An Unwilling Accomplice (13 page)

Simon shrugged off the comment. “I had time on my hands,” he replied. “As for the brother, he was killed earlier in the war. What matters is that Wheeler is a family name.”

I wasn’t sure I believed him about time on his hands. “Then you know where his family came from.”

“Lincoln,” he told me.

“Warwick is hardly the shortest way to Lincoln. What should we do now?”

“We can’t catch the lorry up. It could be anywhere in England by this time. The best we can do is to make our way to Warwickshire and see what we can learn. Assuming he stays with the lorry that far. We’ll cut across Worcestershire, I think.”

It was a large assumption.

“And we must hurry. He could have found another lorry or farmer or the like to take him the next leg. I don’t see why he didn’t head for Scotland. Or Ireland for that matter.”

“That’s assuming he wanted to leave England.”

“Wouldn’t you, in his place?”

“It would depend, wouldn’t it, on whether or not he’d finished what he set out to do. He’s killed one man. It’s possible he had it in mind to kill another.”

I’d suggested just that earlier, but it was something I didn’t want to think about, that if we were too late, another person might die. “All the more reason to find him. I wish Scotland Yard had been more successful. I could have stayed in Somerset all this while, with my parents. But he’s been so clever—Wilkins. He never panicked, he kept his head and stayed out of sight. He probably couldn’t help the horse getting away from him. Even then he was lucky—it went straight home, and no one could begin to guess how far it had been ridden. And we’ve learned something else, that he’s been hurt. Do you think that could have happened when the horse got away?”

“Scotland Yard is shorthanded. They haven’t got the men to scour Shropshire and now Warwickshire, as we’ve been doing. They’re depending on a constable spotting Wilkins somewhere and reporting the fact to London.”

We drove in silence for the next twenty miles. I said, as we passed through another village, “What if Wilkins told the man in the smithy one thing—and asked the lorry driver to drop him in Worcestershire?”

“That’s a possibility. The question is, how do we find out?”

“We act on what we know. Warwickshire.”

A heavy rain caught us an hour later, turning the dry roads into a morass of ruts and puddles. Simon suggested stopping, but I shook my head.

“The sooner we’re out of this weather, the better time we can make. I’ll spell you if you like.”

“I’m all right.”

But it was another two hours before we ran out of the rain, and soon afterward we were in country neither Simon nor I knew. We kept going, our sense of direction guiding us, and after a while, as early autumn darkness fell, we began to consider where to stop for the night. We found ourselves rejecting most of the possibilities. Several of the pubs had no rooms, while the small roadside inns had none to spare, or occasionally only one. We were well off the main roads now, and there was little call for accommodations for travelers. It was after nine, and then after ten, and finally going on for midnight.

Simon turned to me, his face set in the reflected light from the headlamps. “I’m tired. I think we ought to call it a night.”

The question was, where could we stop?

We were in rather hilly country just then, and we hadn’t passed a sizable town or village in some time. While there was bound to be one ahead, it could be another hour—two—before we found what we were after.

“If you can find a suitable place to stop, I’m for it,” I agreed. I’d just caught myself dozing in my seat, and if I was tired, then Simon most certainly must be.

We drove on, the hills higher and closer together, the road a thread winding around the base of one and then following on around the base of the next.

“A string of lighted windows,” I said, a few minutes later, pointing ahead. “It must be a village.”

But it was no more than a widening in the road, the land flat enough to allow for a hamlet to grow up.

It wasn’t large enough to boast an inn, nor even a pub of any size.

The next hamlet was a bit larger but still crowded into a long, narrow pocket of land. I saw the name,
MIDDLE DYSOE
, on a signpost at the curve in the road. But it offered little more than the first hamlet had done. There were a dozen or so cottages strung out along the road, one lane that disappeared behind several small shops, and a smithy at the far end.

“Would you like me to drive?” I asked once more.

“I’m all right. For now—” He broke off as the next turning revealed a half dozen or so sheep blocking the road. Swearing under his breath, Simon pulled up the brake, as we gave ourselves and the poor ewes quite a fright. After casting terrified glances over their shoulders at the monster that had so suddenly come upon them, they darted into a farm lane, their white backs milling and pushing to be the first out of danger. And then they were gone, out of range of our headlamps and quickly disappearing from sight behind a straggling clump of lilacs.

Simon sat there for a moment, then he said, “I don’t relish having to pay a distraught farmer for his ewes.”

I laughed, but he was right, we might have injured one of them.

In the distance, over the ticking of the motor, I could hear a dog bark once or twice, and then right across our headlamps an owl swooped low, landing in the grassy verge, before taking off again. I thought we must have spoiled his aim, for he appeared to have missed his prey.

Simon released the brake and moved on, this time even slower than the narrow and winding road demanded.

I had no idea where we were. Somewhere well out of Worcestershire, surely, and heading a little east, I thought, for this winding road had taken us slightly off course.

Ahead was another small sign at the outskirts of the next village, and as we approached, I could make out
UPPER DYSOE
.

It too had nothing to offer us.

I remembered seeing a barn just where the sheep had disappeared from view. Before I’d read the village’s name on the little sign. The roof half fallen in but the stone walls still in fair condition.

Hardly satisfactory lodging for the night. But certainly safe enough to rest for a little while. The next time we might not see the flock of sheep in time.

Simon had noticed the barn as well, but at first he refused to consider it.

“You can rest for a bit before we move on again. Long enough to take the edge off our fatigue.”

“Bess.”

“There has to be a town nearby. Before we find it, we could round another hill and find ourselves in a ditch.”

“All right. We’ll take a look.” He turned back, and when we reached the barn, he pulled off the road, judged the rutted lane that led up to the gaping space that had once held broad doors, and then moved forward into the shelter of the walls.

As our headlamps picked out the spacious interior, I realized that this barn must have been derelict for some time, not just through the war years. Twenty years? Thirty?

It appeared that anything that was still useful had been removed long ago. There was only the debris from the roof and fallen stone left. A good bit of that stone had also been carted away for building byres or walls in a field.

Simon helped me into the rear seat, handed me the rug he carried in the boot, and then settled himself into the seat I had vacated, stretching his long legs out toward the driver’s side.

“Twenty minutes?” Simon asked.

“Yes, that seems about right. Half an hour at the most.”

I fell asleep to the rustling of something in what was left of the roof.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

I
DON
’
T KNOW
how long we slept there. A faint glow of dawn was just etching its way across the eastern horizon when I opened my eyes again, and I could see through a gap in the roof that there were pink, fluffy clouds drifting across the sky. My neck was stiff, as if I’d slept with it in an awkward position, and as I moved to ease it a little, I woke Simon.

“It’s almost light,” he said. “Are you still asleep, Bess?”

“Not really. It’s a very good thing it didn’t rain!”

He chuckled. “There was nothing to fear short of a deluge.”

“It reminds me of nights I’ve spent in ruined villages in France.”

“Yes, it does that.” He got out and stretched his shoulders. “I’m afraid there’s nothing to offer you for breakfast. I don’t think our accommodations run to morning tea or anything else.”

But I was looking in the other direction, and I could see that on a makeshift shelf under the lee of the fallen roof, someone had collected a small mound of fruit from somewhere—pears and apples and berries. Beside them was a rusty, dented cup, and what appeared to be an old tin next to it.

“Simon. I don’t think we’re the only ones who’ve sought shelter here,” I said in a low voice.

“A shepherd, most likely,” he replied after walking over to look at the small hoard. “These are drying up—the berries turning gray with mold. Whoever it is, he hasn’t been back in a while.”

I wasn’t so sure it was a shepherd. The barn was too close to the road.

Our very safe, comfortable camp was taking on a very different aspect. I looked around us, peering into shadows and crannies where the roof had fallen in.

Simon went outside, and I could hear him as he circled the barn, looking for any sign of recent occupation.

I had the uneasy feeling that we might be under observation. Simon must have felt it as well, for he said, “Stay where you are for now. I’ll drive on.”

He bent to turn the crank, just as a bit of the roof slipped down some ten feet ahead of us, landing with a thud on the dusty floor of the barn, and a pair of doves took off, startling me as they flapped through the opening and soared out of sight.

Simon got in, carefully reversed the motorcar, and drove out of the gaping hole where once doors had hung. We made it through the high grass and ruts in the lane back to the road without incident. I could see the doves sitting on the ruins of the roof now, settling back as we no longer threatened them.

I felt better at once. What if whoever was using the barn had come there and found us asleep?

Just then I saw a goat grazing on the far side of the road, nearly hidden by the summer’s growth of briars. Sunlight caught her yellow eyes, and at the same moment, I realized that she was tethered. That bore out Simon’s suggestion that a shepherd used the barn from time to time.

We stopped in another ten yards, and I moved to the seat next to Simon. My cap was crushed and wrinkled, my apron the same. I tucked loose strands of hair back out of sight and smoothed my skirts. “I believe I saw a pub in the village just ahead. Where we turned around last night?”

“I don’t think either of us is presentable enough to approach the police and ask directions,” he said with a wry smile. “The pub it is.”

“I expect you’re right.” And then I asked a question I’d been putting off since Simon had found me. “Has the Colonel Sahib had anything to say about my problem with the Army?” I told myself I hadn’t wanted him to know, because I hadn’t wanted to drag him into what had happened over Sergeant Wilkins’s disappearance. But this morning I suddenly found myself thinking about him.

“I haven’t spoken to him,” Simon answered. “I’ve been out of touch.”

Which probably meant he’d been in France. Or my father had. Not the happiest thought. I worried about them more than they knew.

Just then we came to the outskirts of the village, and down the street I could see the pub sign.
the
SHEPHERD
’
S
CROOK
.

I could feel my stomach growling at the thought of breakfast.

“What do you say? We can stop here, freshen up, and bespeak breakfast before deciding where we are and whether to go back or continue.”

“A very good idea.”

Ahead of us a young woman with a market basket over her arm started to cross the street, a small liver-and-white spaniel on a lead trotting beside her. The little dog darted away, dragging his lead, and charged the motorcar, barking furiously.

The young woman cried out in alarm, calling the dog’s name, and if Simon’s reflexes hadn’t been swift enough, the spaniel would have ended up under our wheels. Sounding the horn and veering away, he barely missed the little dog.

I breathed again, knowing just how close a call it was.

The spaniel must have realized that as well, for it fell back on its haunches as Simon sounded the horn once more, then it turned tail and ran back to its mistress, cowering beneath her skirts. She fervently thanked us, then bent to scold the dog.

We carried on and pulled into the pub’s yard behind several carts and a horse-drawn milk wagon.

Apparently we weren’t the only ones to decide to stop here for breakfast. Inside there were half a dozen farmers. The man from the milk van was talking to them and to the cart owners, comparing prices on goods. I gathered there had been a market in one of the neighboring towns the day before, and those who hadn’t gone were discussing the cost of oats and barley and even beer, with those who had. They barely looked up as we crossed the room. I heard one of the farmers boast that he’d bought a bonnet for his daughter in Biddington, and the eager questions about prices turned into good-natured teasing. I saw the man flush with a mixture of embarrassment and pride.

The pub was old, dark, low beamed—Simon’s head all but brushed the rafters as we walked toward the bar—and the air was rather smoky from the fire.

There appeared to be no separate dining room, although Simon inquired, and he turned to me to ask if I wished to drive on. But I shook my head. The smells issuing from the kitchen were heavenly, and what did it matter if we stayed? Four years ago, before the war began, I might have been more reluctant. Now, having lived in very difficult conditions in France, sharing my breakfast with farmers was the least of my worries.

“I think it’s best to stay. But are there rooms available to wash my face and hands?” I asked him in Urdu, and he turned back to the man behind the bar.