An Unmarked Grave (25 page)

I knew who Tobias Baldwin was. And he hadn’t died in a Zeppelin raid. That was the official reason, but he’d been killed during one, and his murderer had never been caught. He’d worked for my father, and the fear early on was that his death had to do with his work. As time went by, that seemed more and more unlikely.

Was Ralph Mitchell in London when Captain Baldwin died? My father would have to look into that.

I remembered what Maggie had told me. That Mitchell had stood over Julia and cried, “Damn you, Crawford!” And he had had more than an hour’s head start—

“I must find a telephone,” I said quickly.

“Actually, there’s one at the house. Baldwin had it put in when he began reporting to London and Mrs. Palmer chose to live here after her father died in the bombing rather than stay in her husband’s London house. She believed it was safer, poor woman.”

If that was the case, where were Trelawney and Private Morton?

There was no time to consider that. I had only a dogcart at my disposal, and that wouldn’t carry me any great distance in pursuit of a motorcar. I needed to make the calls that Trelawney hadn’t. And as far as that went, where on earth was he? What had become of Private Morton? I was beginning to worry that they had run afoul of Mitchell somehow.

After asking Dr. Glover to send someone to the house of the Palmers’ cook’s daughter, to let her know what had become of her mistress, I set out alone in the dogcart, against all advice.

“If Mrs. Palmer is in danger, you will be as well, Sister,” Dr. Glover warned me. “He could come back. The man’s not stable if he’d do something like this to Julia Palmer. If he can’t find her, he’ll turn on you. Let me summon the constable; he’ll need your statement anyway.”

“There isn’t time. I’ll be all right. I must get to that telephone. I promise I’ll speak to the constable as soon as possible.”

“Then promise me as well that once your telephone calls are made, you’ll return to the surgery.”

Dr. Glover followed me to the door, quietly asking out of earshot of the others what was so urgent, but I wasn’t prepared to tell him that I thought Mitchell’s next victim was very likely going to be my father.

There was still no sign of Trelawney or of Private Morton on my return to the house. The door was shut, as I’d left it, but I took the horse around to the back where he couldn’t be seen by anyone approaching down the drive, and with the little pistol in my hand, I went from the kitchen through to the wide hall, searching for a telephone. I found it in the room that Captain Baldwin must have used for his study. I locked myself inside and sat down at the burled desk.

I called London first, but I was told by a voice I didn’t recognize that Colonel Crawford was not available.

The next call I put in went to Somerset and my mother. Iris, pleased to hear from me, was full of questions and finally told me that my mother was not to home.

“Where is she?” I asked, praying that she’d gone to market or was calling on friends.

“She went to the clinic, Miss Elizabeth. The one where you were. She should be coming home before very long.”

Debating what to say, I settled on, “Tell my mother, and Sergeant-Major Brandon if he’s with her, to close the house at once and go back to the clinic. They must wait there until I come. And you must go with them, taking Cook as well. Do you hear?”

“Yes, Miss, but Cook is in the midst of preparing dinner—”

“I’m sure she must be. But you must convince her to go with you. As quickly as you can, you must leave the house. There’s something wrong, Iris, and I don’t know what’s about to happen. It’s best if there isn’t anyone in the house at all.”

It took all of my persuasive powers to convince her to heed my warning. Iris, accustomed to the safety of the Crawford household, found it hard to believe that any threat could touch her there.

And my final call was put through to Longleigh House. Matron answered the telephone, and I asked if my mother was there, or, failing her, Simon Brandon.

She hesitated for a moment. “Sister, I shall be happy to take a message for them.”

I sighed. Had Simon gone missing again? Was that why my mother had been summoned to the clinic, in lieu of my father?

I said, “If I could speak to Captain Barclay—”

She was happy to tell me that he was available, if I could wait.

In short order, I heard his familiar voice on the line.

“I haven’t much time,” I began, “and so you must listen closely and not ask questions. I’m in Dorset, I’m calling from the home of the late Captain Baldwin. My parents or Simon will know the name. There’s been trouble here, and it’s my old adversary from France. He’s in England and bent on revenge. I don’t quite understand—but he’s shot the woman he wanted to marry, he’s posing as a Major, and it may be that he’s coming after my father. There’s quite a bit more, but it isn’t important right now. My father is in danger, and everyone else in the household could be as well. Where is Simon Brandon? Do you know?”

“There was a telephone message from London. A Captain Grayson in Portsmouth was trying to reach the Colonel. Your mother called here and is on her way to pick up Brandon. They’re going on to Portsmouth.”

Captain Grayson had probably told someone that I was attacked on board
Merlin,
and that someone had either tried to come aboard the ship or had gone ashore from it without proper authorization. All of it true, but it would sound to Simon as if the German spy he’d been hunting was in Portsmouth. And he’d be leaving the clinic to deal with it, with my mother to drive.

“Tell them to stay at the clinic until I come there. Portsmouth can wait, it’s mostly a distraction and there’s nothing for Simon there. I don’t have a motorcar, Captain, but as soon as I can manage to find transportation I’m going to look for my father. He could be in grave danger,” I said again. “Please, you must tell Simon that, and to wait for me. I think the man we’re after is on his way to Somerset.”

There was a pounding at the main door of the house, and I ignored it. If it was Mitchell returning, so much the better, I could deal with him. Or at least try. I began opening drawers of the desk, looking for a revolver. Or had Captain Baldwin taken it to London with him? Surely he’d have other weapons, souvenirs.

Captain Barclay was saying, “I’ll take the doctor’s motorcar and come for you. Stay there, and tell me how to find you.”

“There isn’t time. I must go, there’s someone at the door.”

“Bess—”

But I was already putting up the receiver, trying to think what best to do. I hadn’t really expected Mitchell to come back again. Or to have second thoughts about witnesses when he had other quarry in mind.

But he had been very thorough, covering his tracks in France . . .

The main door crashed open. I could hear someone shouting from the passage, and I turned, opened one of the windows in the study, and went over the sill into the lilacs just beyond. The locked study door would keep him occupied while I went round to the front of the farmhouse and stole his motorcar.

I slipped toward the back of the house, where I couldn’t be seen through the windows, and then went the other direction toward the front.

Peering around the corner of the house I stopped stock-still and stared.

The motorcar was Trelawney’s.

Just then through the open parlor window I heard Private Morton call out, “There’s blood all over the floor in here.”

Trelawney shouted something, and I strode toward the voice.

“Where in heaven’s name have you been?” I demanded, walking into the house through the broken front door.

It was Trelawney’s turn to stare, and Hugh Morton, limping out of the parlor, said, his eyes on my uniform, “Is any of that blood yours?”

“There’s a horse harnessed to a dogcart around back,” I said quickly. “Put him out to pasture, if you please, Trelawney. And Private Morton, there’s a window open in the study. Close it. I’ll be waiting in the motorcar.” I handed him the key and walked out before they could waste time asking questions. All I could think of was my father, and the man who was going to hunt him down.

In five minutes Hugh Morton was back. Minutes later, Trelawney returned, got behind the wheel, and looked over his shoulder to me to say, “I discovered the telephone was here and turned around. When I got back, that other motorcar was coming up the drive like a bat from Hades. Nearly ran down Morton. I stopped long enough to take him up, and we went after it. Miss, he’s headed for Somerset. We followed him far enough to find out if he was returning to Portsmouth. But he’s not.”

Somerset.

It was all I needed to hear.

“He’s going to kill my father,” I answered, and told them what I’d found in the Baldwin house.

I knew I should have turned back and called Captain Barclay once more, but if my mother was on her way to Longleigh House, then Iris and our Cook were at home alone. And God knew where my father was. Time was not on my side.

I could only hope that everyone had taken my warning seriously. That Captain Barclay had given my message to my mother and Simon. It was more important to reach my home as quickly as I could, and trust to Captain Barclay’s powers of persuasion at Longleigh. Unless he had rashly set out to find me.

The cloud that had moved over the sun was thicker now, joined by blacker ones moving onto the coast. When I looked back, there was a long stretch of intense gray, and I thought I saw a flash of lightning.

The journey ahead was a long one, and Trelawney had lost time coming back for me. But I was glad he had.

Every mile seemed to drag on forever, leaving me in an agony of impatience. Except for the cup of tea at Dr. Glover’s surgery, I had had nothing to eat all day, and neither had my companions. We were well into Somerset before we had to stop for petrol. I dashed into the nearest shop for sandwiches and a Thermos of tea while Trelawney was seeing to the motorcar. Surely at some point, Ralph Mitchell would be doing the same, delaying him as we were delayed.

The storm was still behind us, skirting the coast. Ahead was bright sunshine, turning the Somerset hills to a rich green as the road looped and ran straight, then looped again, following the contours of the land. We were silent for the most part, uneasy, wondering if somewhere ahead of us Ralph Mitchell had found his target or had turned toward London when he had failed.

At a crossroads I saw Captain Barclay barreling down on us in Dr. Gaines’s motorcar. Trelawney blew the horn, and both vehicles drew up by the verge. The Captain got out and came limping toward us, a frown on his face.

“I thought you had no means of transport,” he said at once. “Who the devil are these men? And are you all right?”

“I was fortunate,” I said, not taking the time to present my companions. “Where is Simon? Is he with my mother?”

“The Sergeant-Major is on his way to London, in search of your father. I passed on your message, but he has been ordered to follow up on what Captain Grayson reported.”

“Alone? He shouldn’t be driving.”

“He persuaded your mother to drive him.”

At least that meant she was out of harm’s way as well. I could still see Mrs. Palmer lying in the middle of her carpet, bleeding heavily. I shivered.

“Where are you going? I’ll follow you.”

“No one has heard from my father?”

“No one had by the time I left,” he said. “He could be in London, Dover, Portsmouth—Scotland, for that matter.”

“Then we should go directly to my parents’ house. Sergeant Mitchell will be there ahead of us, but with luck he’ll wait for my father, just as we will. And we can stop him from walking into a trap.”

“Bess, are you sure about this?”

“I’m sure. I don’t know why he hates my father, but if he shot Julia Palmer, then he’ll certainly kill the Colonel Sahib if he can.”

Captain Barclay cast an eye over Private Morton, who stared back without a word. The Captain finally said, “I know you from somewhere.”

“I doubt it,” I intervened quickly.

But I could see that he was skeptical as he turned back toward his motorcar.

The sun was casting long shadows, summer shadows, across the landscape when I finally saw the chimneys of my home just ahead. I asked Trelawney to stop, and shortly afterward Captain Barclay came up to the motorcar to ask how to proceed.

“I’m not quite sure,” I said. “If you will lend me Dr. Gaines’s motorcar, I’ll drive up to the house. Meanwhile, Trelawney should stay here in the event we’ve got ahead of Sergeant Mitchell.”

Trelawney balked at that, but I shook my head. “You’re armed, you can stop him. Meanwhile,” I went on, “Captain, if you and Private Morris will please go around to the rear of the house, following that lane just there, by the signpost. It will take you only a few minutes of walking, but if you come in that way, he won’t expect it.”

It was reluctantly agreed upon, and I got behind the wheel of the doctor’s motorcar and began to drive openly up to the house.

I found I was holding my breath as I rounded the last bend in the drive and could see the door directly ahead in the straightaway. It stood open.

And two motorcars sat there before it, both of them empty.

One was the vehicle that I’d last seen hurtling down the long line of hawthorn trees from the Baldwin house, and the other was the familiar motorcar my father drove.

My heart sank.

I was too late to prevent the encounter that I’d dreaded for the past seven hours.

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

I
BRAKED, THEN
pulled Dr. Gaines’s motorcar into the shelter of a stand of rhododendron, which more or less hid it from view. If anyone was watching for it, I’d already been seen, but I didn’t care. All I could think of was my father.

I reached the door without being challenged. And I stood there, listening for voices, something to guide me to him.

There was only silence inside.

I’d already stepped into the hall when I heard my father’s voice from somewhere inside. He was alive. The relief was overwhelming.

“I assure you, I have no influence over Sandhurst. If you failed to pass the standards set by the staff, I can neither change nor appeal their ruling in any way.”

“You were there,” another voice replied. “On the day I washed out. I saw you. Captain Baldwin didn’t want me to marry his daughter, and the best way to go about that was to see that I was not allowed to finish the course.”

“You give me far too much credit,” my father said drily. “But that’s neither here nor there. Why did you try to kill my daughter? Because she discovered the body of Major Carson?”

“Did she, by God” was the answer. “No, I saw to it that the man who did was removed. I wanted her for the same reason I killed Carson. To diminish you as you’d diminished me. Besides, he’d married a woman named Julia, and every time I looked at him, promising officer, darling of the regiment, I hated him.”

“Indeed,” my father said, in a tone of voice I knew all too well. He was deeply, furiously angry. “Carson. Private Wilson. Nurse Saunders. That’s quite a list.”

“You’ve forgot Palmer. I killed him as well.”

“Did you? Odd that I’ve never been told he was dead.”

My father’s voice had come from his study. If I called to him, would Mitchell shoot? Or wait for me to walk into the room?

I could feel the weight of the little pistol in my pocket. If I used it, I would very likely not kill Mitchell, but if I fired first, I could very likely incapacitate him.

Where was Captain Barclay? Was he inside the house yet? Or still trying to find his way up from the kitchen? I began to walk as silently as I could down toward the study door. I knew the spots where the floors creaked, and my father was speaking, covering any slight sound I might make.

And then I was by the door. It was open. I wished I knew where Sergeant Mitchell was standing.

He spoke and his voice was loud now. I realized he must be very close.

“If you have any prayers to say, now is the time. You might wish to pray for your wife and daughter. I will find them, you know.”

I looked around the edge of the door. My father was seated at his desk. The Sergeant’s back was to me, but I could tell he held a revolver in his right hand, the barrel just visible from where I stood.

My father, long used to danger, never registered my presence.

I brought out the small pistol, lifted it, and took aim.

I was almost too late.

My shot was fired a matter of seconds before the Sergeant’s and it went into the shoulder of the arm holding the revolver. He jerked but pulled the trigger anyway, and I heard my father bite off a cry as the heavier bullet struck home.

I was already taking aim again, this time with every intention of killing the man before me. But before the Sergeant could turn to face me, there was another shot from behind me, this time the report of a service revolver. It spun Sergeant Mitchell around, and the expression on his face was anger mixed with surprise.

And then he dropped like a stone.

I was already crossing the room to reach the Colonel Sahib. I couldn’t see where he’d been shot, there was no blood yet, but he was looking down at his chest. I thought he must be dying. I wouldn’t allow it, I refused to accept it.

Behind me Captain Barclay said, “He’s all right, Bess.”

In the same instant my father looked up. He smiled at me and said, “That was too damned close for comfort.”

I stared as he put a finger into a tidy little hole in his uniform just to the side of his chest. Sergeant Mitchell’s shot had gone wide and to the left.

And then he was getting to his feet, holding out his arms to me, and without a word, I went to him.

“I’m all right, my love, truly I am,” he said, holding me close.

But Sergeant Mitchell was not.

Captain Barclay was already bending over him, and I left my father to kneel beside the wounded man.

Morton came in just then, hobbling toward the desk, and Trelawney was on his heels.

Without looking up, my hands busy with the Sergeant’s tunic, I said, “There’s a doctor in the village. Near the inn called The Four Doves. Quickly!”

Trelawney said tersely, “I’ll go.”

It was my duty to do for this man whatever I could, to save his life if it was within my power. I’d worked over German prisoners and felt no rancor. But as I touched his flesh, I had to shut my mind to what he had done to me and to my father, to a kindly man like Private Wilson, and even Nurse Saunders, who had tried to be helpful and leave a message for his passenger, or that tired courier who carried orders and dispatches behind the lines. If he wanted the world to believe that his love for Julia Baldwin had driven him to murder, then he was a liar. Mrs. Campbell, who had committed adultery and been divorced by her husband, knew more about love than Ralph Mitchell. But I very badly wanted him to survive and be tried for what he had done. Nothing less would take away the stigma of suicide from Private Wilson’s death or the charge of desertion from Major Carson’s good name. And so my mind and not my heart guided my hands.

The wound I had inflicted—in the shoulder—was bleeding but not serious. The chest wound—Captain Barclay’s shot—was far more dangerous and I was hard-pressed to stop the hemorrhaging. By the time I had succeeded, Trelawney had brought Dr. Everett from the village, and we worked side by side for nearly half an hour and still the Sergeant wasn’t stable.

I was aware, once, of my father leaning over my shoulder to see what was being done. I heard a quiet “Hmmpf,” which gave no indication of what he was thinking. After a moment he touched my arm gently, and then ushered everyone out of the study but the doctor and me.

I spared an anxious thought for Hugh Morton. It was very likely that my father was now hearing an account from Trelawney of that long journey from Dorset, and even if he suspected who Private Morton was, he would say nothing in front of the others. But Trelawney knew. And I was afraid that Captain Barclay might see some resemblance to Ross Morton in the son’s face and jump to the right conclusion. He was already suspicious. But there was nothing I could do. I worked in concert with Dr. Everett, following his lead. It was touch-and-go. I thought twice that we’d lost the Sergeant, but then he struggled to breathe again and his pulse steadied.

It wasn’t until the doctor got to his feet and said, “I expect that will have to do,” that I was even certain the patient was going to live.

Dr. Everett looked around, as if suddenly aware that we were in the Colonel Sahib’s study, and he added, “Let him rest for a little while, and then we’ll shift him to my surgery until it’s safe to take him farther afield. Your father seems to prefer Dr. Gaines’s clinic at Longleigh for difficult cases. I can’t say that I blame him.”

“Perhaps London would be best, when he’s ready to be moved,” I said diplomatically. “My father will have sent for Constable Medford, but I believe he considers this an Army matter.”

“Indeed? That explains why your man Trelawney was asking for Medford. All right, London it is.” He looked down at my uniform. “Go and change, my dear. I’ll stay with him. Medford can spell me.”

Grateful to escape from the study, I thanked him.

In the passage outside, I listened for the sound of voices, and heard them coming from my mother’s sitting room. I tapped at the door, then opened it. As I stepped in, four pairs of eyes—Captain Barclay’s, my father’s, Trelawney’s, and Constable Medford’s—turned my way. My father rose and brought forward a chair for me.

“There you are, my dear. Come in. Will he live?”

“We believe he will.”

“Good,” Captain Barclay said grimly.

Trelawney said, “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’d just as soon not let the Sergeant out of my sight until he’s in custody. Wounded or no.”

Constable Medford said, “I’ll go with you.” He thanked my father, nodded to me, and accompanied Trelawney into the passage.

I shut the door behind them and smiled at the Colonel Sahib. He looked tired. For that matter it had been a long and trying day for all of us. But he was safe, and that made up for everything else.

He’d been studying my face as well. He said now, “I believe the Sergeant-Major will be very pleased to learn that you are as fine a shot as even he could have hoped.”

Captain Barclay frowned, uncertain how to take the remark.

But I understood it. High praise from the Colonel to his daughter. I couldn’t ask for better.

I was about to say something on the order of “It appears that we’ve been very fortunate,” when I remembered that in all the excitement neither Iris nor our Cook had appeared. Julia Palmer’s maid had been shot. Had Sergeant Mitchell got to them before he found my father?

“Dear God!” I ran out of the room and began to call, but there was no answer. I hurried down the back stairs to the kitchen, my anxiety mounting. And in nearly the last place I looked, I found them.

They had locked themselves into the butler’s pantry, where my mother kept her tea service and table silver and other valuables. I had called through the door, heard nothing, and was about to head for the attics when the heavy key turned and they came out, faces pale and eyes wide.

“What’s happened, Miss? Did we hear gunshots? Is everyone all right?”

“How did you know to lock yourselves in?” I asked. “Did my father warn you?”

“Oh, no, Miss, we talked about your telephone call, then your mother telephoned from the clinic and told us not to go to the door if anyone came. When I heard a motorcar coming up the drive, we decided to come down here and stay until help arrived.”

From the way the two motorcars had been left in the drive, my father had arrived first, and he must have gone into the study without any warning that Sergeant Mitchell was on his way.

I felt ill, thinking about it.

Surely he’d seen the color of the man’s eyes when he came through the study door. Surely
that
had alerted him to his danger.

Private Morton was waiting when I came back up the stairs.

I thought, after so much exertion, he must be in great pain, and I said, “It’s best if you stay out of sight. Let the doctor look at your wound, and then I’ll find a way to get you to Wales as soon as it’s safe. No one will think to look for you in the footman’s old rooms. They’ve been empty since the war began.”

“I want to go back to France,” he said. “I don’t know why I thought my father would want a coward creeping home, even to work the farm. Can you find a way to get me there? And a satisfactory explanation for my disappearance? I don’t want to be shot for deserting, much as I deserve it. I’d be grateful. I’ve let everyone down. I can’t live with that.”

I wondered what had made him change his mind. And he answered that without my asking.

“I must have run mad.”

But I thought he had felt like so many men had, that the only end to their suffering would be death, and home seemed so very far away and unreachable.