by Charles Todd
“She’s right,” Gran said, holding out a hand to me, asking me to join her at the door. “We still need you, Roger. Don’t be rash. Sleep on this decision. You may feel differently tomorrow.”
“Ten days or so won’t make all that much difference,” he said shortly. “It’s better if I go and get it over with.”
Mrs. Ellis said from her chair near the fire, “And if you are killed in those ten days? Do you think we will find that easy to bear?”
Gran said angrily, “Let Lydia go to London and get it out of her system. She’ll come back, wait and see if she doesn’t. This is her home, you’re her husband. She’ll come to her senses soon enough. There’s no need to penalize your mother and me just to punish her.”
“I’m not punishing her,” he wearily answered his grandmother. “We’ve got off on the wrong foot. I’ve been away three years. I came back a very different man from the one she remembered. If I leave now, before anything else goes wrong, we might salvage something out of this muddle of a marriage.”
But Gran wasn’t to be put off. “You’re going back for all the wrong reasons. If you’re killed, should we blame Lydia for sending you away like this? I promise you we shall. It’s her fault as much as yours, and your mother and I will be the ones to have to live with that.”
“I’m not going to die, Gran. God willing, the war will end soon. Now the Americans have stepped in, we’ll have a chance to see this business finished. When I come home again, Lydia and I may be able to mend matters and live together somehow.”
Gran was inconsolable and said fiercely, “Think of your mother if you don’t care about breaking my heart. You were the closest to Juliana. Losing you will be like losing her all over again. You can’t do that to her. Now go back upstairs and put this foolishness behind you. We’ll say no more about it.”
He bent to kiss her cheek. “Good-bye, Gran.” And he was off, striding to the motorcar without looking back. “I’ll leave it at the station. You can pick it up anytime that suits,” he called as he got behind the wheel. And then he was gone.
Gran stood there in the open doorway, the cold winter air swirling around her, blowing her gray hair free from the bun at the nape of her neck and whipping it in her eyes. She brushed it away and watched her grandson out of sight.
Then she turned and without a word stalked across the hall to the stairs and climbed them.
Mrs. Ellis, trying to stifle her sobs, had shut her eyes, as if she couldn’t bear to see the motorcar disappear down the lane. Then she got to her feet and without looking at me, murmured in a voice thick with tears, “I must speak to Molly about lunch.”
And she was gone, leaving me there in the hall alone.
I didn’t quite know what to make of what appeared to be Roger Ellis’s altruism.
It dawned on me that he was running away, more than he was running to.
Who did he really believe murdered George Hughes? Davis Merrit for Lydia’s sake—Lydia herself—or someone else in his own family?
For that matter, had he himself killed his friend? I couldn’t see why. Unless it was to prevent Lieutenant Hughes from bringing that child home from France.
There was nothing I could do. For any of them. And if I left, they would be free to mourn Roger’s decision in their own way.
I started for the door, but Margaret came in, concern drawing her brows together in a frown.
“What on earth is wrong with Mama? She’s stripping Roger’s bed as if her life depended on it. And I can’t get a word out of her!”
“He’s just left,” I told her. “To rejoin his regiment.”
“No, you must be mistaken. He didn’t come to say good-bye—”
I didn’t know how to answer her.
“It’s Lydia, isn’t it? He can’t bear to be in the same house with her now.”
“I don’t think—” I began, attempting to say that it wasn’t my place to pass judgment.
But Margaret cut across my words. “Don’t try to defend her. Neither one of them is blame free, I’m aware of that. They’ve been at odds almost since Roger came home. But Lydia leaving for London the way she did was a last straw. And her work with Davis Merrit didn’t help matters. Did she tell you? She refused to give it up, even after Roger asked her to break it off. I don’t condone his striking her. But you can only push someone like my brother so far.”
She paced to the hearth and back. “I don’t know how Mama will cope. Not to mention Gran. It’s really selfish of him to do this to all of us.” But as she turned back toward me, still pacing, I could see the tears in her eyes.
“Your grandmother was terribly angry with him.”
“As well she might be.” She stopped in the middle of the room. “I must tell Henry. We were thinking of leaving this morning, but I expect we ought to stay on for a few more days. Until Mama has come to terms with what he’s done. May I ask if you’re planning to leave today?”
As a hint, it was rather broad. In her eyes, I was responsible for Lydia going to London. And I could easily understand that. “Yes, I expect I shall. If someone will send a message to The King’s Head, for Simon Brandon. He’s driving me to Somerset.”
“Someone must retrieve Roger’s motorcar from the railway station. If an hour’s time will be convenient for you?”
“Yes, of course,” I agreed politely. Then I asked, “Do you think Lydia will still wish to go with me?”
“We’ll be very angry with her, if she does,” Margaret answered tightly. “She’s needed here. Henry and I can’t stay more than a few extra days. And what then?”
“There’s Alan’s wife.”
“No. It needs to be Lydia. She’s Roger’s wife, after all, and she has duties here.”
I thought it a very selfish perspective, but didn’t say so.
She left to speak to her husband, and I went to stand at the door, putting off speaking to Lydia. Looking out past the holly trees to the immense stretch of heath spread out before me, I found myself thinking about Roger Ellis, still wondering why he had made such a sudden and dramatic decision. There were so many reasons.
I broke off, looking at the vehicle turning out of the track into the lane that led to Vixen Hill. My first reaction was that Roger had come to his senses, then I realized that it was Simon’s motorcar.
The cavalry had returned.
I went up to find Lydia and tell her what had happened.
“He’s gone?” she asked, stunned. “But why?”
“He said he thought it was the only way to save your marriage. Perhaps he’s right.”
She shook her head vehemently. “No. I won’t believe it. There’s something else.”
“He hoped you’d stay here at Vixen Hill, now that he’s no longer in residence.”
“No, that’s not it either.” She took a turn around the room, thinking, then stopped suddenly and grasped my arm in a grip that hurt. “He’s going to find that child, Bess. I’d be ready to wager my life that he is. But why? To bring her home? There’s no other reason, is there?”
I remember what George had said to me, that he shouldn’t have waited for Roger Ellis to come to a decision about the little girl. He should have gone ahead and claimed her if he could.
Lydia went on, still gripping my arm, “He wants her dead, doesn’t he? He doesn’t want a reminder of Juliana. Juliana never grew up, you see, she’s always and forever the perfect child. But a real reminder of Juliana might have a mind of her own, and even while she looked like Juliana, she might have a very different temperament. Was it fear of disillusionment that drove Roger to abandon her? Or the fact that he couldn’t replace Juliana with a bastard child?”
If the child had looked like her mother, or a great-aunt, a very different child from Juliana, would Roger have been willing to take her in?
It was an interesting thought.
Lydia was saying, “You must find that little girl before Roger does. Do you hear, Bess? For my sake, as well as hers.”
“Are
you sure you want any part of her?” I asked. “Think about it, Lydia, there will be reminders of her mother in many of the things she does. Are you willing to live with that?”
“I may never have a child of my own,” she told me bitterly, letting my arm go. “This may be all I ever have. Please, Bess, you must promise.”
“I’ve told you. I can’t promise anything. I have duties, Lydia, remember? I can’t search France for one child while so many wounded need my care.”
“But you will try?” she asked, as if she hadn’t heard me. “When you can?”
“Yes, all right, I’ll try,” I said, “but I won’t promise because it will be like hunting for the proverbial needle in a haystack.”
“No, it won’t,” she told me, the force of conviction in her voice. “You’ve seen the portrait. You may not know a name, but you will know her face the instant you see it. And that’s what matters.”
There was nothing more I could say to change her mind, and so I told her that I’d glimpsed Simon coming up the drive.
“I’m going home, Lydia. You’re safe now, there’s nothing to fear.”
To my surprise—I was expecting an uphill battle—she said, “Yes, it’s the best thing for you. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll stay here. It won’t be easy, but I really was dreading facing London on my own. I was so frightened the last time, so lost and alone. That’s why I wanted so badly to stay with you.”
I hadn’t realized that she’d been afraid of returning to London. She had been so adamant about leaving here. That was an indication of the stress driving her that she was willing to brave a city where she knew no one with the exception of me.
“Then you’re not going with me?”
“No. I’ll go and unpack straightaway. Somehow I must make it up to Gran and Mama Ellis for what he’s done. They’ll blame me. I can’t change that. But I don’t want them to realize why he left so precipitously.”
I didn’t tell her that Mrs. Ellis had already been in Roger’s room, stripping the bedding. Instead I asked, “You will see Dr. Tilton again? About your concussion?”
“I promise. But I’m much better. Truly.”
I thought it could be true. But I reminded her that if she couldn’t keep her promise, she would only add to the burdens Gran and Mrs. Ellis carried.
We walked together into the passage, and she said with unexpected warmth, “I really am grateful to you, Bess, more than words can say. You must know that’s true.”
I thought perhaps it was, and smiled at her. “You know where to find me. Anytime,” I told her. “But not in the dead of winter, please.”
She laughed and embraced me quickly. “Thank Simon for me too.”
I went in search of Mrs. Ellis and then Gran, but I couldn’t find either of them. Daisy had admitted Simon, and I hurried to the hall to greet him.
We went together to my room and soon had the motorcar packed with my belongings.
“I can’t leave without a note,” I said. “Mrs. Ellis will think badly of me.”
“Then write it, if that makes you feel better.”
I had a thought. “Come with me to the drawing room. There’s paper and pen there in one of the tables, I’m sure. Meanwhile, I want you to see the portrait over the hearth.”
He came with me, and I heard the low whistle as he turned to look at Juliana.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful child,” he said. “Or a more beautiful painting. Did she really look like that, I wonder?”
I found what I was after in the ornate little escritoire under the window and quickly wrote a brief message, thanking Mrs. Ellis and her family for their hospitality and kindness. Sealing the note, I wrote Mrs. Ellis’s name on the envelope, but I couldn’t help but wish I could have thanked her in person as well.
Simon was still studying the portrait when I said, “It’s finished.”
I left the note on a table in the hall, where someone was sure to see it, and we went out to the motorcar together.
He was cranking the motor when I happened to look up at the room above the hall. I don’t know precisely why, but possibly it was because I felt eyes watching me from there.
Gran was standing by the window, looking down on the motorcar, Simon and me.
I smiled and waved, but she gave no indication she’d even recognized us. I knew perfectly well she had.
And I realized then that from that height, looking across the flat landscape of the heath, she might just be able to see the smoke from the engine as the train pulled out of Hartfield, carrying her grandson to his regiment.
We drove away from Vixen Hill, and I didn’t look back. But I did look at the heath that quickly surrounded us and wondered if I would ever see it again.
As if he’d read my mind, Simon said, “I have a feeling it isn’t finished, Bess. I heard the conclusions Inspector Rother drew from the evidence. I don’t know if he got it right.”
I turned to look at him. “You don’t think Davis Merrit killed George Hughes?”
“It’s not that,” he said slowly. “It’s just that something isn’t right. And I can’t put my finger on anything to support that feeling. The motive is missing, somehow.”
“Did you know Roger Ellis has left to rejoin his unit?”
“Yes, I saw him on his way to the railway station. Or I assumed that’s where he was heading. His kit was in the seat beside him.” He paused. “Is that why Lydia Ellis isn’t traveling with us?”
“She doesn’t have to face her husband now. She wasn’t looking forward to London, in spite of all she said. She wasn’t ready to start a new life with no friends and no prospects.”
“A measure of her fear,” he agreed. “When I met her in London I could sense it. I’m just glad you’re out of that house. I was afraid you’d have to stay until the inquest.”
“That’s odd, isn’t it? That I haven’t been asked to give evidence.”
“It will probably be adjourned until they’ve found Merrit. And you may yet receive a summons. Much will depend on what motive Inspector Rother discovers. But the watch and the fact that Merrit left without warning or a word will count heavily against him.”
“But did he pack up and leave? Or walk out of the house and never come home again?”
“Gossip says he left tea on the table. And that morning his horse came back to the stable without him.”
I hadn’t heard that.
“Well,” I said. “It’s over. But she wants me to search for that child, Simon.”
“I don’t think that would be wise. Didn’t you say that Hughes told you she was in the care of nuns? She should be looked after well enough. What would you do if you found her?”
What, indeed. “Heaven knows there are enough orphans, thanks to this war.”
“Sadly,” he replied.
We had reached Hartfield and I saw the man Willy just stepping into the road, crossing it just beyond the shops. He looked up then, and his eyes met mine as he stopped, waiting for us to pass.
I had expected the vacant expression of a man whose wits were impaired.
But I could have sworn, in that brief contact, that he knew who I was. And I would have sworn as well that beneath the recognition was another expression.
I couldn’t quite be sure of what it was. But the word that came to mind was sly.
If Simon noticed, he said nothing, busy driving through the early Monday morning traffic.
I spent a very happy Christmas with my family. It was good to be home, and I knew my parents were almost beside themselves with joy.
A letter arrived the day before Christmas Eve, forwarded by Mrs. Hennessey from London. It was from Lydia, and very brief.
Life here at Vixen Hill has settled into an armed truce. I don’t think Gran has forgiven me, but even she can’t hold a grudge for very long. Mama Ellis has heard from Roger, telling her that he’d arrived safely in France. But he hasn’t written to me. I’m glad I stayed. I never expected to say that, but it’s true.
There is no news about the inquiry into the murder. The inquest was held on the Tuesday after you left. After Dr. Tilton had established that poor George was indeed murdered, Inspector Rother asked that the inquest be adjourned until such time as the whereabouts of a crucial witness, Davis Merrit, could be determined and his statement be entered into evidence. He was asked if the search was limited to Sussex, and Inspector Rother replied that the Chief Constable had asked that Scotland Yard be brought into the case. Then Inspector Rother was asked if he believed he knew the identity of the murderer, and he answered that he did, but was not prepared to make an arrest until Davis was found. No motive was presented. Nor were any of us required to give evidence, except for Dr. Tilton, and no statements were read. It was all very odd, according to Henry, who knows more about such things. But I think it may come out in the trial that after my visit to Davis, he went in search of George. I still don’t know why he should have killed him. I imagine that’s what Inspector Rother must find out before he can proceed any further. But I dread being asked to give evidence in court, if it is Davis after all. Henry says it will be necessary and I must be prepared to brave it out. Meanwhile, we have been locking our doors at night. Vixen Hill was never locked before this. But with Roger away I think we all feel terribly vulnerable.
I must wish you back in France soonest. Roger has had a head start in the search. And that worries me even more than what Inspector Rother is up to.
A happy Christmas. I wish I could tell you it comes from all of us, but Gran refuses to be included. I don’t quite understand why. But Mama Ellis believes that Gran blames you for insisting on looking for poor George, that if you’d left well enough alone that Saturday morning, he would never have been found and none of this terrible business would ever have happened. But it was Mama who insisted, wasn’t it? And someone would have stumbled over the body, sooner or later. I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive her.
I found it interesting that still no motive had been brought forward. More surprising was the fact that Dr. Tilton hadn’t said a word about the events of that evening in the drawing room. Why? It was prime gossip, and he would surely have relished passing it on. But the Ellis family was a force in Ashdown Forest, and Dr. Tilton must have very wisely decided that telling this particular secret could see him ruined.