A Duty To The Dead Part 26

"I told you the authorities believe he could be. For all I know, you have him hidden in your flat, while you sort all of this out. If it weren't for Mrs. Hennessey and her rules, I'd march up there and see for myself."

I was glad I was looking away from him, watching a large man walking a little dog with pretty brown ears. Simon would surely have read the alarm in my eyes as I scrambled to think of a response.

"I'll ask her to do my marketing and then smuggle you into the flat. What a story that would make for the Colonel. Just promise not to tell her what you find, or she'll never allow me to live here again." G.o.d knew how much trouble I'd had smuggling Peregrine in and out. It was a miracle we hadn't been caught long before this.

Simon laughed, and I could breathe again.

"All right, Bess. Stay in London if you must. But your father's no fool, and he'll soon be on your doorstep again with no allowance for your wishes. I'll give you twenty-four hours before I tell him what the Yard told me."

"But-that's not enough time!"

"You don't have time, Bess. Your father was notified that your orders will be cut within the week. You'll be sailing for France in a fortnight."

Oh d.a.m.n.

I thanked Simon and went back to the flat, my mind racing.

Peregrine was behind the door when I walked in, and I could see that he was on edge.

"That wasn't your father," he told me flatly.

"No-that was Simon Brandon. He might as well be my father. Sometimes he's worse!"

"He's not old enough to be your father."

He wasn't. I hadn't given it a thought before.

"Peregrine. That doesn't matter. Listen to me." I was taking off my coat, reaching for the kettle, making tea. The English panacea for stressful moments. "Somehow Simon got a look at the official report on Lily's murder. It says-it says that there was a pocketknife in her throat-but no other wounds are listed. If you'd-well, if you'd butchered her, there would have been something something in the file." in the file."

"My stepmother-"

"I know. Whatever she told you, she didn't have the power to change the official record. Are you sure you remember-that you see in your dreams-something so horrible?"

He stared at me. "I don't know," he said slowly. "No. Yes, I dream I'm touching her entrails."

Dear G.o.d. "Peregrine, it could be that you dream about it. But that it didn't happen in life. The police can't be wrong."

He put his hands to his face, covering it. "You can't make up a dream. Not like that. Not unless I'm mad as a hatter. I used to wake up screaming, I tell you. It was that real."

I turned around. "Are you alone? Is someone else in the dream? Who is there in the dream with you?"

"I hear my stepmother's voice, she's speaking to me, telling me I should be ashamed, making me face what I've done. I am nearly sick from the smell, but she won't let me go, she's there." there."

The kettle was beginning to boil, I could hear the soft rumble of bubbles forming in the bottom.

"She found you by the body, trying to retrieve your knife from the wound-is that when you see the entrails?"

"I don't remember." He crossed the room to sit down heavily in the nearest chair. I was pouring the hot water into the teapot now, splas.h.i.+ng a little on my hands, unaware of the pain.

Remember Ted Booker-a little voice in my head reminded me.

Shock can do terrible things to the mind. And a fourteen-year-old boy with limited experience of life might easily be made to remember something that wasn't real. But how? With words?

I couldn't quite grasp what had been done. Or how Mrs. Graham could have allowed it to happen. But a mother will do anything to protect her own child, and destroying Peregrine Graham was the surest solution to the th.o.r.n.y problem of presenting Arthur or Jonathan or even Timothy to the police as the murderer.

I cudgeled my wits, but no brilliant solution offered itself.

Handing Peregrine his cup, I sat down across from him with my own. The hot, sweet tea was reviving. "Peregrine? You asked me if I'd sacrifice you to save Arthur's good name. But the facts point to Arthur as the killer-he was Mrs. Graham's favorite, he was next to you in age, you were already damaged, and so it was a short step to subst.i.tuting you for him. But I need to know why Arthur would kill?"

"To protect one of his brothers?" But he was unconvinced.

I on the other hand leapt for that explanation.

"It could happen. If Lily, in the house alone with you and resenting that she couldn't have the evening off with the other staff, taunted the four of you for being in her way-"

He shook his head. "Don't."

"Peregrine. I'm being ordered back to active duty within the week. Time is slipping through our fingers."

"It doesn't matter. I can go somewhere else and start another life. The Mercers must have done that in New Zealand, and it would have been harder for them than for me. After all these years in Barton's, I don't need much. I could survive."

Peregrine was already thought to be dead. There were ways it could be made to happen, this new life. There were people in India I could send him to- But it solved nothing. There was Lily, deserted by her family, however desperate they'd been to accept the offer of pa.s.sage away from England. If I had thought it was my duty to Arthur to bring his message home, what duty was still owed to Lily Mercer?

"Talk to me, Peregrine. Please-if you didn't kill her, someone else did. Do you remember what you told me about that conversation where Arthur and Jonathan discussed doing something six times to give the victim-or perhaps the police-a fair chance to catch you?"

"I've already considered that. Lily. The policeman Gadd. The doctor. The rector. Lady Parsons."

"You can't count her. She survived."

"The boy who drowned, then. That's five. And about as farfetched as a fairy tale."

"Add Ted Booker. Six."

"Arthur couldn't have killed Booker."

"To my knowledge, Jonathan was the last person to see him alive." Unless I was wrong, and Mrs. Denton went to the surgery.

"Jonathan?"

Unless Jonathan had completed Arthur's six. It would have to be Jonathan. But he was never Mrs. Graham's favorite.

He was her son, all the same. And she would be rabid to protect him.

Could he kill at that age? He must have been what, ten? A little younger, perhaps. If he'd caught Lily off guard, he could have struck her with the knife, just happening to find the right place to kill her. Or lashed out and was unlucky enough to cut an artery.

I hadn't liked Jonathan very much, but that didn't matter. The truth did.

But what if it was not the boys? What if it was Mrs. Graham? Or Robert? If he'd tried to seduce Lily, and she'd told him she'd complain to Mrs. Graham, he might have been in a panic. Or to twist it another way, if Lily had seen Mrs. Graham and Robert together-or perhaps guessed that one of the Graham children was his-she might have been killed if she threatened blackmail. What were the laws on inheritance, if it could be shown that a child might not be the legal father's son?

The trouble was, I hadn't known Lily Mercer, and I hadn't been able to speak to her family. I was blind when it came to her nature, her way of seeing life, and what she wanted from it.

Daisy had claimed she was ambitious, and that fit nicely with the theory of blackmail. But Lily might well have been innocent of any wrongdoing. I mustn't make her the villain without evidence.

"I'm going back to Owlhurst. I'll speak to Lady Parsons, and see if she had any doubts about what happened to you. If Mrs. Graham had already received permission from the London police to take you directly to Barton's, why did she call in so many people after she reached Owlhurst? The doctor-the police-the magistrate-the rector. To erase any doubt in the minds of people whose opinion mattered in Owlhurst? Or to make certain that you, Peregrine Graham, were seen with blood all over your hands and s.h.i.+rt, so that she and not her stepson would be the object of their sympathy?"

"I'd rather go away now, and not look back."

"But you're a witness, Peregrine. You can't disappear, if there's to be any justice at all."

This time I found Simon at his club and asked him to drive me back to Kent. Peregrine was determined to go, but I didn't want him taking the risk. Or to have to explain to Simon.

Curious, Simon agreed, and he took me to the flat long enough to fetch my bag. Peregrine, in Elayne's room, didn't come out, though I was nearly certain he'd call my bluff and find a way to accompany us. I expect if he'd had any uniform but that of my father's old regiment, he might have tried to do just that.

I half expected to find him gone from London by the time I got back. I wasn't sure how I felt about that. What if it was all taken out of my hands, and I didn't have to face what Arthur might have done?

Simon was silent for most of the journey, and I was grateful, lost in thought as I was.

We found Lady Parsons just outside Cranbrook in a very lovely old Jacobean house with a pedimented porch and graceful stonework around the windows. The estate was called Peac.o.c.ks, and on the gates were two magnificent stone peac.o.c.ks, the hen demure and the male with raised head, above the spread of that glorious tail.

I remembered Lady Parsons from the inquest. But I had forgotten how formidable she was.

She received me in her drawing room, austere in mourning black, with jet beads and only a touch of white at her collar and at her cuffs. A pince-nez on a silver chain was pinned at her shoulder.

"You're the young woman who worked with Dr. Philips trying to save Lieutenant Booker. What brings you here, second thoughts about your testimony? As I recall, it was an impa.s.sioned plea for understanding. Remarkable, I thought. We have no room for compa.s.sion in a war such as this one. A shame."

"I'm afraid that it's another matter that I wish to discuss, Lady Parsons. The fate of Peregrine Graham."

The door opened, and a little dog trotted into the room, taking his place at Lady Parsons's feet.

"Peregrine Graham, is it? You do have a taste for lost causes, my girl. The odds are, he's dead."

"So I've been told. But I happened on information that confused me-I'd heard that the body of Lily Mercer had been-er, butchered, for want of a better word."

"We did not ask for such unpleasant details, Miss Crawford. Mrs. Graham was nearly incoherent with shock by the time she reached Owlhurst. I was summoned, along with Inspector Gadd, because she was unable to continue at that hour to the asylum and attend to all the details of admitting her son. Inspector Gadd and I decided the boy was safest at the rectory until he could be moved again, and the doctor determined that he was stable enough to wait a few more hours."

"According to the information that Scotland Yard has in hand, Lily Mercer died of a single stab wound to her throat."

"And how did you come by such information, Miss Crawford?" Her voice had taken on a chilly note, and the dog stirred at her feet.

"My father, Colonel Crawford, was able to discover it for me."

"And is he aware of the use you are now making of this information?"

"He-is aware of my interest in the fate of Lily Mercer."

"I see."

"I believe there might have been a miscarriage of justice, Lady Parsons. And I am seeking advice from you on how to proceed in this matter."

"My advice, if you will take it, is to leave police business to the police. As I did. Inspector Gadd handled a most difficult matter with admirable skill and discretion. That's all there is to say. It does you credit to want to set the world to rights, my dear, but as Peregrine is dead, I see no point in investigating a tragedy that lies in the past where it belongs. Fifteen years is a long time, witnesses die, att.i.tudes change, and it is almost impossible to make a judgment on new facts when the old ones can't be reconstructed."

"I'm not asking you to make a judgment. I'd simply like to know if you were aware of a discrepancy in important details."

"The nightmare here, Miss Crawford, was that of a child committing murder. We were appalled, and we did what we could to make Mrs. Graham's hideous duty as simple as humanly possible. You cannot know her state of mind at the time. I witnessed it. I saw the young man myself, and his own state was pitiable. It was I who suggested that Mrs. Graham's cousin, acting in loco parentis, remove the child the next morning to Barton's while the doctor treated Mrs. Graham for exhaustion. She had done more than any woman might be expected to do in such circ.u.mstances, and I admired her courage in seeing the matter through. But she had three other sons who were in desperate need of her care, and her place was naturally with them. A man's steadying hand was what Peregrine Graham most needed, and that is what we were able to provide for him."

"What did Peregrine have to say for himself?" I asked.

"Very little. He was quite naturally dazed by the turn of events, and on that score, it isn't surprising. I asked him how he had come to kill, and his answer was that he wanted his father's knife returned to him, he was quite upset that it had been taken away. I asked him how he felt about what he'd done, and he said that he didn't care for the smell. I asked him if he'd liked the unfortunate victim, and he replied that she was spiteful when no adult was present, and that he had disliked her for it. All very consistent, according to the doctor, with the boy's inability to tell right from wrong. He couldn't seem to grasp the severity of his actions. There was no malice, no cunning, no viciousness. There was no doubt in my mind, as there was no doubt in the minds of the London authorities, that prison was inappropriate and that Barton's Asylum was the proper choice, where he could be evaluated."

"Why not a London hospital?"

"I believe that the doctor, a man called Hepple, who was a specialist in mental derangement in children, had recently removed to Barton's. Mrs. Graham was very persuasive. She felt that her stepson had no prior history of violence, no indications of a violent nature, and that it had most likely been a disagreement over a pocketknife, about which he was obsessive, that might have triggered this event. In supervised circ.u.mstances, it was likely he would never kill again."

I could see that I was speaking to a wall. Lady Parsons had made up her mind that night, and she was not accustomed to changing it. I could also see that Mrs. Graham had been terribly distressed but had somehow kept her wits about her as well. And that would be indicative of a shocked and horrified mother who had to fight for a child she loved with every tool at her disposal. Nothing else mattered, not even her own near collapse.

I thanked Lady Parsons for her time and prepared to take my leave.

She said, "My dear, when one is young, one sees dragons everywhere, and one is prepared to fight them. That's an admirable trait. But as one ages, one often sees that injustice is rare, and that what had appeared to be dragons are merely the shadows the mind creates when it wishes to avoid a bitter truth."

I stood there for a moment, then asked, "Did you feel I was fighting dragons when I made the plea for Lieutenant Booker?"

"In a way, I did. Sh.e.l.l shock is little understood, although I believe that in young Booker's case, it was clear that both Dr. Philips and you had fought hard against his his dragons. But the dragons won, and that was neither justice nor injustice, but the simple fact that in the end, he didn't have the strength to endure." dragons. But the dragons won, and that was neither justice nor injustice, but the simple fact that in the end, he didn't have the strength to endure."

She hadn't used the word courage, courage, but it hung in the air between us. but it hung in the air between us.

The little dog accompanied us to the door of the drawing room, either ready to defend his mistress or hoping for a walk, it was hard to say.

Which brought me to another matter I hadn't intended to broach.

"I understand you had a terrible fall from your horse some years ago, Lady Parsons."

"Oh, my dear, I was frightened to death that I wouldn't walk again! I don't know why the horse fell-my groom found cuts on the mare's knees, and he very rightly called in Constable Abbot, but I could swear that there was nothing on the path that might have tripped up Henny. We had ridden through high gra.s.s before we reached the wood, and she might well have encountered something there that I couldn't see. I don't wear my spectacles when I ride."

And that was Lady Parsons's dragon-that no one would dare touch her or her horse. She was sacrosanct.

Simon said as I walked out to the waiting motorcar, "You don't appear to be happy with the outcome of your visit."

"I've been fighting dragons. Or so I'm told."

Simon put the motorcar into gear and drove several miles until he came to a place wide enough for us to pull to the side of the road. The view across the Downs was wonderful in the cold light of a winter's day.

He said, simply, "What can I do?"

"Dear Simon, I thank you, but it isn't a position the army can take with full cavalry charge in support of the infantry."

"Try."

I shook my head.