t available. Word must have got around,” he answered.

  “Which makes me wonder what there might be about the Lieutenant’s life—or his death—that we mustn’t find out.”

  We could hear someone else downstairs, just coming up. Simon opened my door and we both stepped inside, thinking it must be the owner rediscovering his courage.

  We listened as whoever it was knocked at Simon’s door. When there was no answer, he or she walked back down the stairs instead of trying my room.

  Simon waited until we were certain that whoever it was had gone away.

  “There has to be another way of finding out what’s happening here,” he said. “I’m open to any suggestions.”

  “I wish I knew. Possibly the best thing is to keep probing and see where it leads. I noticed a pub as we drove back into the village. Perhaps they’re open for a late cup of tea?”

  He opened the door and we went quietly down the stairs and out into the street. The wind was even colder now, whipping bare tree limbs and sending fallen leaves scudding down the High. We walked to The Five Bells and went inside.

  It was low-ceilinged, cream plaster and dark oak beams, but the room was fairly large, and many of the tables were taken.

  Heads turned as we stepped through the door. Because we were strangers? A nursing Sister and her escort in uniform? Or because we’d been asking questions? It was impossible to tell. We took a table near the window, and after a moment a very attractive young woman came to ask what we’d have.

  I chose a pot of tea, while Simon had an ale. We talked, but only about trivial matters, while waiting to be served.

  Looking around at the faces, avidly curious, I tried to find someone I might strike up a conversation with, but there wasn’t the usual welcoming atmosphere one finds in village pubs. We might as well have dropped down from the moon.

  Our order came, and I poured my tea.

  “Surely not everyone in Sinclair is in a conspiracy against us,” I said quietly, stirring in the honey and milk.

  “Probably not. But you won’t find them here, where anyone might see them being friendly.”

  I saw the woman who had come into the tea shop earlier, while we were there. The little girl was nibbling on a biscuit, smiling up at her mother over her treat. “I wonder if she knows whether someone came in after we left and asked Mrs. Horner to close down for the rest of the day.”

  “If she does, she’s not likely to tell you.” He finished his ale and, without waiting to be served, got up and went to the small bar to order the other half. There were two men in uniform there, and Simon spoke to them. One was a Private, the other a Corporal, and they exchanged comments for a bit before Simon brought his glass back to our table.

  “They’ve just come home from France. They were in rotation and given leave. I could see from their badges that they were in the same regiment as Lieutenant Travis. And they knew him. Called him a fine officer, a gentleman. They were honored to have served under him. I asked if they were there when he died, and they told me they were in a different sector at the time, but word was that he’d done his best for his men, stopping the machine gunners from decimating them if they showed their heads. The nest had a very good location, able to sweep the field where Travis’s company wa
s supposed to be attacking. He got close enough to use a grenade, and then was shot by the only survivor, who fired as he lay dying.”

  I poured myself a second cup, making it last as long as I could. “That supports what we’ve been told.”

  “It does.” He hadn’t touched his second glass. “I asked if he had any brothers in France, and they told me he was an only son. Then the Sergeant offered the fact that they were going to The Hall tomorrow to pay their respects to his mother. I made the proper comment, that such a loss must be hard for her to bear, and the Corporal said that his father had worked for her and called her a tough old bird. His words.”

  “Apparently the Corporal hasn’t got the word that we aren’t to be talked to.”

  Simon smiled. “I was hoping that might be true. I asked him who the heir was, and he didn’t know, that Mrs. Travis had been left the estate for her lifetime, and so it wasn’t important at the moment.”

  “I was watching, while pretending not to. The barkeep wasn’t especially happy to see you speaking to those men. He kept his distance, but I expect he could hear every word, even so. As soon as your back was turned, coming to our table, he went over to have a word with them.”

  “Then they know now.”

  I didn’t bother to finish my tea. Simon went to pay the reckoning. When he came back, we got up and left.

  Huddling in my coat as we walked back to The George, I said, “We might as well leave in the morning.”

  “The devil we will,” Simon replied shortly. “I’m beginning to dislike what’s happening. If you’re game, we’ll stay on and, if we can, find out what this is all about.”

  I looked up at him. “What did the man have to say when you paid for our drinks?”

  “He said nothing. He didn’t have to. It was there in his face.”

  The next morning, as I opened my door to go down to breakfast, there was a square envelope just barely pushed under the edge. Of the best quality paper, I noticed, creamy and thick. I bent down to pick it up just as Simon came out his own door.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  I was looking at the crest embossed on the flap of the envelope.

  “I think we’ve just been summoned to the palace.” I broke the seal and read the short message.

  “We have been invited to take tea with the Vicar and Mrs. Travis at four this afternoon.”

  “Have we indeed?” he asked with interest. “I have the feeling that our heads will be on poles by the dinner hour.”

  I laughed. “The Vicar won’t approve, surely.”

  “That depends,” Simon responded as we turned toward the stairs, “on whether or not he’s under Mrs. Travis’s thumb.”

  “Do you suppose someone saw us, driving out to find The Hall?”

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”

  It was nearly four when we drove up to the gates of Travis Hall. They stood open now, if not particularly welcoming. Simon turned in through them and went up the long, looping drive to the house door. The Vicar’s bicycle was already leaning against one of the pillars.

  “We’re expected,” I said softly, and Simon got out to open my door.

  We used the brass knocker in the shape of an ornate T.

  A maid in crisp black, a white cap with black ribbons on her fair hair, opened the door to us, and we were escorted through the entry hall to the first door on our left.

  It opened into a lovely room, longer than it was wide; at the end was a bow window with a great expanse of glass and a splendid view over a garden. I could see a sundial in a slightly raised mound surrounded by small boxwoods, and I could imagine tulips blooming in the spring at the foot of the pedestal, rose pink or perhaps even black.

  There were two people waiting for us, one the Vicar, a man with prematurely white hair and a strong chin, and the other a very different woman from the one I’d expected.

  Her dark hair, graying gracefully, was put up in an older style that was becoming to her face. Her features were patrician, her mouth firm, and her cool blue eyes were assessing us as we stepped into the room.

  The maid gave our names, but of course Mrs. Travis already knew them.

  “Sister Crawford. Sergeant-Major Brandon. Welcome to Travis Hall. And this is our Vicar, Mr. Caldwell. I believe you’ve already met his wife?”

  Her spy system was the equal of Army Intelligence, I thought as I came forward to take her slim hand in greeting.

  “Yes, we encountered her in the churchyard as we were admiring the Travis gravestones there.”

  “I do hope you found time to go inside and see the brass memorial to my son.”

  It was a statement, not a question.

  “We did,” I answered. “You must be very proud of him.”

  “I would rather have him alive and safe than dead and honored,” she responded, “but then, he was my only son.” Her gaze moved on to Simon. “You will forgive me, I’m sure, for feeling this way. I would have kept him out of the war if I could.”

  “I’m sure you aren’t the only mother who feels that way,” Simon replied. “The war took far too many lives, all of them precious to someone.”

  I saw the flicker of surprise in her eyes. I don’t know what she’d expected, perhaps a very deferential man from the ranks, overawed at being invited to tea in this house. I could have told her that Simon was at home in far more elegant surroundings.

  We were invited to sit, and the Vicar asked me where I had nursed the wounded. I told him, and he said, interested, “You’ve seen war firsthand. They didn’t require my services, though I volunteered.”

  I wondered if Mrs. Travis might have had something to do with that. But I said only, “My father was a soldier, and while I couldn’t follow in his footsteps, I could do something for the wounded and the dying.”

  “Did you perhaps attend Lieutenant Travis when he was wounded? Nineteen seventeen, that was.”

  “I wish I could tell you I had,” I replied. “But I knew someone who met him in Paris, during a leave spent there. He must have been a fine officer.”

  “He was,” Mrs. Travis said and picked up the little bell beside her. Ringing it, she said, “I enjoy having my tea in here. It’s one of my favorite rooms in the house.”

  The maid entered with a tray.

  A table had been set up beside where Mrs. Travis was sitting, with an immaculate white cloth and an array of cutlery and cups and saucers. The tray was set down there, and the maid proceeded to arrange the teapot, jug of cream, and a plate of little sandwiches.

  Mrs. Travis poured, but the maid stayed to hand around cups and offer the sandwiches. There was egg and onion, ham and pickle, and egg and fresh cress. I thought perhaps there was a greenhouse somewhere on the estate.

  As we were being served, the Vicar was recalling the elder Mr. Travis, telling us that he had enjoyed exploring The Hall’s library with him. Mrs. Travis commented several times, and I gathered that her husband had been a man of parts, both a gentleman farmer and active in county affairs. I could also see that they had been very close, and that she revered his memory.

  I found that intriguing, because we’d been told that she had become reclusive with the loss of her son. I thought perhaps it had begun with the loss of her husband. But she was no grieving widow, veiled in black, reclining on her couch in a darkened room, refusing to face life without him. Mrs. Travis’s formidable personality showed through the gracious hostess role she was playing as she smoothly directed the conversation. I wondered how many people had been lulled into underestimating her.

  Simon and I were asked where we were from, and we replied that both of us lived in Somerset.

  There was a raised eyebrow at that, and I wasn’t certain where she had imagined we were from. London, perhaps? Simon was wearing the insignia of my father’s old regiment, but he didn’t have the very distinctive Somerset accent, nor did I.

  It wasn’t until the maid had withdrawn that Mrs. Travis came to the point.

  “If you didn�
��t know my son at all, I’m surprised that you’ve shown such an interest in him.”

  Time to lay our cards on the figurative table.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t know him better,” I answered with a pensive air. “The officer who remembered him from Paris was also a Travis. Imagine his surprise when he found himself sharing a train with someone of the same name.” That wasn’t precisely how the brief meeting had occurred, but I had my reasons for letting it appear that the encounter had lasted longer than it had. “Perhaps your son mentioned it in a letter?”

  She smiled. “Travis is not an unusual name. I remember my husband telling me that there were unconnected branches in other parts of England. Gloucestershire, I believe, and Shropshire. Of course, there might have been a common ancestor. But we’ve lived here in Suffolk for generations.”

  Which didn’t answer my question.

  I’d been trying to work out why a woman like Mrs. Travis had decided to entertain two perfect strangers to tea, strangers she must not consider her social equals. I couldn’t believe it had anything to do with our brief conversation with the Vicar’s wife. But here the Vicar was, supporting her through this lovely tea.

  Was she looking to find out what we knew about her son? Or was she hoping to throw us off the scent, so to speak, by appearing as a grieving mother eager to speak with anyone who had known her son during the war?

  Similar thoughts must have been going through Simon’s mind, for he said, “What brought your husband’s family to Suffolk? The wool trade?”

  “I have no idea. Hugh—my husband—could have told you their history without thinking about it twice.” She smiled, turning to the Vicar. “When did the first Travis appear in church records?”

  Caught off guard, he stammered, “Well—yes—um—as a matter of fact, I do recall the late Mr. Travis talking about that. He mentioned that his ancestors had a remarkable ability to choose the wrong side in any conflict. Three times they were given a title, and three times they lost it on the scaffold. Future generations appeared to take that lesson to heart and concentrated on making money. Which they did, in the wool trade. There was a Travis in this parish twenty years after the Black Death, recorded as a gentleman with twenty head of sheep and a house that stood on the corner of the present property nearest the village. The predecessor to this house burned in the early 1800s. I believe there’s a drawing of it in Mr. Travis’s study.”