“He’s in the asylum,” Timothy answered. “You must have seen it last night when you came from the station.”
Robert had pointed it out. As if I should know its significance. As if he was certain that Arthur must have told me about Peregrine.
“The messenger is waiting,” Robert reminded them quietly.
I was beginning to see that he had more influence in this family than a cousin ordinarily possessed.
Mrs. Graham bit her lip. “No,” she said finally. “It can’t be done.”
“Perhaps Dr. Philips could care for him,” I suggested.
“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Graham responded, not looking at me.
“Perhaps I should leave you alone while you decide what to do.” I started for the door, but Robert was blocking it.
“It might be the best course,” he said, ignoring me. “If you think about it.”
Mrs. Graham stared at him as if she could read his mind. And then she nodded once, as if she understood what he was suggesting.
“All right, then. Let them bring him here. If Miss Crawford will be kind enough to see to him until it’s over, I would be very grateful.”
“Mother-” Jonathan began.
“No, Robert’s right. As usual. This is perhaps the answer we were looking for.”
“That’s settled, then.” Robert shut the door.
Mrs. Graham said, “Timothy, if you don’t mind-I’d like a whiskey and water.” She sat down, as if her knees were about to give way. He went to the drinks table and poured a little whiskey into a glass and added the water. She drank it almost thirstily, as if she needed the support it offered.
Then she turned to me. “I have imposed on you, my dear. It is not something I would have wished. If I’d known-” She broke off, and looked at her empty glass. “When Peregrine arrives, we must do our best to make him comfortable. Timothy, would you ask Susan what is needed to open his room?”
He left us, and Jonathan said, “Mother, I hope to God you know what you are about.”
I asked, tentatively, why their son and brother was in an asylum. It was expected of me, and I didn’t want them to know what Dr. Philips had already told me.
“Because, my dear, he murdered someone. In cold blood, but not in his right mind.” The suffering on her face was real.
She hadn’t beaten about the bush. I hardly knew what to say. “That’s-it must have been a terrible time for you.”
“Peregrine’s never been-he had difficulties as a child, you see, but we never suspected-the truth is, you don’t suspect your own flesh and blood of-of having that sort of nature.” There was distress in her voice, a tightness that must have been a mixture of shame and of inexpressible shock as she looked back at the past.
Her emotional confession made me wonder if perhaps I’d been a little hasty in offering my services. She knew better than I just how safe her stepson was. But I couldn’t take back my offer now. The Colonel Sahib would tell me that retreat was the better part of valor, but I knew for a fact he’d never retreated in his life. I wasn’t about to spoil the family record now.
She must have read something in my expression because she said at once, “You needn’t fear him. They say he’s become quite docile-he’s accepted his fate.” She squared her shoulders, as if preparing herself to face what was to come. “Robert is right. They don’t have the means to care for my son as ill as he is. So many of the orderlies and the nurses went off to war that they’re fortunate at the asylum to be able to function at all.”
After that we waited in an uncomfortable silence, expecting the knock on the door at any time that would announce the arrival of the sick man. I thought-belatedly-that I must send a telegram to my parents. I wouldn’t be coming home as planned.
Finally, almost when we’d given it up for the evening, the door knocker sounded like the crack of doom.
I went out into the hall with Mrs. Graham, and she opened the door herself.
A man in a heavy coat stood there, and behind him were two stout men with a stretcher between them. Their breath steamed in the cold air.
On the stretcher lay a tall man, swathed in blankets.
Just then I heard him cough, and I knew the worst. His lungs were terribly congested. And the cold air during the journey had done them no good. Nor had standing there in the winter night.
The stretcher bearers were coming through the door, now, and somehow between them they managed the stairs, grunting and struggling every step of the way. I thought how difficult it must be for the man they jostled and tilted like an egg carried in a spoon, but he never complained.
I went up after them, but Mrs. Graham stayed below, talking to the third man.
Somehow Susan had managed to make a room ready, and I watched the stretcher bearers settle their burden in the bed, drawing up the sheets to his chin.
He lay there, exhausted, his face gray.
I went to the side of the bed as the two men left, and looked down at Peregrine Graham. As murderers went-and I was most certainly no authority-he didn’t appear to be any different from the dozen of pneumonia cases I’d dealt with on Britannic’s next-to-last voyage.
He opened his eyes then, and they were dark, pain and exhaustion mixed in their depths. As he struggled to speak, I wondered if he was dumb. His mouth moved, but he appeared not to know how to shape words.
Finally he managed, “Where am I?” His voice was a husky whisper, I could barely hear the words. “Where have they taken me?”
I realized that no one had told him what was happening. “You’re in your own home, at Owlhurst. I’m here to take care of you.”
“Home?” His eyes looked around, as if trying to place his surroundings. “I must be dying.”
“Early days,” I said, and then watched him start to shiver as the fever came on again.
I ran to the stairs to see if the men had left any medicines for me, but they were gone, and Mrs. Graham was still standing in the hall, her face turned toward the door.
I said, “Could you send Robert to Dr. Philips? I need something for a heavy fever, and something as well for a cough and congestion in the lungs.”
She turned to me, looking up the stairs with shadows on her face that seemed sinister in the low lamplight. “I was told he was dying. That medicines were of no use.”
“We need to make him comfortable to the end,” I pointed out.
After a moment’s hesitation, she said, “Robert will see to it.”
And an hour later, Timothy was at the door with a small box containing the medicines I’d requested. But he wouldn’t come into the room. It was as if he had no wish to see his brother.
It was a measure of the family’s feelings.
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CHAPTER SIX
I LOST COUNT of time. I had almost no rest, sitting up through the nights and again through the days, eating the meals that Susan brought up to me and working hard to make the poor wretch on the bed as comfortable as possible. I’d expected Dr. Philips to appear at some stage, or even the rector, but no one came, not even Peregrine’s mother.
But then she was his stepmother, wasn’t she? And this son had disgraced the family.
The only respite I had was a letter sent on to me by my father. It was from Elayne, one of the women with whom I shared the small flat in London. I recognized her sprawling hand at once. Tearing open the envelope, I was immediately lost in her words, so like her voice.
I hope the arm is healing as it should. I’m eager for news. Here’s mine. You’ll never guess, darling, what has happened to me. I’m in love, and he’s wonderful. I met him on the ship bringing the wounded back from France. He broke his shoulder wrestling a mule. Judging from the size of him, I wonder how the mule fared. Did I tell you he’s Staff? Quite safe behind the lines, so I shan’t fear losing him. He’s coming to visit when he’s out of hospital, and meanwhile, I’m off again to France. He’s asked me to smuggle a bottle of good wine back for him. I’ve left a small package at the flat for you-something I found for you in Dover. If you haven’t received orders by the time I’m home again, come to London and meet Anthony. But mind you don’t fall in love with him yourself-he’s claimed.