“Did he understand-did he realize he was killing her?”
“I’ve never asked him.”
She came into the room and took her son’s hand. She simply held it and told him she loved him, that nothing else mattered to her but that.
I slipped away, and in the passage came face-to-face with Robert Douglas. He stood there, stark anguish in his eyes.
“You can go in,” I said gently.
He shook his head. “No. I loved him as my own. Arthur too. But they were Ambrose’s sons.”
It was an admission, in his own fashion, that he’d protected Timothy because the last Graham son was his.
And that explained so much. The love child, the deformed child, the child of guilt. No wonder Mrs. Graham had guarded him so fiercely.
I turned away, to allow him the privacy to grieve, and went to stand beside Peregrine’s bed. I could hear them working with Jonathan, preparing him for the journey to Cranbrook. My training told me he wouldn’t make it.
Mr. Bateman, the man from the hop fields, came to the doorway. “I wish someone would explain what’s happened,” he said, beginning to show signs of angry frustration.
I turned to ask him to be patient a little longer, just as a voice beyond him said, “Let me try.”
It was Simon Brandon. “You’re the devil to keep up with,” he went on plaintively to me. “I’ve searched half of Kent for you. Why did you have my poor watcher arrested? He was there to keep an eye on you and make certain you were safe. You’re covered in blood. And there’s a dead policeman in a field not far from Owlhurst, and three men here in the surgery who’ve been shot.” And then he asked in a lighter tone, “Did you do it, Bess? No, don’t answer that, I don’t want to know.” He gave me a weary smile.
Rattled, I said, focusing on one word, “Your watcher? But-I thought someone else had hired him. Why don’t you ever tell me these things?”
He swore under his breath and took away the man and his patient dog. As I was shutting the door again, I saw Mr. Montgomery hurrying by, on his way to Jonathan’s room. Robert, realizing what that must mean, followed him.
But so far no one had fetched Inspector Howard.
I said fiercely to Peregrine, “You must listen to me. If you go on saying you shot Jonathan, they’ll believe you. They’ll want to. Wait until they’ve retrieved that bullet and know if it was from your weapon or Jonathan’s revolver.”
He gave me a twisted smile. “Why should I lie?”
“Because you don’t want to go back to Barton’s. But I think-I’m nearly sure-you were aiming at someone else. We must clear that up, don’t you see? You’ve trusted me this far.” But it was a measure of what he’d suffered there that Peregrine would rather hang than go back to Barton’s. I could feel his resistance like a stone wall. I still had Jonathan’s confession in my hands. I couldn’t rip it up until I was sure. It couldn’t have been an hour since I’d found the Graham car in that field, but once Jonathan was in an ambulance on his way to Cranbrook, Dr. Philips would have time to remember Inspector Howard. And then it would be too late. Clutching at straws, I said, “Peregrine. What am I to tell Diana?”
He lay there, drowsy from the sedative, thinking it over. I wanted to hurry him, but all I could do was wait.
And then he said in a dead voice that concealed whatever it was he was feeling-love, hate, disillusion, grief, I couldn’t tell-“Timothy. Timothy came out of nowhere. He was suddenly there-in the middle of the road-and when Jonathan stopped, he walked up to the window. He said something to his brother-I think it was, “You can’t do this, Jonathan”-and Jonathan got out to talk to him. All at once there was a scuffle, and Timothy had Jonathan’s revolver. Without a word, he just turned and shot Mason. After that, it was chaos. Jonathan threw himself back behind the wheel and rammed the motorcar into the field when he should have run his brother down. Timothy followed us, and the other policeman got out, trying to reason with him, and Timothy shot him as well. Jonathan said to me, “Run!” and I ran for the shadows just as Jonathan switched off the headlamps. Timothy came after me, and Jonathan after him. They fought, and I fired at Timothy as soon as I had a clear shot. Jonathan’s revolver went off at the same time. I thought I’d hit Timothy, but it was Jonathan who went down. Timothy cried out, dropped to his knees beside his brother. Before I could move, he stood up again and deliberately shot me. I struck my shoulder as I fell, and that’s the last thing I remember until I saw you there. I couldn’t understand why you’d come. I was afraid Timothy might shoot you as well.”
I shivered, remembering how he’d tried to shout a warning. And I’d misunderstood it. I’d believed he was running away. But it was Timothy I’d seen. The brothers were nearly the same height, the same build…
Carefully folding Jonathan’s confession, I thrust it into my pocket.
Dr. Philips came in. He said to me quietly, “I don’t suppose Peregrine Graham can understand what’s happening. But he ought to go with Jonathan to hospital in Cranbrook. Do I need a police escort? They’ll want to know.”
“An escort?” I went on briskly before Peregrine could speak. “Mr. Graham will be represented by his solicitors in London, and they’ll be assuming all responsibility for his welfare.” And if his solicitors refused, I knew a firm that would take him on. “As for comprehending his circumstances, you can tell him yourself what’s expected of him.”
Dr. Philips stared at me, and then said slowly to Peregrine, “Are you aware of what I’m saying, Mr. Graham?”
Peregrine responded, his voice thick with sleep, his eyes closed, “I wouldn’t argue with her if I were you. It does no good.”
Dr. Philips gestured for me to follow him into his office, where we couldn’t be heard.
“Madmen can sound perfectly sane some of the time,” he warned.
“He isn’t mad. Any more than Ted Booker was mad.”
“I just looked in on Constable Mason. He told me that someone by the name of Timothy shot him. Does he think Peregrine is Timothy?”
“Of course not. Timothy Graham stopped the motorcar tonight before it could reach Barton’s. He didn’t mean to shoot Jonathan, but he did intend to kill the others.”
Before he could say anything more, down the passage we heard the door to Jonathan’s room open, and Mrs. Graham came out, leaning heavily on the rector’s arm. She was in tears, such grief in her face that I pitied her. And I knew that Jonathan wouldn’t travel to Cranbrook after all. Robert followed her, and I thought about what was to come, the next blow to fall, when Inspector Howard had been summoned.
As soon as they’d passed the office, on their way out the far door into the cold night, Dr. Philips went quickly to Jonathan to do what needed to be done. I leaned against a chair, too tired to think. I had a decision to make, and I wasn’t sure I was clearheaded enough to do it.
Jonathan’s confession would only muddy the waters. It wasn’t true, for one thing, and for another it was imperative now to speak to Inspector Howard before Mrs. Graham could find another way to subvert justice. But I would keep it. I owed Jonathan that.
Simon came looking for me just then, saying, “Mr. Bateman has gone home. I took him in Mrs. Crawford’s motorcar. What do we do about that poor constable lying in a field?”
“I was just coming to that. I’ll have to speak to Inspector Howard, he should have been here before Jonathan died, but-but…” I took a deep breath. “But it was just as well. Constable Mason and Peregrine Graham will live, they can tell him what happened.”
“Do you want a cup of tea first? You look out on your feet.”
I shook my head. “I’ll just find my coat. I can’t remember now where I left it.” But it was on the rack in the passage where I must have flung it as we arrived in such a rush. There was blood on it as well, crusted over now.