by Charles Todd
“We’ll know soon enough.”
We sat down, and waited. The minutes crawled by. Lydia said, “What’s keeping Simon?”
“I don’t know.” Five more minutes passed. I was beginning to worry as well. Bluebell Cottage was just across the street from The King’s Head, a walk of no more than two minutes, even if Simon had had to stop for a funeral procession to pass by. “Wait here,” I said finally.
“No, don’t leave me, Bess!”
“I’m just walking to the door, to look out and see if Simon is at the cottage.”
Grudgingly, she let me go. But although I stepped out into the now mistng rain, there was no sign of Simon or Davis Merrit. I thought there was a lamp lit in the cottage, but I couldn’t even be sure of that, for the curtains were drawn, and it wasn’t yet dark enough for the lamplight to show clearly.
Simon and half the regiment could be in Bluebell Cottage and I had no way of telling. With a sigh, I turned and walked back into the inn and rejoined Lydia in the parlor.
She rose from her chair as I came through the door and shut it behind me. “Well?”
I said lightly, “If he’s in the cottage, I can’t tell. The curtains are drawn.”
“Then Davis must be talking to him. Why didn’t he come across to The King’s Head and speak to me himself? If he sent me that note, there must have been a reason.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t want to be seen speaking to you. I’m sure after your visit with him the other morning, the police questioned him.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
Another fifteen minutes passed before we heard Simon’s footsteps on the wooden floor outside the parlor, and then the door opened.
He said, shutting it behind him, “I couldn’t find Davis Merrit.”
Lydia said, rising, “He wasn’t in his house?”
Simon was choosing his words carefully. “No. I went up and down the street. The shops are closed, it’s Sunday after all.”
She turned to me. “I told you he could have been waiting at St. Mary’s. We must go back there straightaway.”
Simon quickly stepped between her and the door. “I don’t believe he’s at St. Mary’s, Mrs. Ellis. The police are searching for him as well.”
“For Davis? Dear God, just because I went to see him yesterday? No, you’re just trying to frighten me away because Bess doesn’t want me to see him!”
“Your visit will probably prove to be his motive for murder. But what they are curious about now is how he came by George Hughes’s watch.”
I was surprised by Simon’s tone of voice. Cold and blunt.
“Murder?” The muscles in her face tensed, making it look more like a mask than flesh and blood. “What watch?”
“It was actually his brother’s watch, I’m told. It turned up in the possession of a man the local people call Willy. He appeared in Hartfield one day, muddled and half starved. No one knows his real name or where he came from. He begs for coins, and people feed and clothe him out of kindness. No one knows where he sleeps. But during the day he’s on the street, waiting for someone to put a few coins into his hand.”
“Yes, yes, I’ve seen Willy on the streets, I know who he is.”
“Someone noticed that he was carrying a watch, rather an expensive one, and mentioned that to the police. When they examined the watch, they saw the name engraved on the reverse. When asked how he’d come by the watch, Willy told them it had been given to him by a friend. I don’t know how they persuaded him to identify this friend. But when they went to look for Davis Merrit, he was not in his cottage. He hasn’t been seen since.”
Lydia cried, “Surely they can’t believe—not Davis! How would he even find George? Or kill him?”
But I could see that she remembered telling me that George Hughes and Davis Merrit had met in France. She turned frantically to me. “Do the police—does anyone think that Davis killed George—for my sake? No, he would never do that.”
I said quietly, “You told me you didn’t love him. But perhaps—because of your kindnesses—he was in love with you.”
“I don’t believe you. And even if I did, why would Davis take George’s watch—and give it to Willy, of all people?”
“So that you would know what he’d done for you?”
She walked to the window, looking out at the side street. “This is Roger’s doing. It couldn’t be anyone else’s. He’s rid himself of George and of Davis as well.” She put out a hand, stroking the folds of the curtains, not even aware of what she was doing. But the smooth velvet must have been soothing. “I hope they hang him!”
“You don’t mean that,” I said sharply. “You don’t know the whole story. Neither do I. Or Simon.”
“It doesn’t matter. This is the only thing I can think of that would explain what has happened. Willy is lying. He has to be made to tell the truth.” She turned from the window. “Take me back to Vixen Hill, Bess.” There was a hardness in her face that hadn’t been there before. “Thank you, Simon. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”
She walked past him and out the door. “Are you coming, Bess?” she called anxiously over her shoulder.
“Yes, yes, in a moment.” I said to Simon, “Is that all you’ve been able to learn?”
“Inspector Rother has been busy ascertaining that Hughes had his watch at Vixen Hill. He spoke to someone at the church today, I’m told, who remembered seeing it. That must have been the rector’s sister. She has no reason to lie. Did you see it?”
“No. I don’t think I did. But I had no reason to notice it. Wait, yes, he had it that first evening, I think.”
“Then he must have had it with him when he was killed. It looks rather bleak for Merrit, doesn’t it? As does his disappearance. Mrs. Ellis is waiting, Bess, you should go.”
“Is there any possibility that Willy killed Hughes and Davis Merrit?”
“I doubt it. First of all there’s no motive that I can think of. And I don’t believe he has the capacity to carry out an elaborate lie. I spoke to him yesterday. He can hardly put a coherent sentence together.”
“Yes, and I’d seen Davis Merrit give him money. He seemed so grateful.” I remembered the marble kitten and related what I’d feared. “How could a blind man know about that—if indeed it was the murder weapon? Much less put it back almost exactly where he’d found it? I didn’t notice it had been moved, but Mrs. Ellis did.”
“Interesting. I’ll see what I can discover about the wound. And pay a visit to the churchyard.”
“Simon, I must go. Please don’t go back to London just yet. I’ll feel safer knowing you’re here in Hartfield. Besides, the police tell us nothing.”
“I won’t leave until I can escort you to Somerset. You still have your pistol?”
“Yes. I even carried it to the church service this morning, I’m ashamed to say. I’d forgot it was in my pocket.”
“Carry it everywhere.” He walked me to the door of the inn. “This is all speculation,” he warned me. “For all we know, Davis Merrit took it into his head to visit a cousin or went to London to see a specialist. He may turn up with a very solid alibi.”
“Let’s hope so,” I said. But then that would mean that someone at Vixen Hill was a killer.
Simon asked, “Was it raining the morning that Hughes was killed?”
“It was overcast. I don’t believe it had started to rain.”
“But he might have taken an umbrella with him, and the note you found was one intended for him.”
“He didn’t have an umbrella with him when we found him.”
“He could have left it in the stand at the church, before walking down the path. Are you quite sure that you took out the same umbrella that you’d brought with you this morning?”
“No,” I said slowly. “It was Roger Ellis who handed it to me. His mother and I shared it on the way to the motorcar. And then it was decided that I should travel with Roger. And so I kept it, since she could share with Lydia.”
“Interesting. I’d not mention the note to anyone else. It might not be wise.”
I walked out to the motorcar, where Lydia was waiting, staring at Bluebell Cottage as if she could see through the very walls and into the house. As Simon turned the crank for me, she said, “He’s not in there, is he? I can feel it. The cottage is empty. Well. So much for our friendship.”
As we drove away, she added, “I liked him. Not as a lover or anything of that sort. As a friend. I expect part of it was pity for his blindness, and part of it was the man who loved books as much as I did. Roger isn’t a great reader, did you know? Too busy for one thing. Even before the war, he had the estate to manage and all that. He worked hard. His father’s early death left a void, and by the time Roger was old enough to take over, poor management had taken its toll. To his credit, he brought Vixen Hill back to where it was the day Juliana died. I expect that was partly why he did it, as well. Not just for his mother’s sake.”
We saw Willy as we slowed to pass children playing hoops in the street. He was standing on a corner watching them, and I thought his face was sad. And then we had moved on, and I could no longer see him.
If Lydia noticed him standing there, she made no mention of it to me.
I think Mrs. Ellis was relieved when we pulled up in front of the house. She came into the hall to greet us, and as Daisy took our coats, she said, “Do you have any idea why Inspector Rother came all this way to ask me about George’s watch? It seems rather silly.”
Lydia didn’t reply, asking Daisy if there was any tea to be had after the cold drive from Hartfield.
I said, “What reason did the Inspector give you for asking?”
She smiled. “You know policemen. They don’t explain anything.”
“Do you remember seeing the watch?” I asked, curious.
“Oh yes. It was his brother’s. It was sent back to him from the Front, when Malcolm was killed. It meant the world to him.”
“No, I mean, did you actually see it this weekend?”
She frowned. “I’m sure I did. Thursday night, I think, just before we went to bed.”
The same time I’d seen it.
“Did that please Inspector Rother? That you could answer his question for him?”
“He seemed very satisfied. Odd little man, isn’t he? If he weren’t an Inspector, no one would take any notice of him, would they?”
“I expect he’s a good policeman.”
“Yes, well, I hope we’ve seen the last of him. This whole business has been very trying. Especially for Roger. The last time the police came to Vixen Hill, it was to tell us that someone had found his father’s body. He doesn’t feel much sympathy for them. Bearers of bad tidings, he always said. And it’s true, isn’t it? There’s never a policeman about unless he’s bringing bad news.”
I hadn’t known the police had come about Matthew Ellis, Roger’s father. I should have expected it, for it explained his animosity toward them. How old had he been then? Eight? Nine? It was an age when memories were sharp and permanent. I could picture myself at that age, seeing my first body in India. A beggar, lying along the road, wrapped against the cold night, dying in his sleep. Or at least I’d hoped he had. My father was angry that I’d seen him. The Colonel Sahib had taken me out for the day, and his men had made certain our route was safe. The subaltern who had missed the corpse got a severe dressing down. But I knew what death was. It hadn’t taken a corpse on the roadside to give it a face. I’d seen the worry in my mother’s eyes whenever my father was in the field. She made light of it, but the fear was there—that one day his luck would run out, and a bullet would find him. It didn’t matter whether it was a bandit’s shot or a Pathan warrior’s or a nervous recruit’s accidental discharge of his weapon. Death was not uncommon in India.
I realized much, much later that it wasn’t the corpse that had disturbed the Colonel Sahib, but the fact that it could just as easily have been someone lying in wait for us. He had enemies, my father did. My mother had known that too.
Daisy brought tea to the sitting room, where it was warmer, and we all gathered there. Lydia was silent, and Roger Ellis had a grim set to his mouth. I think he must have guessed why Lydia had wanted to go into Hartfield.
That evening, just before we went in to dinner, we heard the distant clanging of the heavy knocker on the door. Daisy went to answer the summons and a few minutes later brought Inspector Rother to the drawing room, where we were finishing our sherry. He greeted Gran and Mrs. Ellis politely, then turned to Roger.
“I’ve come to inform you that we are satisfied that no one here is connected to the murder of George Hughes. You’re free to go about your own affairs as you please.”
Surprised, Mrs. Ellis thanked him. Across the room, Lydia’s face lost all color.
It was Gran who demanded, “The least you can do after all we’ve been through is to tell us who killed poor George. He was a dear friend, you know, not a stranger who happened by. We’re as relieved as the police must be that his killer is caught, of course we are. But we would appreciate a few answers.”
Inspector Rother nodded. “I understand, Madam. It will come out in the inquest, which will be held on Tuesday at The King’s Head. We have reason to believe it was one Davis Merrit.”
Mrs. Ellis exclaimed, “Surely not! I mean to say, he’s blind.”
“It doesn’t take sight, Madam, to strike a man on the back of his head. Or drag him toward the water.”
“But how did he get to the church? How did he know that George would be there?” Lydia asked.
“He keeps a horse, I understand, and goes out riding from time to time. He’s not precisely without resources. And the horse can find his way back to the stable, should it be necessary.”
“What was his motive?” I asked, wanting to know what the police had discovered.
“That hasn’t yet been determined, Miss Crawford,” he said in a tone of voice that brooked no further questions on that subject.
Roger Ellis said, echoing his mother, “We thank you for coming to speak to us. I’ll see you out.”
As they left the room, Henry, Margaret’s husband, said into the silence, “Well, that was quick work. I expected we might be here for several more days.”
“At least it wasn’t one of us,” Margaret said, her voice a little unsteady. I wondered if she knew how worried her mother had been about that.
It was Eleanor who made the remark none of us had considered. “Perhaps this man Merrit was out riding and came upon George along the way, and they went on together.”
Henry rested a hand on his wife’s shoulder as he stood behind her chair. “It still doesn’t explain why Merrit should suddenly kill someone he accidentally encounters on a track in Ashdown Forest. There must be more to this.”
Lydia turned her face away, toward the window. I could almost guess what she was thinking. That she’d given Davis Merrit a reason to search out and speak to Lieutenant Hughes. But why it should lead to murder was another matter. Unless I was right about his feelings for Lydia.
Still, even if he was in love with her, what purpose could be served by killing George after he’d already told everyone about the child? I should have thought that killing Roger would have been more appropriate as an expression of devotion. If one could call murder that.
Gran had the last word. “Well, one thing to be said for Davis Merrit as the killer, you shan’t be required to read to him any longer,” she told Lydia. “Ah, here’s Daisy. I thought that Inspector would keep us from our dinner. Henry, give me your arm. You can take me into the dining room.”
Henry turned to offer her his arm, and Gran led the way with the air of a woman who was very satisfied with herself. For some reason I couldn’t explain, I thought, She’s gloating.
But what exactly did she have to gloat about?
Was it just the fact that Roger had been exonerated? Or was there something more? Watching her, I realized that in spite of her age, she was fit and a good walker. Sh
e could easily have followed George to the church and even killed him. She was tall enough. Strong enough.
And George would never have expected trouble from her.
Chapter Ten
By the time we had absorbed the fact that we were free to go, it was too late to do more than discuss whether to leave in the morning or the day after the inquest.
Lydia said to me quietly after dinner, “I’ve never really unpacked. If Simon would agree to take us to London, it would be easier. But I will take the train if he can’t manage it. Or if he’s concerned about what Roger might say or do.”
I couldn’t imagine Simon Brandon being afraid of anyone. But I understood that she was trying to protect him from an unpleasant scene. And Roger Ellis was likely to make one.
“We must get word to him,” I said, “unless he learns of the news in Hartfield.”
And where was Davis Merrit? Alive and on the run—or a dead scapegoat?
“I’ll pack my own things,” I told her. “Then we’ll see what tomorrow brings.”
But after breakfast, I happened to notice that one of the Ellis motorcars had been brought around. And I could hear Gran’s voice echoing around the hall, raised in anger and fear.
I ran down the stairs, thinking that something terrible must have happened. But when I got to the hall, I found only Mrs. Ellis sitting by the hearth, tears streaming down her face while Gran was at the door, arguing vehemently with her grandson.
It was only then that I noticed that he was wearing his uniform and his greatcoat. I’d seen him in his uniform every day, but this time he wore it with a very different air. I’d been a part of a military family all my life, and I knew the look of a man on his way to war.
He turned to me as I came into the room and halted abruptly, realizing that I’d walked into the middle of a family quarrel.
“Will you please tell Lydia for me that there’s no need for her to leave Vixen Hill? I’m rejoining my regiment tomorrow morning. I’ll be on my way to France in a few days’ time. She’ll be safer here than on her own in London.”
I answered, before I’d quite considered what I was saying, “Your leave isn’t up. I should think your family still needs you. And this business with Lieutenant Hughes’s death has surely reopened old wounds.”