Peregrine asked at one point about Jonathan. “Is he still alive?”
And all I could do was nod my head.
Behind us, the Crawford motorcar kept pace with the farmer at the wheel, its headlamps lighting up our interior, sending shadows dancing around us. Jonathan’s breathing was suspiciously quieter. I sent up a silent prayer that we wouldn’t encounter anything out here-a wandering dog, a man walking home from a pub, someone on a horse, a lorry. It was a narrow road, with little space to overtake.
Constable Mason said, “I’ve the devil of a headache.” And then to me, “I don’t remember you driving us.”
I said nothing, concentrating as we came flying into Owlhurst. It was a quiet time of night, the road blessedly empty, and I kept up my speed as we reached the cricket pitch. And then we were coming up on The Bells. By the garden gate was the Graham dogcart, and two men were just coming out of the pub door, staring at us as we passed. I almost didn’t make the turning at the church, slowing in the nick of time, and then there was the doctor’s surgery just ahead, and I felt like crying with relief.
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.