A Duty to the Dead

by Charles Todd

  As I knelt there beside him, the torch in my hand died. I thought, Oh, God, what next?

  A man’s voice broke the silence, from some distance away, and I nearly leapt out of my skin.

  “What’s happened? I heard shots.”

  It sounded a little like Robert’s voice. The baritone of a big man.

  I couldn’t see him, but he could see me, quite clearly.

  I crouched by the constable, a frisson of uncertainty running through me. What was he doing here? “Robert? Is that you?”

  To my left, Peregrine tried to shout something, and I was momentarily distracted.

  “I say—you there—what’s going on?” the man called again, closer this time.

  And then something was hurtling toward me from outside the rim of light. I could hear it coming, breathing hard, and as I got to my feet, braced to meet it, a large dog rushed up, tongue lolling, barking as if to say, Look what I’ve discovered.

  Its owner stepped into the edge of the motorcar’s headlamps and stopped, staring. He carried a shotgun, broken, over his arm.

  “What’s going on here? Is that a policeman?”

  I’d never seen the man before. Relief washed over me and I could almost feel my heart slowing to its normal rhythm.

  “I was driving by when I heard the shots,” I said. “My own motorcar is on the road. I’m a nurse—these men are badly hurt. Can you help me get them to a doctor?”

  “A nurse? From Barton’s?” He sounded skeptical. Of course—I wasn’t in uniform.

  “No, Owlhurst. Please, we mustn’t waste time.”

  He walked nearer, and I could see he was a farmer, broad shouldered and strong enough to help me lift a wounded man.

  “Is that one dead?” he asked.

  “Sadly. Yes. We must leave him for now. But there are two others.” I gestured in the direction of Jonathan and Peregrine.

  The dog, disturbed by the scent of so much blood, was frisking around, whining now.

  The farmer called him off and waited while I got back behind the wheel. As he glimpsed Constable Mason in the rear, he said in a shocked voice, “There’s another policeman!”

  I didn’t answer him. Driving the vehicle gingerly forward again, I came to where Jonathan was lying, Peregrine just beyond him. The farmer followed on foot.

  Peregrine was conscious, though in great pain, trying to raise himself and look the stranger over.

  “It’s all right,” I said, getting out once more. “Can you stand? Between us we ought to be able to help you.”

  He managed it after a fashion, with support. I thought the shot had struck his collarbone or his shoulder, for there was no touching him on that side. He wasn’t coughing, which was a good sign. Still, his face was a ghostly white in the light of the headlamps as we got him to his feet and he walked the short distance to the motorcar, clinging to my good arm. The pain must have been excruciating, each step jarring the wound. Putting him into the rear seat beside Constable Mason was difficult, but Peregrine accepted the situation in grim silence, his jaw set. For the first time I could see a resemblance to Arthur in his last hours, that same will reflected in his brother’s taut face, paring all emotion down to one intense resolve.

  Mason was awake again, trying to make sense of what was happening and who we were. I told him I would explain when there was time.

  Jonathan was another matter. There would be no help from him. I quickly shoved his revolver into his greatcoat pocket, out of sight, and explained to the farmer what he must do. I heard something behind me and whirled in time to see Constable Mason nearly tumble out of the motorcar, catch himself, and while he was still doubled over, vomit violently before shambling unsteadily toward us, his sense of duty stronger than his dizziness. With his help we settled Jonathan’s limp body into the front seat and shut the door. Constable Mason leaned heavily against the wing, breathing hard from the exertion. I felt like joining him there, every muscle in my body complaining from the effort I’d made. Thank God, my arm had healed sufficiently.

  As I got in beside Jonathan, I studied his face. I didn’t like the look of him, but all I could do was to make certain the scarf was still pressed in place. I thought the bleeding had stabilized, but that could be bad news, not good.

  Constable Mason roused himself and joined Peregrine in the rear seat, inadvertently jarring him as he tried clumsily to climb inside.

  I heard Peregrine swear fiercely under his breath. He’d said very little since I’d found him. I think he knew there would be no escape now and was resigning himself to his fate.

  Turning to the farmer, I said, “Please. You must follow me in my motorcar—out there on the road. We must go to Owlhurst.”

  For an instant I thought he was about to refuse me. Then he said, “Who shot these men?”

  I told him truthfully, “I don’t know.”

  He nodded, whistling up the dog, and went striding across the trampled field toward the road.

  It was a bumpy ride, making a looping circle across the field and back to the verge where this motorcar had run off into the underbrush. I could hear Constable Mason breathing hard, and Peregrine grunting through clenched teeth.

  On the road the farmer was straightening up Melinda’s vehicle and making room for me to pass. The dog’s head was turned toward us, ears pricked, as if making certain we were coming.

  “Sorry,” I said, “I’m so sorry,” as we bounced hard back onto the road. And then I was gunning the motor, overtaking Melinda Crawford’s motorcar, heading to Owlhurst. In a matter of minutes we were flying past the brightly lit asylum, almost blindingly bright in the moonless night, and then it was gone, and I was gritting my teeth as I tried to avoid the worst of the dips and ridges of the unmade surface. I couldn’t help remembering how close I’d come to tumbling out of the dogcart when the wheels went off the road, wondering if any of my passengers would make it back alive if I overturned us. But time was critical, and casting a glance whenever I dared at Jonathan’s gray face, I made the best time I could.

  Twice behind me, I heard Constable Mason retching as he leaned out his window.

  Peregrine asked at one point about Jonathan. “Is he still alive?”

  And all I could do was nod my head.

  Behind us, the Crawford motorcar kept pace with the farmer at the wheel, its headlamps lighting up our interior, sending shadows dancing around us. Jonathan’s breathing was suspiciously quieter. I sent up a silent prayer that we wouldn’t encounter anything out here—a wandering dog, a man walking home from a pub, someone on a horse, a lorry. It was a narrow road, with little space to overtake.

  Constable Mason said, “I’ve the devil of a headache.” And then to me, “I don’t remember you driving us.”

  I said nothing, concentrating as we came flying into Owlhurst. It was a quiet time of night, the road blessedly empty, and I kept up my speed as we reached the cricket pitch. And then we were coming up on The Bells. By the garden gate was the Graham dogcart, and two men were just coming out of the pub door, staring at us as we passed. I almost didn’t make the turning at the church, slowing in the nick of time, and then there was the doctor’s surgery just ahead, and I felt like crying with relief.

  I came to as gentle a stop as possible, and was out my door, running toward the house, calling for Dr. Philips.

  He must have been just finishing his dinner, a serviette still in his hand, surprise on his face as he recognized me and then he saw the Crawford motorcar pulling in just behind the Grahams’.

  “What in the name of God—has there been an accident?”

  “I have three badly wounded people with me—gunshots.” I listed their symptoms quickly, striving to leave nothing out. “The worst case is Jonathan Graham. I’m so afraid he’s bleeding internally.”

  Even as I was describing the situation, we were walking quickly toward the vehicle. The farmer seemed to know Dr. Philips, for I saw him nod as he and his dog approached.

  We took Jonathan in first, and
Dr. Philips was already at work on him as the farmer—I’d finally asked him his name, and he’d told me it was Bateman—helped first Constable Mason and then Peregrine into the surgery.

  Mr. Bateman said, as we settled Mason with a pillow and a basin for the nausea, “Will someone please tell me what’s happening? Two army officers, two policemen—”

  “Let’s make certain they survive,” I said, cutting him off. “Then we’ll worry about what happened.”

  We dealt with Peregrine next, and as I closed his room door, I could see that Mr. Bateman was going to cling to me like a leech until he got his answers. Something had to be done about that.

  I looked at him, really saw him for the first time. A worried man, blood on his hands and the sleeves of his coat and in a smear across his face. I was suddenly reminded of Peregrine’s hands in the offal at the butcher’s shop in Rochester.

  We wouldn’t have made it to Owlhurst without Mr. Bateman. But I didn’t want to begin explanations until I was certain myself what had happened on the road. Still, there was one more service he could provide, if he was willing. By that time I hoped I’d be able to question Peregrine or Jonathan.

  “Would you mind terribly going to fetch Lieutenant Graham’s mother? Don’t frighten her, but his condition is—rather critical. And it might be as well to summon the rector. In the event…” I let my voice trail off.

  From his expression, I got the feeling that Mr. Bateman knew the rector, and he most certainly recognized the Graham name. But I gave him the necessary directions anyway, and for a mercy, he took himself off, the dog dancing around his legs, as if eager to be out of the surgery and into the night air again.

  When I looked in on him next, Constable Mason was beginning to feel a little better, and he insisted that he should be given a chair so that he could sit in Peregrine’s room, on duty. But then he retched again, rather spoiling the effect of his claim to be quite recovered, and he lay back, shutting his eyes against the light-headedness sweeping him.

  “Mr. Graham isn’t going anywhere,” I assured him as I closed his door. “We’ll be giving him a sedative shortly. It will be more effective than a dozen constables.”

  Dr. Philips and I worked feverishly for a quarter of an hour. I was right about Constable Mason’s concussion. He could remember his name, but he was clearly seeing double when I held up two fingers, and he had no idea what had happened on the road. He asked to speak to Constable Whiting, but before I could answer that, he had drowsed off, and I had trouble waking him again.

  Peregrine had a fractured clavicle close to where it met the shoulder, and he lay there against his pillows, his eyes closed to avoid being questioned as Dr. Philips gave him something for pain and strapped the shoulder and the left arm to Peregrine’s chest. It was a clean wound, and barring infection, he would be all right.

  Jonathan was far more seriously injured, with the likelihood that the bullet had nicked a vein, causing internal bleeding. It was still lodged somewhere in his chest, and the broken ribs made breathing difficult. He was awake, stoically following our movements but saying nothing until Dr. Philips left the room.

  “Are Mason and Whiting dead?” He didn’t wait for me to answer him. “I shot them all,” he managed to add. “I’ve been recalled to join my regiment. I won’t survive France this time. It was best to rid us of Peregrine once and for all. For—for Mother’s sake.”

  His voice faltered at the end, realizing that he had used Arthur’s own words.

  I’d seen the revolver where he must have dropped it as he fell. I’d shoved it in his greatcoat pocket before we attempted to lift him. But Peregrine too had been armed.

  “Peregrine is alive. He’ll live,” I responded. “Dr. Philips is with him now.”

  Jonathan swore with feeling. “I want to confess. I want you to write my confession down, word for word. Let the doctor witness it.”

  “You’re in no condition—”

  “I want to confess.”

  To keep him quiet, I said, “Yes, all right, I’ll fetch pen and paper for you—”

  I left the room, and ran into Dr. Philips in the passage outside.

  “I wish you would tell me what this is about. And did I hear you call that other officer Peregrine? Peregrine Graham? What’s he doing in uniform? I thought—”

  I took a deep breath. “The two constables were taking him back to the asylum. Something happened only a few miles from there—that field at the bend. Do you know it? I’m not sure if Peregrine—or Jonathan—Suffice it to say, before they reached Barton’s, they went off the road, and somehow, someone began shooting. It was all over when I got there.”

  “And what in hell’s name were you doing—”

  “I followed the Graham motorcar from a friend’s house, where Peregrine was taken into custody. But he’d been falsely accused, they had no business taking him back there.”

  “He’s a dangerous man, Bess, everyone said so when he escaped. That he shouldn’t be approached. I must send for Inspector Howard—”

  “Dr. Philips—he’s been sedated. He’s not likely to harm anyone.”

  “There was a pistol in his greatcoat pocket, and a hole there where it had been fired, right through the cloth. I’ve taken the pistol and locked it in my desk.”

  Oh, dear God.

  “Let me see it. I want to see how many shots are left.”

  “Three. I’ve already looked.”

  “But—” I broke off, frowning. “Did you—did you think to look at Jonathan’s revolver?”

  “He handed it to me. He said four shots had been fired. He was right.”

  But that made five, and I’d only heard four.

  Dr. Philips was saying, “We should bring Mrs. Graham here as soon as possible. And find the rector. I’m transferring Jonathan Graham to hospital in Cranbrook. She’ll want to go with him. I can’t probe for that bullet here. If he can survive the journey, they just might save him. It will be touch and go.”

  “I’ve sent for them.”

  “Well done.”

  I went on to Dr. Philips’s office, where I quickly found pen and paper. And then I looked in on Peregrine. The sedative was already working. His eyes were closed, his mouth a tight line of pain and despair.

  Touching his hand, I said urgently, “Peregrine? What happened out there on the road tonight? You must tell me—who did you shoot? Was it Jonathan?”

  He opened his eyes as I spoke. Then he turned his face to the wall and wouldn’t meet my gaze.

  “Listen to me! Jonathan has confessed to trying to kill the two constables and you. Is it true? He may be dying, I need to know.”

  There was no answer.

  “You fired your pistol. While it was still in your pocket.” I reached for his greatcoat, lying across a chair’s back, and showed the blackened hole to him. “Look, here’s proof.”

  “I won’t go back to the asylum,” he said finally. “I can’t face it. I’d rather be hanged.”

  “Constable Mason will be all right in a day—two. He’ll be able to speak to Inspector Howard. You might as well tell me the truth. It’s the only way I can help you.”

  “Mason was the first to go down. He won’t know what happened after that. I shot Jonathan,” he said, and something in the timbre of his voice rang true.

  “But that doesn’t make sense. He wasn’t shot in the back while he was driving—and he couldn’t have walked that far from the motorcar, hurt as he was.”

  He wouldn’t answer.

  “Peregrine. I promise you, you won’t go back there—”

  I could read the bleakness in his eyes as he replied, “Bess, you nearly worked a miracle. I’m grateful, truly. But I can’t walk out of here. I stood up just now and tried, and it was hopeless. Someone has taken my pistol, and so I can’t use it on myself. I’ll have to stay and face them. There’s nothing more we can do.”

  I didn’t try to argue, but I was far from giving up. My father had always said I was as stubborn as a camel.
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  “I’ve sent for Mrs. Graham. She’ll be here shortly. I thought you’d prefer to know that.”

  And then I went back to Jonathan, hoping for a little time before his mother arrived.

  Jonathan was waiting for me as I opened the door to his room. When he saw the paper and pen in my hands, he said, “Hurry.”

  And so I sat there, beside another Graham son, this time instead of writing a letter home, I was taking down a confession of murder.

  It was brief, no details, just the stark facts. When I’d finished, he held out his hand for the pen, to sign.

  I said, “Did you kill Lily Mercer, Jonathan? I know it wasn’t Peregrine. Arthur knew that too. It’s what he meant by his message to you. Surely—surely, if you’re confessing to these deaths, you will want to tell me the truth of that one as well. Peregrine doesn’t deserve to return to Barton’s. He’s suffered enough. Set him free, while you can.”

  But he lay there in stony silence, his hand shaking a little as he reached a second time for the pen.

  What was it about these Graham men? Stubbornly silent when they might set the record straight. First Arthur and now Jonathan and even Peregrine.

  I watched him sign the confession. His signature was a scrawl, but legible enough to suffice.

  “Take it to Inspector Howard. Don’t let my mother see it. It would be a cruelty.”

  I agreed and was about to leave when he said, “Let it be finished.”

  “It can’t be finished, if Peregrine Graham is sent back to that place. You never went there, did you? But Arthur did. And still he said nothing. Did nothing. What did he mean when he said he’d lied, for his mother’s sake? Did you lie as well? Was she the one who killed Lily Mercer, and blamed Peregrine?”

  Goaded, he said, “God, no! Damn you, don’t even suggest such a thing!”

  “Then why did you have to lie, for her sake?”

  “I lied because the police were there and they frightened her. She’d been crying. When they asked me about the pocketknife, I told them that it was Peregrine’s, that none of us ever touched it because it was left to him by his father. I didn’t know—I was ten, I didn’t understand what it was I was doing.”