“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask MI6 about that. Which if you did, would see you shot at dawn in the Tower. They’ve been damned quiet on the subject. I expect nothing came of it.”
“Well, at least the Prince of Wales is safe.”
“He’s on his way to the Front now, as a matter of fact. You can see why it was worrying.”
“And Mother? How do we explain the damp spot on the study carpet where Iris has been scrubbing away at a bloodstain?”
“We’d better tell her the truth. She’ll find it out anyway.”
I smiled. “Now, about Portsmouth, and the man I reportedly saw trying to climb aboard Merlin, presumably from a small boat in the harbor…”
It was some weeks later when I drove back to Cheddar Gorge during a few brief days of leave. Mrs. Wilson was busy in her garden, and I saw her tense as she looked around to see who it was in the motorcar stopping before her gates. She recognized me at once and made me welcome, but I could see new lines in her face, and I thought she had lost weight. It gave me great pleasure to tell her that the man who had killed her husband was almost well enough to stand trial for his murder.
It wouldn’t bring Private Wilson home again. But I had kept my promise to her. And her daughter would no longer have to grow up as the child of a suicide. There would also be a pension, to help with the farming.
She made tea for me while I petted Toby, the cat, cried into the handkerchief I handed her, and, as I left, gave me a round of aged Cheddar to take home to my mother.
I thought about Captain Barclay as I drove back to Somerset. He was in France, finally. I didn’t think his leg would ever heal fully, but it had mended well enough to return to duty. He wrote often, and, in his latest letter, told me a little of what he felt about rejoining his men.
There are so many new faces, Bess. Replacements for the dead and the wounded. But my old Sergeant is still here, and Lieutenant Britton. They’ve survived against all odds, and I’m very happy to be back where I belong. God bless Dr. Gaines, he worked something of a miracle.
But I thought perhaps it was not trying quite so hard that had helped his leg heal.
I’d also had a message from Private Morton. He was alive and well, back with his regiment, and had not forgot his promise to visit Sabrina one day. I hoped he survived the war.
I found Simon waiting for me in Somerset. He was still in London when I returned to France shortly after I’d given my statements to the Dorset police and to Scotland Yard, and finally to the Army. According to my mother’s letters, he was nearly recovered, back in his cottage, and impatient to return to duty.
Greeting me on his doorstep, he said, “It’s been some time.”
He looked well, and I’d seen no twinge of pain as he’d opened the door to me. The shoulder must have healed completely.
“It has indeed,” I said lightly.
“I put the kettle on when I saw you walking down the lane. Tea?”
“Please.”
I came in and sat down by the window overlooking the back garden. It was a pretty place to sit, the sunlight coming through the panes and spilling across my lap.
We were silent for a time, waiting for the kettle to boil and then the teapot to brew.
Simon handed me my cup. “I haven’t thanked you properly for saving my life.”
“It was Dr. Hicks and Dr. Gaines who did that. Their skill.”
“Nevertheless.”
He brought his cup and leaned his shoulder against the mantelpiece as he drank.
“You were right about not going back to France,” I said finally. “But for the wrong reasons.”
“I know.”
“Mother has told me that it was arranged for Lieutenant Palmer to have compassionate leave. My father saw to that, I’m sure. Trelawney wrote to say that Mrs. Palmer is much better.”
“Yes, that’s good news. We thought at first that Mitchell had killed the Lieutenant as well.”
“And Julia has agreed to settle a sum on Sabrina. She and her son will be able to live comfortably wherever they choose. That’s to say, if Sabrina will accept the gift. But I think she will. My mother’s hand there.”
He nodded.
I set my cup aside. We’d come to the real reason I’d wanted to speak to Simon today. He already knew what I was about to say. But I needed to talk about it.
“Sergeant Mitchell will certainly be found guilty on all charges. Still, I’m told he claims that Julia Palmer had so turned his mind with her promises that he went mad and didn’t know what he had done.”
“It had nothing whatsoever to do with madness, Bess. He’s the sort of man who wanted his own way, and when he didn’t get it, he blamed everyone around him. Your father had nothing to do with the decision to ask Mitchell to leave Sandhurst. But he looked up Mitchell’s record, and it was dismal. The man had trouble following orders and taking responsibility for what he did-or failed to do.”
“He killed so many people.”
“They got in his way.”
It was a rather sobering evaluation, but Simon was right. No one set Sergeant Mitchell on the road to murder. Cold comfort, all the same, to his victims. And I’d nearly been one of them.
Simon collected the cups and took them through to the kitchen, setting them in the sink. When he came back, he said with a grimness unusual to him, “If you want my view, he will pay too easily for all he has done.” He’d known Captain Baldwin and Major Carson. He’d seen how close I’d come to dying, and my father as well. This man had not only struck at the regiment, but he had struck at the Crawfords personally. And Simon hadn’t been there. There would be no forgiveness on offer that could ever change his feelings about that.
He held out his hand, changing the subject. “It’s too fair a day to sit here. Let’s walk for a while, shall we?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHARLES TODD is the author of the Inspector Ian Rutledge mysteries, the Bess Crawford mysteries, and one stand-alone novel. A mother-and-son writing team, they live in Delaware and North Carolina, respectively.
www.charlestodd.com
