A Question of Honor (17 page)

He took a deep breath, and I knew he was finding it hard to be fair. “Ten years ago, I’d have said it was impossible. Now? I don’t have an answer for you. Just—be careful, Bess.”

It was an echo of what Simon had said to me already.

Chapter Thirteen

W
e talked of other things after that. But ten miles from home, I asked the Colonel Sahib, “Do you think we should tell Mother? About Lieutenant Wade?”

“We might as well,” he said, resigned to the inevitable. “She’ll find out sooner or later.”

Before I went to bed that night, I wrote to Mr. Kipling. I told him what I could about the death of Mr. and Mrs. Wade, and about the Subedar’s brother, and asked him if he could use his contacts in India to look into the matter.

Mr. Kipling had known so many people out there. In the newspaper business, in the Army, in the police. If anyone could discover useful information about that brother, it was he.

Simon was away, and so I spent several days enjoying being home, as much as I could, given what was happening in France, the war, the epidemic. Not to mention Corporal Caswell’s whereabouts.

My mother broached the subject of Lieutenant Wade one afternoon when we were in the kitchen, putting up jars of plums.

“I don’t know what to tell you about the man,” she said, setting aside the jar she had been working with and reaching for another. “I was content when he volunteered to see Mary Standish safely to England, and I wasn’t surprised that he took her all the way to the Middletons. That was a kindness.”

But was it? I asked myself. Was he merely trying to be sure little Alice had died of natural causes, or to see if whatever had happened to his own sister had happened to her? After all, it was not until he knew for certain that Mary Standish was not going to travel with him back to India that he killed the Caswell family. Would they still be alive if Mary Standish had decided to return to her husband? I couldn’t put that out of my mind.

My mother wiped her hands on her apron and stared out the window at the summer sunlight beating down on the gardens. “I’d always told myself that if I could have seen his face—Lieutenant Wade’s—as the MFP took him into custody, I’d have known whether he was guilty or not. But of course that never happened.” She picked up another jar and began to fill it with the fruit.

I had seen his face when I told him his parents were dead—and I hadn’t been able to judge anything. Whether he was lying about not knowing or if he thought I would have doubts about his guilt if I was convinced he hadn’t known about two of the murders.

“Well,” my mother said, as we finished the last of the jars, “we aren’t going to solve the puzzle of Lieutenant Wade this afternoon, are we?”

And we dropped the subject, walking out to the orchard to see how the apple crop was coming.

When Simon arrived at last, I had no chance to speak to him alone. It was the next morning before I could walk down to the cottage, just before breakfast.

He was awake, sitting in the back garden with a cup of tea in his hand and the pot at his elbow on a white-painted iron table.

“Hullo,” he said. “There’s another cup just inside the door. I rather thought you’d be coming over.”

I smiled, but I still hadn’t made up my mind how much to tell him. Would he and my father feel that they had no choice but to take measures to arrest Lieutenant Wade? I had a little time. I needn’t make the decision straightaway, I told myself as I brought out the extra cup and poured myself a little of the tea. The milk in the jug was fresh, and there was a pot of honey beside it. I sighed with pleasure as I took my first sip.

“I want to go back to Petersfield. I know, there are problems with that. But I would like to go all the same.”

“I looked into the estate agent who is handling The Willows. Nothing I learned about him seemed to be of interest. He’s been in that same location for some years, his reputation is good, and because of a bad foot he’s not in the war. Then I called on him. I’d put his age closer to forty than to thirty. When I mentioned The Willows, he showed no reaction whatsoever. I asked if he’d seen the property himself, and he said he had not. Nor could he tell me anything about the history of the house, only that it was far too large for the present owner.”

“All the more reason to go back to Petersfield.”

“I rather thought you would suggest that. The day is yours.” He grinned at me. “What’s this you wrote to me about a friend from our India days. Don’t tell me you actually had Wade as a patient?”

“I haven’t said anything to my parents. But yes, I did. He tried to make me believe he hadn’t known about his parents’ death—only about the three here in England. And he couldn’t have known, could he, if he escaped before he spoke to the Military Foot Police?”

“Surely if he had tried to contact them, he’d have found out.”

“He said he dared not try, that it would prove he’d survived. And he’s clever, Simon, the men under him think he’s a good soldier, the Sisters and even Matron thought him a lovely man. I tried to tell them they were wrong, but no one would listen. And I was sent away to bring another convoy across, while he was still a patient.”

He turned to stare at me. “Are you quite serious? Yes, you are. You should have called in the police yourself.”

“The fact that I was Colonel Crawford’s daughter might have carried some weight. But the Army already knew him as Corporal Caswell, and I’m sure he had an unblemished record. Well, of course it was unblemished, he didn’t dare step out of line for fear in any inquiry someone might stumble over his real past while looking into his background.” I couldn’t tell him about my promise—he’d have thought it mad.

“There’s that dead Subedar, Gupta.”

“But we don’t know for certain who shot him. The Subedar could have seen him somewhere, just as I did. It doesn’t mean he followed the Lieutenant to the Front. I think that if Thomas Wade had shot him, the Subedar would have said something about that, if only to reinforce his account of having spotted the man. It would have been a telling point.”

“Then what was he doing so near the Front lines? Why would he have risked his life going that close to the trenches? He must have been tracking Wade.”

“That’s true.” I took a deep breath. “Of course, there’s his brother. If the Lieutenant had been caught and tried for the murder of his own parents, there was no reason for guilt to fall on the Subedar’s brother. Perhaps the brother
hadn’t
killed anyone—but the Subedar suspected he might have done.”

“There must have been hundreds of other men at the Front who had served with Wade over his career. Why didn’t they recognize the man?”

“Because he chose the sappers, not the infantry. It was only recently that he was posted to that regiment. And because in the chaos of trenches, people have more to think about than India ten years ago.”

“Or because,” Simon suggested, “he saw to it that anyone who might have begun to wonder or ask questions caught a bullet in the back during the next attack.”

I remembered what my father had said about someone who killed without remorse.

“Well, it’s not too late. He must still be a patient, he was too weak to return to his company. Have him taken into custody before he’s discharged.”

“We’ll go to Petersfield, first, shall we?” Simon asked, setting his cup back on the tray.

“I’ll tell Mother. Ten minutes?”

“Agreed.” He took my cup from me and added, “Bess. We don’t know if or how Wade and the Gesslers are connected. We can’t afford to be rash.”

“I know. I’ve thought about that too.” I could still see the faint outline of the bruise on his cheek.

T
en minutes later, we were pulling out of the drive and on our way to Petersfield.

The day that had begun with a lovely summer clear sky was growing cloudy by the time we reached Hampshire, and by Petersfield, we could see black clouds gathering way out to sea, hovering on the far horizon.

By two o’clock, we were driving into Church Square in the heart of the village. It was quiet at this hour, for this wasn’t market day.

We left the motorcar by a milliner’s shop, and Simon had just come round to open my door when he saw Mr. Gates crossing the lower part of the square and disappearing down the High Street. Head down, the man looked haunted, and I felt pity for him.

“Let’s go into the churchyard. Give him a head start,” Simon suggested, and I agreed.

It was quiet too. I wondered if the sexton was looking out a window of one of the houses on the lane that ran on the far side of the churchyard, but there was no help for it if he was.

We paused by the Caswell tombstones, standing there busy with our own thoughts, when someone spoke from just behind us.

“Knew them, did you?”

We turned to see an elderly man standing there, leaning on a rosewood cane. He looked to be sixty-five, at the most seventy. It was hard to judge, for other than the cane, he appeared to be fit.

I realized that he’d been speaking to Simon, not to me.

“I’m not sure,” Simon said. “The name is familiar.”

“You’re too young to be one of their lads,” the man replied, squinting to look up at Simon.

“My elder brother.” Simon had no brothers, but I said nothing. “Dead in the war, you see.”

“Yes, well, a pilgrimage, like.” The old man nodded. “I was sexton at St. Peter’s when they were put into the ground. Another young gentleman was here not long ago—July, it must have been. Or just after I’d come from having my back seen to. Lumbago, they said it was. At any rate, he was standing by these graves at dusk, a lonely figure somehow. I came across to speak to him. He said he needed to see their graves. The way he spoke, I thought perhaps it made him feel better, knowing they were well taken care of in death.”

I had the oddest thought—that he’d come to see they were indeed dead and buried. An exorcism . . .

I wanted to glance at Simon, to follow his lead. But when he said nothing, I asked, “Did you catch his name? He could have known our brother.”

“If he told it, I don’t remember.”

Simon asked, “You must have seen the children at The Willows often. Attending church, coming into the village on market day or for an outing.”

“They never came into Petersfield as a rule. Sometimes for Sunday services, of course, but even that was rare. The Caswells had a chapel in their house, and services were conducted there. But I saw the children from time to time. Out on the Common, or walking in the woods. Down by the stream. Never near enough to speak to.”

“I have a photograph of them that my brother sent to us out in India. Perhaps you could put names to the faces there.”

“Oh, I doubt it after all this time.” He pointed across the churchyard. “Now that one I remember. The little Wade girl. Pretty as a picture. It like to broke my heart when she died. And such a small casket. She was the only typhoid case we had that entire spring. Sometimes it’s the little ones who can’t pull through. Too small, too frail.”

“Was she frail?” I asked. “My brother thought she was in good health.”

“They said she was frail. That’s all I know. The doctor of the time could have told you. He attended her in her last hours.”

“Where is he now?”

“He moved from Petersfield at the turn of the century, I think it was. Up to Lincolnshire where his sister lived. She was the widow of a doctor and he took over that practice.”

That matched what we’d been told before.

“How many children did they have living there at a time? The Caswells. Do you know?”

“The most at a time was eight, as I remember. Mr. Caswell’s money ran out, so rumor had it, although some thought it was bad investments. And they were gentry, they couldn’t very well go out to work or take in boarders, could they? At any rate, they began to take in these children from India whose parents wished them to be properly educated. There was a governess and a tutor to prepare them for boarding school, with lessons in deportment and the like.”

“Were they still taking in children at the time they were killed?”

“It had stopped by then. Well before then, in fact. After the governess died.”

“When was this?”

“After your brother’s day, I’d say. We were told she was never able to regain her spirits after her fiancé died in South Africa. Killed by the Boers, he was. Bloody business. She drowned herself in the little stream. But the doctor said he couldn’t be sure she killed herself, she could have fallen and hit her head, then drowned before she came to again. I don’t know. But that allowed her to be laid to rest in hallowed ground. She’s over there, near the wall. She had wanted to leave, to find another position. She told me that herself. But she couldn’t get up the courage. She said it more than once. Mrs. Caswell told me it was a great pity, that she’d tried to convince Miss Grant to go. But it was too much on top of her loss.”

“Have any of the others come back?” Simon asked.

“If they did I’d have no way of knowing unless I was in the churchyard and seen them wandering about, looking at the stones. This is a favorite walk of mine. Most of my family and many of my friends are here, around me. Don’t grow old. It’s a lonely business.”

“I’d have liked to learn the children’s names. Perhaps they could tell me about my brother.”

“You were too young to be sent to England with him, I daresay. Now Mabel Gooding might know. She was hired as a nursery maid, but it was usually Mabel who was present when the doctor was called in for an illness, not Mrs. Caswell or the governess. No training, you understand, Sister,” he added, turning to me. “But if you were sick, now, and needed a cool hand on your brow or a soft voice in your ear telling you you were going to be just fine, there was no one like her. Even after she left the Caswells, she never lacked for work.”

Many villages had such women, skilled in caring for the sick, sitting with them at the doctor’s suggestion or just appearing on the doorstep when word reached them that a woman was in labor or a child had croup or a man had cut himself in the fields. Sometimes they were the only medical care for miles. But Petersfield had a doctor.

“Where can we find her?” I asked.

“She lives in that small cottage near the Common,” he said. “Well, my back is tired, I need to start out for home.” He nodded, and turned to walk away.

“Wait,” I said, putting out a hand to stop him. “Who killed the Caswell family? We were never told. Does anyone know who it was? Was someone taken into custody?”