by Charles Todd
But the Captain was already speaking.
“Mrs. Travis? I met your son only briefly. I’m sorry I never had the opportunity to know him better.”
I thought he was going to step forward to offer her his hand, and she must have believed the same thing, for she moved back quickly, almost stumbling over the chair she had just vacated and in her shock had forgot was even there.
“Murderer,” she exclaimed, finding her voice at last. “How dare you come here, how dare you face me down in my own house!”
Mr. Ellis, his hand on the bellpull, stopped in midmotion. “Murderer?” he repeated, and then exclaimed, “My God!”
Behind us in the doorway, the maid was hovering, uncertain what to do. Simon moved to close the door, shutting her out.
“I’m not afraid of you,” Mrs. Travis declared fiercely. “And I remind you that I have a house full of servants. You won’t get away with killing me.”
Caught completely unprepared for that, we stood there in confusion.
My first thought was that she was trying to accuse Captain Travis of killing her son, however unlikely that was, but in her grief over her loss, over the stressful knowledge that her home now belonged to this man, she was lashing out at him in the only way she could think of.
And then I realized that she was speaking literally.
I said quickly, “What do you mean, murderer?”
Looking past the Captain, she spat the words at me. “He was murdered. That poor man you were on about the last time you were here. With that Agency in London.”
Struggling to take that in, I said, “But he was recovering well, I thought.”
“Yes, and all the more reason to get rid of him. He was carrying papers—papers that showed that this man”—she pointed a shaking finger in the direction of the Captain—“is a dangerous madman, capable of anything. Anything. The police and Dr. Harrison found them in his valise. Papers he’d stolen from Mr. Ellis, that he’d intended to bring to me to show me what sort of person had been named as my son’s heir.” She took a step forward, and I thought she would have liked to attack me physically. “You told me he was suffering in some clinic in the south of England, and you lied. He was here all along, waiting while you played on my sympathies and worked to convince me to see him.”
Ignoring her accusations, I wanted to know more about Mr. Spencer. “But I don’t understand—when was he killed?”
“Of course you know. Night before last, when you slipped out of the village like a thief.”
“Hardly like a thief. Ask the staff at The George, where we had breakfast,” Simon told her, visibly annoyed with her.
But I remembered something else—something she couldn’t have known: that we’d left Captain Travis alone in the church until we could come for him while it was still dark enough for us to stop at St. Mary’s. I felt cold. Rallying, I said, “Someone attacked Mr. Spencer earlier. You’re telling me that it happened again, and now Mr. Spencer is dead?”
It was Ellis who answered me. And all this while, Captain Travis had said nothing.
“Are you being deliberately dense? Dr. Harrison came down to look in on Mr. Spencer before bringing him his breakfast. He found him dead. Choked to death while he lay helpless. His killer searched the cupboard and the doctor’s own office. Fortunately Dr. Harrison had persuaded Mr. Spencer to allow him to lock his valise in a storeroom.”
I remembered how he’d clung to it, despite his ribs.
Simon spoke now. “We’ve been in Cambridge. We can prove that if necessary. If your solicitor already had these papers, why hadn’t he shown them to you? I don’t see that killing Spencer had to do with those papers. Or Captain Travis.”
But Mr. Ellis and Mrs. Travis weren’t interested in reason.
Mr. Ellis reached again for the bellpull and this time gave it an angry jerk. “Sister Crawford, Dr. Harrison told the Constable that you and the Sergeant-Major had come several times, demanding to be allowed to see Mr. Spencer, and he’d turned you away. Before and after your first attempt on his life had failed.”
“That’s nonsense, and you know it. And what,” I added, “were you doing, going through that valise with Dr. Harrison? Where was Inspector Howe while all of this was happening? Or Constable Simpson?”
Mr. Ellis said, “I’d come to speak to Mrs. Travis. It was still quite early when I got to Sinclair, and I stopped at The George for my breakfast before driving on to The Hall. When the alarm went up, I went at once to see what it was all about. It was Dr. Harrison who insisted on going through the valise, to find out what we could about where Spencer was from, who should be notified. He insisted on a witness. Someone had already gone for Inspector Howe, and Constable Simpson was searching the grounds.”
The door opened and the maid, looking frightened, said, “Yes, Ma’am?”
Ellis answered her. “Send someone for Constable Simpson. Now. At once. Tell him it’s urgent.”
I said, “No, that won’t be necessary. We’re leaving.”
Captain Travis said to Mr. Ellis, “I’ve come about my cousin’s will. Will you meet with me later?”
The solicitor turned to Mrs. Travis. “You were right. He will take this house without a qualm of conscience. Even if he must commit murder. I should have listened to you.”
I was reminded of an opera I’d seen once in London, where the principals were all singing at once, voices rising and falling, intertwined, reaching a crescendo in the end. But this wasn’t Lucia di Lammermoor. And we needed to be away before the Constable reached The Hall.
I said, “Whatever papers Mr. Spencer carried, it doesn’t matter. We’d already asked you to intercede on the Captain’s behalf—”
“Captain Travis wasn’t wasting away in a clinic, was he?” Mrs. Travis demanded viciously. “Mad he may be, but pathetic he is not. Well, I’ve already found the man my son should have named in his will, and would have done if he hadn’t been shamed into naming you.”
Anger flared in the Captain’s blue eyes.
Before he could answer her, I turned to Simon, and he reached out to lay a warning hand on the Captain’s arm. After the briefest hesitation, Captain Travis nodded grimly and moved to follow him toward the doorway, where the maid was still standing, uncertain what her mistress expected of her. I was the last to go, fighting a rearguard action.
“You’ve got it all wrong,” I told Mrs. Travis. “But perhaps it’s for the best that this should go to court, and be settled once and for all there.”
Mr. Ellis was about to speak, thought better of it, and smartly closed his mouth.
Mrs. Travis looked suddenly horrified. I thought the prospect of having to deal with all this so publicly, to have everyone know she was calling into question her own son’s wisdom in choosing a stranger, was more than she was willing to face. But as I watched, she gathered herself together with a visible effort and said, “It won’t matter, will it? A man who commits a murder for gain will be hanged, and he won’t be allowed to keep what he killed for. Wait and see. It can’t have turned out any better, in my opinion. While I’m sorry for Mr. Spencer, I didn’t know him, did I? And if his death frees me of this man, it won’t have been in vain.”
I could still hear her shrill, angry voice as I reached the outer door and stepped into pale sunlight trying to find its way through the clouds.
Simon was already turning the crank, and I was urging the Captain into the motorcar.
He said, looking back at the house he’d just left, “I had no idea . . .”
I couldn’t be sure what he was starting to say.
Then he shook himself, as if waking from a bad dream, and added, “This was a mistake. I should have listened to you. I can’t believe that hateful woman is James Travis’s mother.”
He climbed in beside Simon, and I took the rear seat.
“Where to?” Simon asked, glancing toward me over his shoulder.
“Just drive,” I said as Ellis came to the door and stared balefully after us.
>
As we reached the outskirts of the village, I said to Simon, “Look, drop me at The Pottery. I might be able to find out something from Sister Potter. Come back in a quarter of an hour. I’ll be waiting.”
“It’s too grave a risk,” Simon told me, shaking his head. “If Mrs. Travis believes we’re guilty in Spencer’s death, the police will want to speak to us.”
“But we need to know—we can’t fight this in the dark.”
“She’s right,” Captain Travis said.
“It’s not a risk I’m willing to take. Sir.”
“But I am. Please, Simon? It’s the only thing I can think of,” I pleaded.
And in the end, I got my way. He set me down in front of the little cottage across from the green and drove on, disappearing around the bend, where the shops were. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, I thought, watching him out of sight, only it was the butcher, the baker, the greengrocer, the tobacconist, and all the rest.
Then I hurried up the path, praying that Sister Potter was at home.
She came to the door almost at once after I’d knocked.
“Sister Crawford,” she said.
“Could I come in? Something’s happened, I need your help rather badly.”
She looked up and down the High, then reached out for me. “Come in. Quickly now.”
And I stepped inside her cottage.
I hadn’t planned what I was going to say to her. I wasn’t even sure why I trusted her. Because she was a Sister, and had served the wounded?
Smokie wound himself around my ankles as I closed the outer door behind me.
Sister Potter seemed a little flustered by my appearance, but she was all courtesy.
“Let me put the kettle on,” she said.
The British answer to any awkward situation, I thought, and shook my head. “There isn’t time, but thank you for offering. I’ve just heard—about Mr. Spencer. It’s quite awful. What happened?”
“You’ve been away,” she began, leading me into the front room and offering me a seat. I chose the chair by the window, where I could watch for Simon.
“Yes, in Cambridge. We were there just overnight, really. When we got back, we were met with the tragic news.”
“And ‘tragic’ is the right word,” she agreed, taking the chair across from me. “It was a shock to all of us. I mean, murder. What’s more, I’d spent some time with him the day before, because Dr. Harrison had asked me to take over Mr. Spencer’s care.” She shook her head. “Someone walking into a doctor’s surgery and killing a patient? I ask you.”
“Then it really was murder? Not a medical issue?”
“Oh, yes, there’s no doubt about that.”
“Dr. Harrison mentioned that you might take over the patient’s care when he was a little stronger. What if he’d been here—in the cottage? You wouldn’t have been in another wing of the house. It’s too small.”
“Yes, I’d thought about that. I wondered what I would have done. And then I wondered what he would have done, whoever it was. Frankly, I was reluctant to take Mr. Spencer on, anyway. Not to speak ill of the dead, but he wasn’t the best of patients, and Dr. Harrison had already asked me once before to sit with him. I wondered if there was something on his mind, something worrying him. Well, he was in pain, of course, and he was impatient to leave as soon as possible, but I was told he’d fret at night, then be feverish by morning. The doctor couldn’t watch him, nor could his assistant, much less his wife. She’s expecting a child, you know. Their first.”
I hadn’t known.
I said, “But there was an earlier attempt on his life, as I recall.”
“Dr. Harrison didn’t think it was as serious as the Constable made it out to be. There’s Billy Ryan, you see. He lives on a farm some two miles away on the other side of the church, and he became addicted to laudanum while recovering from his wounds. Doctor has been trying to reduce his dependency, and he thought Billy broke into the surgery to find what he needed—and discovered someone was there. Frightened, he’d attacked Mr. Spencer.”
I hadn’t heard this account. “And he came back? Even knowing Mr. Spencer was still there?”
“Billy must have been desperate.”
“Have the police arrested him?”
“That first time,” she said evasively, “Mr. Spencer couldn’t identify him with any certainty—well, he doesn’t live in the village, he wouldn’t have known who Billy is. And when Constable Simpson went to speak to Billy, he denied it.” She shrugged. “That didn’t surprise the Constable, and it didn’t surprise me.”
I said, “I heard that the doctor’s dog might have bitten the intruder. Was there evidence of that?”
“That was the odd thing, there wasn’t a mark on Billy.” She turned to look out toward the green.
“Then perhaps Billy Ryan was telling the truth. He wasn’t the intruder.”
“Constable Simpson was satisfied, and Dr. Harrison felt that he must have been mistaken about the dog bite. Billy got off with a warning then, because it would have killed his mother to see him taken up.” Her voice was neutral. I couldn’t tell whether she was sympathetic to Billy Ryan or disagreed with the Constable.
“Were there any drugs taken? Does Constable Simpson believe that Billy Ryan came back, and this time killed Mr. Spencer?”
She still didn’t answer me directly. “Inspector Howe has apparently taken over the inquiry. I’m told that whoever he was, the murderer had time to rifle through Mr. Spencer’s belongings but never took anything from Dr. Harrison’s medicine cabinet. It’s locked, you see. And the lock was still in place. And so there’s some—confusion.”
It wouldn’t do for Inspector Howe to learn what Mrs. Travis thought about the guilty party. I wouldn’t put it past Mr. Ellis to tell him as soon as possible. Or did he already suspect us, strangers in the village? Did Sister Potter know more than she felt comfortable telling me?
The silence lengthened. I wished Simon would come back for me, and we could be on our way to Kent and Cousin Melinda’s house.
Finally, with a slight frown, Sister Potter broke it. “You and the Sergeant-Major left early that morning. I had risen early myself. There was much to do, to prepare for Mr. Spencer. I’d done most of it the day before, but there were still some things to see to. I saw your motorcar there by the church, before first light.”
I was caught off guard. But I looked her in the eye and, avoiding any reference to the Captain, said, “Simon and I had no reason to kill Mr. Spencer. Why should we? I’d done what I could for him when he fell down the stairs at The George.”
“Yes, I remember that as well.” She took a handkerchief from her pocket, then shoved it back again. “What is going on, Sister Crawford?”
“I wish I knew. But I might as well tell you that Mrs. Travis believes that it was Captain Travis who killed Mr. Spencer. The man her son chose as his heir. Alan Travis is actually here in Sinclair at the moment. And you must know—she’s convinced we’re accomplices.”
“Was it this man? The Captain?” Her voice was level, but her gaze held mine, demanding the truth.
“I can’t believe it had anything to do with the Captain.” For one thing, how would he have found out who Spencer was—or where he was?
Unless he had already known Spencer would be here, and why.
But that too was impossible. He hadn’t been allowed visitors in the clinic.
And then, forced by her gaze, I added, “Mr. Spencer’s murder might have had something to do with James Travis’s will. But I can’t quite see how.” I debated with myself before telling her more. “When Dr. Harrison decided to move his patient to the surgery, Simon—Sergeant-Major Brandon—went up to Mr. Spencer’s room to bring down his valise. The latch hadn’t caught properly. He prevented it from spilling everything, but he couldn’t help but see. There were papers in there, on Mr. Ellis’s stationery, regarding Captain Travis’s treatment in a clinic in Wiltshire. What’s more, there was a break-in at Mr. Ellis�
�s in Bury. I was never told if anything was missing, or what the thief must have come there to find. I don’t even know if the two events are connected.”
I took a deep breath, then launched into what had happened to Captain Travis. After all, Mrs. Travis knew, Mr. Ellis knew. It would do no harm to tell Sister Potter the truth.
She listened. Nurses are good listeners; they have to be. When I’d finished, she said, “I must tell you frankly, I’d have worried about his state of mind, if the Captain had been my patient. Of course I might not have met him, as you did, before he was wounded. But what I don’t understand is, why should he have thought James shot him? You say they’d liked each other in Paris. What if that isn’t the full story? They might have spent more time together than we’ve been told, and quarreled.”
It was something I’d never considered. That there was more to that meeting in Paris than Captain Travis had admitted to me. It would explain why he was so ready to believe his cousin wanted to kill him. Would it have made a difference if he’d said to me, “We quarreled. We ended as enemies”?
I wouldn’t have felt quite so guilty for helping him recall James Travis . . .
“I can only answer that as the other officer fired at him, Captain Travis thought he saw a resemblance to a great-uncle. But there’s no male relative from Barbados serving in France. There is a slight resemblance between James and Alan Travis. But perhaps it wasn’t that. Perhaps James looks more like that great-uncle.”
Sister Potter smiled. “My mother was a Kerr. From Scotland. And they were noted for being left-handed. So was she. Traits can come down the family tree. Cleft chins, for instance. Baldness. Nearsightedness.” The smile faded. “Have you spoken to Mrs. Caldwell? The Vicar’s wife?”
“I met her in the churchyard my first day in the village, and spoke to her once after that. She was the one who suggested I look at the memorial in the church.”
Nodding, she said, “I’m not surprised. She had a son, you know. He and young James were inseparable as children, in and out of The Hall and the Vicarage. Young Nigel died at ten of a virulent fever. Nothing Dr. Harrison could do stopped its progress. Mrs. Caldwell watched James grow into manhood, thinking, ‘Nigel would have done that—Nigel would have enjoyed that—Nigel would have felt like that.’ A yardstick, you see, of what she had missed in her own child’s lost years. I think she came to love James too. When he was reported killed, it nearly killed her as well. She would have felt that Nigel would have joined the Army too, that he would have been as brave as James, that he might have died in the same way. A terrible blow. I wasn’t here, of course, but she wrote to me, long letters talking about her grief, and how she had hoped to see James home again, to wed and have children of his own. She told me she would have wanted to be godmother to one of them, to have a share in something she herself would never have. It was terribly sad. I wrote to her, tried to offer what comfort I could. And she’s a strong woman, in the end she put aside her grief and went on living. The Vicar was at a loss how to comfort her. He didn’t understand, he’d mourned his son in a very different way. Men often do.”