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

by Charles Todd

  I hadn’t been hungry, but Simon reminded me that what had happened wasn’t my fault. To please him, I ate a little.

  “This would have played out in exactly the same way if you had stayed in Somerset. Mrs. Travis has made up her mind, and Mr. Caldwell isn’t a strong enough man to tell her she’s wrong. Whatever part the solicitor and this man Spencer have in this affair, it’s nothing to do with you. You came here to find out what had become of James Travis, and now you know.”

  “I wanted to do something about the Captain’s situation too. Even that’s beyond me now. He’s taken matters into his own hands.” I hesitated, and then confessed, “I was angry enough at The Hall to feel that Mrs. Travis deserved to be cheated, if someone foists a counterfeit heir on her in the Captain’s place. And she could easily be cheated, Simon. She’s so eager to find some way around her son’s choice.”

  “I wonder why he chose Captain Travis in the first place,” Simon answered.

  “Possibly he couldn’t think of anyone else. It could be that he didn’t care much for this cousin Oliver, when he met him again. Otherwise why wouldn’t he have named him instead? On the other hand, he must have seen something in Captain Travis that he liked, even in that brief encounter. Possibly liked well enough to find out more about him. We’ll never know.”

  “You don’t suppose Oliver Masters is behind Mr. Spencer’s appearance here? Assuming, that is, that Oliver survived the war and saw his own chance to benefit from James’s death?”

  “Anything is possible,” I said. “I don’t know that Mrs. Travis would really care.”

  The door to the dining room opened, and Mr. Caldwell came through, pausing there on the threshold.

  The family called to him, and the Corporal rose, pulling over an extra chair for him, telling him that he was just in time for the cake to be brought in.

  I had the strongest impression that the Vicar hadn’t come to join them, that he’d wanted to speak to us, but he grinned and walked over to their table, warmly shaking the Corporal’s good hand and asking about the arm.

  Watching the happiness at that table, I felt a surge of homesickness.

  And then the cake was brought in by the beaming staff, wishing the awed little girl a happy birthday. It was not the usual birthday cake, decorations on top. But there were three candles, and everyone was coaxing her to blow hard and snuff all three out.

  She was so excited that the first puff hardly moved the flames, and then she took a deep breath, and with much encouragement, blew them out—with a little help from her father. There was much clapping and laughter.

  I turned back to Simon, smiling. “Mr. Caldwell will have cake whether he wishes it or not,” I said in a low voice.

  Simon chuckled.

  By the time we had finished our meal and were waiting for fresh tea to be brought to us, the Vicar had extricated himself from the happy family, and he came across to our table.

  “May I join you for a moment?” he asked politely, and we could hardly say no.

  He took the extra chair, cast a glance toward the family, busy with one another, and said quietly, “I am so sorry about this afternoon. But you must understand. Mrs. Travis is not well, and this business with James’s will has upset her terribly.”

  “Everyone says she isn’t well,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Dr. Harrison hasn’t found anything specific. But she’s become a recluse in her despair. And in the end, that will make her ill. Even his will has brought her pain. I was as surprised as you are when she first told me that she wouldn’t allow Captain Travis across her threshold. She says it’s because of the family history, but if you want to know what I think, she is unprepared for someone else—anyone else—to come into that house and make it his own. A final blow, the final reminder that her son will never come back again. As long as she puts off the truth, as long as Captain Travis doesn’t appear, she can live in the past.”

  “But surely Mr. Ellis contacted the Captain. He was legally bound to do so.”

  “I don’t know why he’s accomplished so little. Out of pity for her, I expect, although she doesn’t appreciate him as she should. And of course there was the war. You must ask him.” He glanced over his shoulder again as another burst of laughter filled the room, and said, “After you left The Hall, I tried to persuade her at least to look into the situation at the clinic and conditions there. But she wouldn’t hear of it. She’s not a cruel or hateful person, Sister Crawford. It’s just that she isn’t able to cope with any of this.”

  I found myself thinking that as long as everyone danced around her grief, and let it go on and on like this, she would never come to terms with anything. She was probably one of the solicitor’s wealthiest clients, and she was probably the largest supporter of the church here in the village, the person everyone turned to when they needed money for a good cause. And so they couldn’t bring themselves to tell her the truth. It was sad . . .

  Simon was asking the Vicar, “What do you know about the Florian Agency? If the Agency is as trustworthy as Mrs. Travis believes, and Mr. Spencer is employed by them, why has he failed to contact her?”

  “He’s made it plain he doesn’t wish to have visitors. I stopped by the surgery before coming here, thinking I might act as intermediary. But he refuses to see me as well.”

  “Someone attacked him. We’ve wondered if it could have been Ellis,” Simon commented.

  Mr. Caldwell stared at him, shocked. “Surely you aren’t serious? Mr. Ellis is well respected here and in Bury.”

  “But Spencer was carrying reports written on the firm’s stationery,” I said.

  “Have you considered that he contacted Mr. Ellis and arranged to have these sent to him? Especially if he does represent Captain Travis, he would have a right to ask for information concerning the inheritance,” the Vicar countered.

  But if he represented Captain Travis, he would know where his client was. He wouldn’t need to steal papers relating to his whereabouts . . .

  An imposter might need to find out where the Captain was, if he was about to claim he represented him.

  “Mrs. Travis could find herself making wrong decisions—trusting the wrong people,” I said. “You and her solicitor must keep watch.”

  “I know, I’ve already spoken to Ellis about that.”

  He prepared to leave. “I would help the Captain myself, but I have no authority to speak for him. I can write to his family, passing on the need for someone to do something,” he offered.

  But that might well be far too little, too late.

  He nodded to us. “Sergeant-Major. Sister.” With a final wave to the family party, he left the dining room.

  As soon as we’d finished our dinner, Simon and I drove to Bury to look for a telephone. And after some difficulty finding the number through the switchboard, I put through a call to the Florian Agency, hoping that there would be someone in the office even at this hour.

  And I was right, there was.

  When a male voice answered the call, formal and quite distant, I identified myself as Miss Crawford and asked to speak to one of their employees, a Mr. Spencer.

  The voice didn’t hesitate. “We have no employee by that name,” it said, and disconnected.

  Simon, listening at my shoulder, said, “If they are the sort of firm Mrs. Travis has told us they are, they wouldn’t tell you who was employed there. Unless they knew you as a client. Still, it was worth a try.”

  “I should have claimed to be Mrs. Travis. They must have some way of being contacted by clients.” But it was too late now. Another call, on the heels of the first, would only arouse more suspicion. “We could stop in London on our way south and call in person.”

  “Then we should make an early start in the morning.”

  I hesitated. “Should I try to reach the clinic in Wiltshire?”

  “I doubt they’re on the telephone.”

  “We could try.”

  Our luck held, although it was several minutes be
fore the number could be found, and then several more before I could be put through to Matron’s office. To my relief, another Sister answered, and I said, “This is Sister Brandon. I’m telephoning in regard to a Captain Travis, who has gone missing. I need to finish an official report on the situation. Have you located him yet?”

  I expected her to question me closely and discover that I had no business asking for information about the Captain. The last thing the clinic would want in such circumstances was an uproar over losing a dangerous patient.

  But she said, sounding more than a little harried, “A body has been found in a stream five miles from here. We don’t know if it’s Captain Travis or not. Matron is talking to the police just now.”

  “Then I’ll wait for further developments. Thank you, Sister.” And I rang off.

  Simon was watching my face. “Bad news.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes. The police have just told Matron that there’s a body in a stream some miles away. They’re still talking to her.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  As we left the little room where the hotel’s telephone had been installed, I said wearily, “So am I.”

  We drove back to Sinclair, and I packed everything but what I’d need in the morning, turned down my lamp, and went to my window for a last look as the moon rose and the village was bathed in a frosty glow. From somewhere there came the sound of laughter, and I saw a young man with a girl on his arm walking past the inn. Their heads were close together, and while I couldn’t hear their voices from my perch, their laughter rang out.

  They disappeared into one of the houses beyond the tea shop, and a silence fell.

  I wasn’t sleepy. On the contrary, I was restless, my thoughts going round and round, reliving the conversations with Mrs. Travis, with the Vicar, and even with the Sister’s harried voice on the telephone. I wondered if Simon was asleep by now or if he sat by his own window, as wide awake as I was.

  Another hour went by, and I wrapped the coverlet around me, for it was growing cold by the window. I heard the church clock marking midnight, and still I sat there, thinking of the long drive home. And then it struck one.

  A movement in the far corner of the green, under the trees, caught my eye. At first I thought it was a dog following a scent trail, because it moved erratically. Whatever it was, it clung to the shadows.

  Even the room was chill now as the fire died to a small blue flame that barely lit the hearth. I shivered and got up. The bed would be warmer.

  I took a last look at the moonlight, thinking that no one in France need fear snipers tonight, or a stealthy attack across No Man’s Land. The war was over, and while the dying would go on for a while, there would be no new convoys of wounded making their way back to a base hospital, and where there had been forward aid stations, all would be quiet.

  The distant figure moved out of the shadows. I could just see it, like some large crab, scuttling for the trunk of the next tree, wary and watchful.

  Who was it? It appeared he’d come from the direction of the surgery, but I couldn’t be sure.

  I could hear whistling as someone left the bar and made his way down the High. The figure stopped close to the trunk of a tree, waiting until he’d passed. And then it moved on, this time struggling to walk.

  Could it be someone on crutches? But what would Mr. Spencer be doing out at this hour? With damaged ribs and a swollen ankle, it was foolish. If he stumbled and fell, he could hurt himself badly. Was he secretly testing his ability to use the crutches?

  Riveted now, I sat down again and watched, wishing for my father’s field glasses, to see better. At this distance, details were difficult to make out.

  But the figure didn’t move from the tree trunk, even when the way was clear.

  I waited by the window. Another five minutes. Another ten.

  What if he’d overtaxed his strength, what if he’d thought he was well enough to slip away unseen—only to find that he couldn’t make it beyond the green? And if he couldn’t go forward, he most certainly would be too weak to go back.

  I waited another five minutes, listening to the church clock chime. And then I dressed quickly, found my coat and boots and a scarf with only the firelight to guide me, and caught up a blanket.

  Whoever was out there would be feeling the night’s dropping temperatures too. He couldn’t wait until morning when someone noticed him and got help.

  It never occurred to me that I shouldn’t go out and investigate. I’d served in all kinds of conditions in France, and the call to duty was still strong.

  I opened my door, listening for a moment outside Simon’s. But I couldn’t tell whether he was asleep. The room appeared to be dark, except for the faint flicker of firelight under the door.

  I turned and made my way down the stairs, wincing as first one tread and then another creaked under my boots. I moved to the outer edges, and the stairs were silent.

  Reception was dark as well. I felt my way across the floor, wishing for a torch, but as my eyes grew accustomed to the ambient light, I found the door, lifted the latch, and let myself out into the cold air.

  I stayed where I was for a moment, letting my eyes adjust again as the moon lit the scene before me. And in that instant, I realized that it wouldn’t be wise to go directly to that tree. Whoever was there, he’d see me crossing the open green long before I could reach him. I turned left out of The George and found my way down the High to a side lane that went up between houses to the church. I walked as quietly as I could, so as not to give anyone a reason to look out a window, and soon came to the gate into the churchyard. I started to push it open, caught it before the squeak became a roar in the silence, and stepped over the low wall instead.

  The gravestones were dark shapes, and I kept to the path rather than risk tripping over the footstones or the small square posts that marked family plots.

  I could see the green now, quite clearly, bathed in moonlight. Another ten feet and I’d also be able to see the tree where the figure had stopped.

  Intent on moving to a point where I could watch but not be seen, I was paying no attention to my surroundings. After all, except for rabbits and foxes or a hunting cat, a graveyard held no fears for me, and the church, soaring to my right, was half-lit, the upper parts bright in the moonlight, the lower walls and the church door deep in darkness.

  I took another step, hoping for a clear view to the tree, when something moved in the darkness just behind me, a scrape of a boot against a stone, and dropping the blanket in my arms, I whirled to meet whatever was coming toward me from the blackness I’d just passed through.

  Chapter 15

  I couldn’t see anything but a shapeless mass, and my first thought was, should I speak—or scream, just in case?

  That gave me courage.

  “Who’s there? Speak up, or I’ll call for help.”

  Silence.

  Then, “I mean you no harm.” The voice was low, hardly audible.

  “Who are you?” I repeated sternly, in my best imitation of Matron’s voice.

  “I was looking for a place to shelter.”

  Taking a chance, I said, keeping my own voice low, “Mr. Spencer? Why did you leave the surgery? It was foolish, you haven’t the strength to go anywhere. Let me summon the doctor. Or help you make your way back.”

  Silence again.

  “You’ll do serious damage to that ankle. And if you fall, your ribs could puncture a lung.”

  “I’m not this man Spencer. Whoever he is. I’m—looking for work. But it was a longer walk than I expected to find a village.”

  The voice had changed. Now it sounded like a man from the ranks, London perhaps. Not at all like Mr. Spencer.

  “Are you an ex-soldier?” I wasn’t sure now just who I’d cornered.

  “Yes. Just—go away. I’ll be all right. But I’ll take that blanket you dropped—no!—leave it.” And then, weariness creeping in, “Is the church open? I’ll be all right in there.” He appeared to be leani
ng on a gravestone.

  “I can’t very well walk away and leave you like this,” I said.

  “Don’t be a busybody,” he said roughly. “Let it go.”

  I was beginning to wonder if it was Mr. Spencer after all, when suddenly a torch flashed on, blinding me with the unexpected brightness, and I heard the figure swear.

  “Who did you bring with you?” The roughness in his voice had vanished.

  Before I could answer, Simon’s voice came out of the darkness, brooking no argument. “Whoever you are, stand up and face the light. Or I’ll take you to the police myself.”

  There was a heavy sigh. Then the figure straightened up and said, “Let me go. I’ll leave the village. No harm done.”

  But Simon turned the torch so that it lit the man well enough for me to see who it was.

  I gasped, looking into a face I knew. Only it was barely recognizable. Far too thin, lined with exhaustion and pain. Only the intensely blue eyes alive with feeling.

  “Captain Travis?” I asked, unable to hide my disbelief and shock. He wasn’t dead, he hadn’t killed himself. “It’s Bess—Sister Crawford.”

  He said nothing at first, staring at me. And I realized that with the scarf instead of my usual cap, he couldn’t be sure I was who I claimed to be. I don’t think he’d ever seen me with my hair uncovered.

  I opened my coat, the light from the torch catching the whiteness of my apron.

  “Good God,” he said blankly, leaning heavily on a gravestone again. “Bess?”

  Simon lowered the light.

  “What are you doing in Sinclair?” I asked, but I had already guessed.

  “The same thing that must have brought you here.”

  “But how—?”

  “I had enough money from the orderly’s pockets to take an omnibus going to Reading. I got rid of his uniform as soon as I could, and put on my own again. No one asked any awkward questions of an officer they believed had just been released from hospital to go home on leave. After that, Shanks’s pony, and lorries. I don’t remember how many. Five? Six? The last one put me down just below Clare, and I walked the rest of the way here.”