A Duty to the Dead (17 page)

“Your concern does you credit, my dear. A duty to the dead is a sacred matter.” It was an echo of what my father had said to me. “What is it you want to hear?”

“What do you recall about Peregrine and the decision to send him to the asylum? How much did your husband tell you?”

“Very little at first. He came home that night shocked and grieving, refusing to tell me anything. Several months later, he was reminded of that night. We’d just finished our tea, and it was beginning to rain when Mrs. Graham sent for my husband. He was gone for hours. It seems that young Timothy went missing. We learned afterward that he’d set out on his own to find Peregrine. I have no idea how Mrs. Graham explained the situation to her other children, but it appeared that Timothy really didn’t know what had become of his half brother. Come to that, most of us weren’t told in the beginning where Peregrine was or why. And to tell you the truth, the boy was so seldom seen by that time that few of us thought twice about his absence. But back to Timothy Graham. My husband learned that Timothy was very upset that day. He’d been sent to his room for disobeying Robert Douglas, and some time in the late afternoon he left the house without being seen and simply vanished. Everyone was frantic; they had no idea where he was or why he’d told no one where he was going.”

“There were search parties?”

“Oh, yes, as many men as my husband could muster. Mr. Craig rang the church bell to gather them. And they were out until late into the night. Finally someone came from one of the outlying farms—a man named Hutter—to say that Timothy had been found in his barn, asleep in one of the horse stalls. My husband asked the
boy why he’d run away, and he said that he wanted to find Peregrine and stay with him. It was after he was brought in that Mrs. Graham finally admitted to her sons where their brother was and that he would never come home.”

“How sad!”

“When Henry finally walked in the door, he couldn’t sleep. He paced for two hours, he was that upset. And because he couldn’t put it all behind him, he told me about Peregrine.”

“Did he tell you about how they’d gathered—your husband, Mr. Craig, Lady Parsons, and Dr. Hadley, together with Mrs. Graham—to decide Peregrine’s fate? And then apparently London accepted their decision? Did Inspector Gadd believe it was a just solution?”

“Yes, and I’m sure he felt it was, or he wouldn’t have been a party to it. Still, I was horrified. I’d known those boys, you see, most of their lives.”

“Can you tell me anything about the tutor? Nathan Appleby?”

“I didn’t know him well, but I was of the opinion that he didn’t have the character to rule four lively boys. But Mrs. Graham appeared to be satisfied with him.”

“What do you mean, the character?”

“He was rather pompous, for one thing, and I—well, to put it bluntly, I overheard the rector question Mr. Appleby’s qualifications, when the Grahams could afford the best. Mr. Graham replied that his wife—the present Mrs. Graham—had selected him, and there was no more to be said.”

Why would she willingly choose an incompetent tutor? Unless she felt he would do as she asked?

“Did he stay with the Graham family, after Peregrine was taken away?”

“Yes, until the boys went off to school, and then he moved to Chilham, to a family there.”

“Did your husband tell you the name of the girl who was—murdered?”

“How could I ever forget it? Lily Mercer.”

“Did anyone ask her family how they felt about Peregrine going to the asylum rather than standing trial?”

Mrs. Gadd looked surprised. “I—I don’t believe they were consulted—nothing was said—the London police were in agreement about the asylum. Even though there were no witnesses, the evidence spoke for itself. Peregrine’s bloody hands and clothes, his mental confusion, told their own story. And of course there was his youth. No one wanted the boy sent to prison, if treatment was available at Barton’s.”

“Yes, but no one has explained why he should have killed Lily.”

“I doubt that anyone knows except perhaps Peregrine himself, if he’s able to understand his own actions.”

“You said the evidence pointed strongly to Peregrine.”

“Mrs. Graham and her cousin had gone out to dine that evening. They came home to find the other boys in bed. Lily wasn’t waiting for them, as she was supposed to be. Mrs. Graham went to Lily’s room and found Peregrine on the floor by her body. They asked him, of course—the London police, Lady Parsons, the rector, my husband—everyone. He seemed dazed. And all he would say to them was he wanted his knife back again, the one his father had given him. And of course they couldn’t give it to him, the police had taken it away because it was a murder weapon.”

I swallowed hard. “And his brothers? They hadn’t seen or heard anything?”

“Apparently not. But we had the same laundress, Mrs. Graham and I. And I heard her tell my cook that when Susan’s mother unpacked the boys’ luggage, the night they returned to Owlhurst, she found blood all along the cuff of Arthur’s nightshirt. She pointed it out to Mrs. Wallace—the laundress—and asked if such a stain would come out.”

“Arthur’s? Are you sure of that?” My voice was sharp, I couldn’t make it behave.

“Yes, I’m certain. He’d had a nosebleed, he said. It seems he was prone to them as a child.”

Mr. Owens chose that moment to knock at the door, and Mrs. Gadd went to let him in.

I sat by the fire, cold to the bone. And all I could think of was the message I had carried home for Arthur.

Tell Jonathan that I lied. I did it for Mother’s sake. But it has to be set right.

I was silent on the long drive back to Tonbridge. Mr. Owens tried once or twice to draw me into conversation, but I told him I was tired.

The truth was, I was tormented by what I’d learned.

I should have risked everything and turned Peregrine over to the police the first chance I had. The police could have disarmed him before he’d killed anyone. Surely—

And then I would never have come to Rye to hear Mrs. Gadd’s account of what had transpired in London. I would have gone instead to Somerset, my father’s daughter, and been told I’d been very brave and very foolish at the same time, and I could have forgot Peregrine Graham in a few months. I’d have gone back to war, and put him out of my mind.

Instead I’d taken up the challenge of finding out more.

Arthur hadn’t wanted to put his last wishes into a letter. He’d trusted to his brother to set things right for him. He’d been certain that Jonathan would understand his message and see that justice was done.

But neither Jonathan nor his mother had seemed to understand it—Mrs. Graham had asked me questions about it.

To find out how much Arthur had told you, my mind retorted. To see if you were aware of what ought to be set right.

Had she let me nurse Peregrine because she thought I would fail to save him? A young nurse, where a doctor’s training was needed? She’d turned away the doctor when he came to the door. And the rector as well. Or had she only been afraid that in his delirium, Peregrine might remember more than he ought?

I was condemning her because of my own hurt, and that was hindsight, and not fair at all.

Arthur couldn’t have killed that girl. Not the man I’d known on
Britannic,
not the man everyone remembered as brave and stoic? He was his mother’s favorite, she’d said as much.

But then she’d protect her favorite, the dead son’s memory, with all her might, wouldn’t she? Peregrine had always been blamed, why do anything now?

Surely she couldn’t have known from the start—

I huddled in my seat, listening to the cold wind whistling by, my fingers already stiff with cold, my feet barely warmed by the tiny heater. Even the rug Mr. Owens had handed me for my knees wasn’t enough.

I was reminded of that dreadful ride in the dogcart from Tonbridge to Owlhurst, when the cold knifed through my coat and the rugs, no motorcar to break the wind or offer a modicum of protection.

The cart had nearly dumped me on the verge of the road, on my broken arm, when Robert fell asleep and the wheels went into a ditch. Had that been deliberate, and then he’d changed his mind at the last possible second and held me on the seat?

My mind was running away with me.

But in a short time I would have to face Peregrine Graham, and I had no idea what I was going to tell him.

There’s no proof that Arthur—
You’ve jumped to conclusions, my girl, and you’re paying the price of it,
I lectured myself.

I’d wondered why Peregrine had killed. I could ask the same question about Arthur—or any of the other Graham sons. Why kill Lily?

It was useless, I was going around in circles for nothing.

What was it Arthur felt must be set right? What did he lie to his mother about? Or to put it differently, since he too was only a child at the time, what lie did he let his mother tell to protect the son she loved best?

We were pulling into the outskirts of Tonbridge. I roused myself to thank Mr. Owens for taking me to Rye, and I counted out the money I owed him for the journey. As I gave it to him in front of the hotel, he said, “I have you to thank as well. I’d not have visited Mrs. Gadd, else. It was good to see her again.”

And all the while I wished I’d never heard her name spoken this day.

Peregrine was pacing the floor when I tapped at his door and stepped into his room.

When I’d left that morning, I’d feared he might do something foolish, perhaps walk away and never be seen again. Now I wished he’d done just that.

“Where the hell have you been?” he was demanding. “You couldn’t have been in Owlhurst all this time!”

“I didn’t go to Owlhurst after all. I went to Rye instead.”

“Rye? What were you doing in Rye?”

“Do you remember the policeman who talked to you that night?”

“Inspector Gadd? Yes. He was kind. I think he believed I was some sort of monster, but he treated me gently.”

“Well, I’ve just spent half an hour with his widow. She gave me the name of the girl who died. Lily Mercer.”

“Yes, that’s right. I don’t know why I couldn’t recall her last name.”

“Did she like Arthur more than anyone else? Did she seem to favor him?”

“I have no earthly idea. I was in my own room most of the time. I don’t know how they got on.”

I took a deep breath. “I was just wondering. Peregrine, I want to
go back to London tonight. I want to see if I can find Lily Mercer’s family.”

“What could they know that would be helpful? They weren’t there.”

“But they knew their daughter, I expect. They knew what manner of girl she was. A person of your background doesn’t just decide from one minute to the next to strike down a servant in his household. I mean to say, there must be more to the murder than we know—than you can remember.”

“She teased Timothy about his clubfoot. I heard her, in the passageway. She asked me what was wrong with me, why I was left behind when my brothers had gone to the zoo and to see the Tower.”

Timothy was the youngest. Vulnerable. Would Arthur defend him? But you don’t go round murdering someone just because she’s cruel. Unless this was the first time Timothy had been tormented in such a way and Arthur—

No, he’d have spoken to Robert—to his mother. Wouldn’t he have?

“What else do you recollect?”

He frowned. “I was given my meals in my room. As I always was. I saw the staff only in passing.”

“Peregrine. Was your tutor attracted to Lily Mercer?”

“Mr. Appleby?” He smiled. “I can’t imagine him condescending to a flirtation with a servant girl.”

Mrs. Gadd had said that the tutor was pompous. Still, anything was possible. London was a long way from Owlhurst.

“I’ve changed my mind, Peregrine. I want to go to Chilham tomorrow, instead of London. To see if I can find your former tutor. To see what he could add to the story.”

“I thought someone in Owlhurst had the rector’s journals?”

“Yes, but think—if there had been anything in those journals that the police ought to know, Mr. Montgomery would have told me. He’d read them over. He said as much to me.”

“Who is Montgomery?”

“The present rector. No, I think it might be more helpful to speak to Mr. Appleby. Let me see if I can persuade Mr. Owens to drive me there tomorrow.”

“This time I’ll go with you.”

“You’ll be seen—recognized—”

“Hardly. I doubt Appleby will know me. Not in this uniform. It’s been fourteen years, after all.”

He had a point.

We had a late tea in the hotel dining room, with me on tenterhooks that someone might see in the rather attractive young officer across from me a dangerous escapee from an asylum. But of course no one did. Peregrine complained of being shut up in his room all day and needing exercise, so we went for a short walk down the quiet street. Afterward Peregrine saw me to my door, and said, “Something you learned today disturbed you. Will you tell me what it is? I ought to know, if it has any bearing on my situation.”

I tried to smile, but it faltered. “It was just something—odd, that’s all.”

I opened my door, and he followed me into my room, shutting the door behind him. I tensed.

He said, “Don’t look like that. I’m not going to hurt you. Have I? In any way?”

“No.”

“Then tell me.”

“The housekeeper—Susan’s mother—showed the woman who was the family’s laundress a stain she’d found on the sleeve of Arthur’s nightshirt, and asked if it could be gotten out. She’d found the nightshirt in the valises as she unpacked after everyone returned from London. There must have been no time to do anything about it—or else no one noticed it. It was just—she said he was prone to nosebleeds. Arthur.”

“Was he? I don’t know. Surely my stepmother was told about
the blood. Or the London police would have seen it and questioned Arthur.”

They might have, if he’d been wearing the nightshirt when Mrs. Graham called the police. Had he changed it before his mother got home?

Stop it!
I ordered myself.

Answering Peregrine aloud, I agreed. “Yes. Of course. I’m tired. It was a long, cold journey. And stressful.”