A Duty to the Dead (29 page)

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.

“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.”

But that must have meant he knew who had had possession of that knife.

“Take the paper—go.” He was insistent, the urgency reflected in his eyes.

I looked at the man lying on the cot.

He hadn’t confessed until he’d realized Peregrine was still alive….
With Peregrine dead, the police would easily have come to the conclusion that the dangerous lunatic had run amok. They might still feel that way.

And Peregrine was claiming he’d shot Jonathan—but not the policemen. If he wanted to hang, why not admit to three people? Then where was the need for Jonathan to take the blame?

It was dark out there in the field. When he’d run off the road, why hadn’t Jonathan left the motorcar’s headlamps burning?

So that the other occupants of the motorcar couldn’t see what he’d seen—that someone else had been there?

And the Graham dogcart was standing in the yard of The Bells. It had been used tonight.

I said, “This confession is a lie. Who did you meet on the road tonight?”

He shut his eyes, not answering me.

“I saw him running away—I thought at first it was Peregrine. But Peregrine was already down, wasn’t he? He fired at someone, and missed. While you were struggling for control of your own revolver. That’s why I thought I’d only heard four shots. It wasn’t Peregrine who wounded you, it was Timothy, wasn’t it?
And you’re still protecting him! How many people must he kill before he’s stopped?”

“My brother—he’s my brother.”

“So is Peregrine, and you left him to the horrors of an asylum.”

I took a deep breath, feeling a wave of exhaustion sweep over me. There was only one other thing I wanted to know. But Jonathan was having difficulty breathing and I moved his pillows to make him more comfortable.

Dr. Philips was at the door, saying, “The ambulance is on its way.”

I turned to Jonathan. “Will you at least tell me what Arthur had done that distressed him so? I brought his message—”

Someone spoke from just behind Dr. Philips. It was Mrs. Graham, her face starkly pale, her gaze on Jonathan. “He didn’t confide in you after all. I was so sure he had. The police asked him if Peregrine had ever been violent before. And Arthur answered that we
were all afraid of him. Arthur had been standing outside the parlor where the police were questioning me, he knew what had been said. He knew I’d claimed that I’d found that same knife deep in my pillow one night. It was a large pocketknife, a man’s. The police were appalled. I knew they would be. Arthur saw that I was close to breaking down, and he lied to make them leave me alone.”

Two boys, barely understanding what was happening around them, telling lies because they were afraid, confused, and trying to please the adults who were interrogating them. And with their words, damning their half brother to a lifetime in a madhouse. But they’d never been taught to think of him as their brother, had they? Mrs. Graham had purposely kept them apart.

“What did Timothy tell the police?”

She took a deep breath. “He told the police that Peregrine had once threatened to carve him like a Christmas goose with that same knife.”

I wanted to bury my face in my hands and cry. On the lies of these three children, their mother had been able to protect her own son and keep him safe all these years, even knowing him for what he was. And no one had given a thought to Peregrine. He was the outcast, he was the eldest, and this woman had convinced herself that in the end his life would not have amounted to much anyway.