“Next time I’ll attempt mediocrity.”
“The fact that we both hope for a next time is bad enough, really.”
“You too, eh?”
James pulled out gingerly, and wasn’t able to resist kissing Leo’s forehead.
In the moonlight, James could see the full expanse of Leo’s body. Without his corduroy and tweed, he was all sinewy muscle and dark hair. He had dozens of scars, some tiny slashes, some larger gashes, a handful of bullet wounds. Leo had been in earnest when he said that the wound James tended was the best of the lot. Others must have gone without so much as a dab of iodine or a single stitch, judging by how badly they had healed. This was the price he paid for the work he did. In fact, as far as James could tell, Leo did nothing but pay for it. He was alone, maybe even lonely, and if he kept going like this, he’d be dead soon.
Chapter 15
“You don’t look so well,” James said, silhouetted by the morning light streaming through the window behind him. He placed a cool hand on Leo’s forehead, and Leo wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed with him—but this time just to sleep. “You have a fever. Hold still and I’ll get my thermometer.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Leo said as he stepped away from James’s touch and pulled his shirt on. “I’m perfectly fine.” He was not fine. When he woke, his throat had the raw feeling he usually associated with chemical burns, but it was the pounding in his head that really distracted him. “It’s a cold. And I have work to do, no matter what my temperature is.”
James’s frown deepened. “Open your mouth. Let me look at your throat.”
“It doesn’t—"
“Open your mouth,” James repeated, and to his surprise, Leo found himself complying. “You’ve got what half the village seems to have. Half has a streptococcus infection and the other half is murdered. Quite the lovely place. I really ought to insist that you rest.”
“Later.” When James didn’t respond, Leo added, “trust me when I tell you that I’ve done more and in worse condition.”
“Can you possibly think that’s reassuring? Now, stop talking and rest your voice as much as you can. Come for supper? I’m making baked macaroni.”
“All right,” Leo said, knowing it wouldn’t happen. The next time he saw James, everything would have come crashing down. James wouldn’t care about the state of his throat, and there certainly wouldn’t be any baked macaroni.
“Good.” James looked mollified.
When James went into the surgery to see to his patients, Leo bundled up in his coat and that blasted muffler. His shoes wouldn’t do, though. The snow was several inches thick on the ground and, based on the gray clouds smudging the sky, there would be more of it before the day was through. He found a pair of rather ancient-looking boots tucked neatly beneath the bench in the foyer, and tried them on. They fit. He and James must have worn the same size shoe.
He felt decidedly the worse for wear as he trudged up the lane to the village. His skin was hot with fever and his head was muzzy, but he could get the case wrapped up by the afternoon. Usually, at the end of a case, he felt almost like a machine: he didn’t need to sleep or eat, only catch whoever needed to be caught, or more often, shoot whoever needed to be shot. There had been a time when he thought of himself as an arm of justice, but now he knew he was more like a cat bringing home a mouse to leave on his owner’s pillow.
This time he wouldn’t even have that. There would be nothing to bring Templeton. Leo could see now the resolution Templeton had wanted, and Leo couldn’t give it to him. His judgment had been compromised by familiarity with these people, in the same sense that a lifeboat is compromised by a torpedo landing square in the middle of it. It was shot to hell, useless fragments of something that used to have a purpose. Leo didn’t know what that meant for him. Would Templeton have him reassigned? Leo didn’t even know if he cared. All he wanted was to hole up at a decent hotel someplace warm and nurse his wounds for a bit. Maybe he really would find a flat and fill it with the accoutrements of civilian life. A fate that was too dull to contemplate only two weeks ago, now seemed appealing.
He hadn’t gotten far when he realized he needed to sit. The church was right there, so he walked in, hoping he wouldn’t encounter a service. But it was empty except for a middle-aged woman polishing the brasses. Leo sank into the rear pew and looked up at the window of the three hares.
Past, present, and future, James had said. All tangled together, cannibalizing one another. This, he felt sure, was a symptom of the fever. He ought to have let James give him some medicine. Endless cycle of hares ran meaninglessly around in their wheel. There wasn’t any point to their perpetual loop. Leo sympathized all too much. Maybe that was why he had fastened onto Wendy, thinking that she was in this next generation of agents. He didn’t want that for her, didn’t want that life for a child too young to decide, nor for James to lose a friend. But it wasn’t just present and future; there was the past, too. There were agents who had come before him, people who had given up normal lives to do what they hoped was right and necessary. He stared at the window long enough that his eyes glazed over and the circle appeared to revolve.
And then he knew what he had to do. With a sense of resolve, he dragged his ailing body up the lane to Little Briars. Miss Pickering, upon answering the door, regarded him with unconcealed distaste. “Cora said you’d come.”
She had, had she? Leo wasn’t as surprised as he might have wished.
“Mr. Page,” called Miss Delacourt from her customary chair, where she was swathed in a multitude of shawls despite the heat of the room. “How kind of you to visit. Do have some cake, won’t you?”
It wasn’t yet ten in the morning. Hardly time for cake. But there was a dish of iced gingerbread next to the teapot on the table by the sofa. He didn’t think he could get any food down the raw mess that was his throat. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “Are there firearms remaining in the house? I know you gave the bulk of your...arsenal to Dr. Sommers, but—” He realized too late that he shouldn’t have implied that he had seen the weapons. It hinted at a degree of intimacy with James that he shouldn’t advertise. And yet—these two women would understand if anyone could.
The two women looked at one another, exchanging the sort of glance that Leo supposed conveyed a good deal of information if you had known a person for decades. “I’m not sure that sort of question is necessary,” said Miss Pickering.
“No, not necessary,” agreed Miss Delacourt.
Leo sighed. “If you only cooperate with me, then this case can be wrapped up and I’ll leave you all be.”
“Is that what you want, dear?”
Dear? Leo wasn’t certain when he had become anyone’s dear. “I’m only here to help with the Home Office.”
“Yes, we heard. As a consultant.” Miss Delacourt tittered and Miss Pickering shot her a look that Leo couldn’t interpret. “Is that what Alex is calling it?”
“Alex,” Leo repeated, the remaining bits of the puzzle slotting together. “Templeton—” Sir Alexander Templeton had gone to Little Briars. Leo already knew that, but at first had thought Templeton had come for Wendy. “You all but told me,” Leo said. “That story about the hat.”
“All but!” Miss Pickering exclaimed. “Cora served it up to you on a platter. I was furious with her.”
“What was the purpose of his visit? I can’t imagine he often makes home visits to retired agents.” Until today, he wasn’t even sure there existed any retired agents.
“Oh, to make sure I hadn’t gone batty with age. He’s got his knickers in a twist—”
“Cora!”
“—about MI6. He needed to know if I was a liability. What if there was a barmy old lady in the Cotswolds telling tales of all the seedier missions we went on? It would make him look very bad indeed, knowing he had sent a girl to crawl into bed with diplomats and smother them in their sleep, that sort of thing. Unsavory, you know.”
“Cora, you’re goin
g to give the poor man a fit,” Edith remonstrated. “He’s gone as white as a sheet. I’m too old to dig graves in the frozen ground.”
“That’s just the fever,” Leo said, inanely. “I take it you can still ride a bicycle.”
“Of course I can,” Miss Delacourt said proudly.
“I thought you could hardly walk. You’re always in that chair.”
“That’s because I’ve grown lazy in my retirement. We spent so long running our legs off. I’ve earned this chair. When you’ve done the sort of work that we have—it isn’t too presumptuous to say we, is it Mr. Page? —it would have been easy to decide that I didn’t deserve a good life. But I had Edith by my side, insisting that I deserved overstuffed chairs and cake around the clock.”
“And so you do,” said Miss Pickering gruffly. “I still cannot believe you rode that bicycle. It’s shocking. What if you had slipped on the ice and fallen? Who would have found you?”
Leo interrupted. “I thought Templeton came here to recruit Wendy. She’s exactly the sort of person he goes after—no background, no family, minimal scruples, quick wits.”
“But Wendy does have a family,” Miss Delacourt said. “Surely you know that.”
Leo frowned. “When Wendy was billeted here—well, that isn’t quite right, is it? She never really was billeted here, was she?” He watched their faces for any sign of reaction. The amiable smile never dropped from Miss Delacourt’s lips, but something flickered across Miss Pickering’s face. “When you took her in, shall we say, did you know who she was? Who she really was, I mean?”
“That rather depends on who you think she is, doesn’t it, Mr. Page?” This was Miss Delacourt, in her usual pleasant tone. But Leo caught a shrewdness behind the sweet old lady front.
“She’s Mrs. Griffiths’ sister. I ought to have caught the resemblance straight away, and as soon as I saw young Polly Griffiths, I knew there had to be a connection.”
“Their mother was quite unfit,” Miss Pickering said. “Mary had been out of the house from when Wendy was small, and hoped the child wouldn’t remember her. But she thought Wendy wouldn’t want to live at the vicarage, what with the twins being such a handful, and of course, the roof and the plumbing being what they are. So she asked us, and we agreed.”
Leo took a sip of the tea that had materialized in his hand. “But what’s more interesting is who Mary and Wendy’s mother was.” Ah, that got their attention. Miss Pickering’s teacup rattled in the saucer and Miss Delacourt fixed a very astute gaze on him. “Colonel Armstrong had a sister, Anabelle, who married a Welshman named Owen. Mrs. Griffiths’ maiden name is almost certainly Owen.”
“I wondered,” Miss Delacourt breathed. “I knew there was something.”
“The colonel left his estate to be divided among his sister’s children,” Leo said. “Which means Mary Griffiths and Wendy each get half.”
Now both the women were staring at him. “God knows Mary Griffiths could use it.”
“It’s not Mrs. Griffiths I’m worried about,” Leo said. “There have been two murders, and Wendy has benefitted each time. And unless you want her to hang for crimes she didn’t commit, we need to come up with a plausible story, damn it.”
“I’ve heard worse, dear. Obviously, you know who killed Armstrong. But have you figured out yet who killed poor Mildred?”
“You mean it wasn’t you?”
Miss Delacourt looked scandalized. “I should think not. So sloppy.”
“Mr. Page, you cannot imagine what a trial it’s been looking after her for the past half century.” Miss Pickering had a fond look that belied her words.
“I rather think it was Armstrong himself,” Miss Delacourt said. “He’s the only one could have tampered with her flask before dinner. He might have taken her aside earlier and said something like ‘Oh, Mrs. Hoggett, I’ve got this top-shelf gin I don’t want to waste on this company, so do me a favor and put it aside,’ knowing full well that she’d drink from the doctored bottle herself. He might not have counted on her pouring it directly into her flask, but it hardly mattered.”
“How did he get the flask back here?” Leo asked.
Miss Delacourt tittered. “That, I’m afraid, was Edith’s naughtiness.”
“I didn’t care for the woman, but I didn’t want her to be found dead with a flask by her side. So, while we were waiting for the police to come, I walked over to close her eyes and pocketed the flask. That was before I knew it was murder, of course. I really did think she had drunk herself to death.”
“Very naughty,” Miss Delacourt reproached. “I suppose you’ve gathered what Wendy was about with that story she told about sleepwalking.”
Leo groaned. “I let it slip that her bicycle had been heard along the footpath. She cares for you very much indeed.” He wanted to ask why Miss Delacourt shot Colonel Armstrong, but there were more pressing matters to attend to.
Miss Delacourt nodded. “And we care about her. Now, young man, I think you’d better go find Wendy before she meddles any further.”
Leo got to his feet and strode through the house to the back door, where he saw footprints in the snow leading toward Wych Hall.
THE FIRST THING JAMES saw when he left his morning surgery was that Leo had taken his valise. He had hoped the man would return that night. The absence of that bag argued otherwise.
The front door opened, bringing in a gust of cold air and the vicar. “Hullo, Griffiths. You look better.”
“I feel better, too. The children are making merry hell at home, but I wanted to stop in and ask you if you’ve seen Mary.”
“No, did she mean to come to see me? I would have called on her if she needed to be checked.”
“It’s not that. The telephone rang this morning and a few minutes later she came to me and said she had business at the hall and that she was taking the car. At that moment, I was trying to stop Polly from decorating the dog with her paints, so the oddness of it didn’t occur to me until now.”
“Did she say who her business was with?”
“I rather assumed it had to be Mrs. Clemens, but I just saw the woman walk past the vicarage, so it can’t have been her.”
James threw on his coat. “Why did you think she wanted to see Mrs. Clemens?”
“I supposed it had something to do with Wendy’s scheme.”
James began to feel that he wasn’t keeping up with this conversation at all. “What do you mean by Wendy’s scheme?”
“The bartering scheme. I’m not meant to know about it because clergy are widely assumed to be as innocent as babies, but I think I knew when Mrs. Dinkler’s baby got all that fresh milk.”
“It would seem,” James said with some asperity, “that I am indeed as innocent as a baby because I’m only learning about it now. Please tell me Wendy and Mrs. Clemens aren’t running some kind of black market operation.”
“Oh, dear me, no. Nothing like that. I doubt it even rises to the level of ration book fraud. As I said, it’s bartering. Wendy has seen to it that everyone has chickens and gardens, and she distributes the items as she sees fit. She has a couple of pigs in the ruins of the old chapel at Wych Hall and they’re to be shared among the village when they, ah, meet their maker. Mrs. Clemens is only involved because she doesn’t let on about the pigs, and because she knows everyone within a five-mile radius.”
James looked for his boots, but they were nowhere to be found, so he put on his walking shoes. “I’ll go up to the hall right now. I don’t care how many pigs and jars of honey and dozens of eggs she means to hand out. The fact is that she belongs in bed.”
“Thank you, Sommers.”
“While you’re here, what was Mary’s maiden name?”
“Owen,” the vicar said as if it was a matter of no import.
James swore.
“Wendy has her own father’s name, of course,” the vicar said.
James stilled, midway through wrapping his muffler around his neck. “Pardon?”
“Smyth
e. Not a nice man, I’m afraid. When he died, well, one hopes the dead meet with mercy as well as justice, but sometimes...” he trailed off.
“This village,” James announced, “has too many damned secrets.” And with that, he stepped out into the snow.
Chapter 16
Leo followed the footsteps in the snow, even as the realization dawned that he was going to be very ill indeed. His skin felt like it had been worked over with a rasp, and the state of his head didn’t even bear thinking about. He knocked at the door of the gamekeeper’s cottage, but there was no answer, nor was there any smoke coming from the chimney, so he carried on down the path. As he approached Wych Hall, he saw that the police car that had been parked on the drive was now absent. This was exactly why people held local police in such low regard, he reflected. He followed the footsteps to the kitchen entrance.
The kitchen was empty and silent. No use cooking for a dead man, he supposed. But Norris, Sally Bright, and Mrs. Clemens were all still staying at the hall. He drew his pistol from his pocket and climbed the stairs toward the library. He wasn’t surprised to find Norris sitting on the hearthrug burning a stack of papers.
“Ah,” Leo said from the doorway. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’ve saved anything I might find of interest.”
Norris spun toward the door, a revolver in his hand. “Damn it, Page. Bugger off, why don’t you.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Leo said, not moving at all and keeping his posture as casual as he could.
“I’m using this on myself as soon as I finish with these papers. There’s nothing to stop me from using it on you first.”
“Sounds about right, but may I ask why you’re going to top yourself?”
“I’m already a dead man. I’ll hang for the charwoman’s death, and you know it. And I’m not going back to prison. I can’t face it. Maybe that makes me a coward, but so be it.”
“Why go to the trouble of burning the evidence if you’re only going to kill yourself afterward? When you’re dead, it won’t matter what people think of you.”
Hither Page (Page & Sommers Book 1) Page 17