“She went to stay with her brother in Rye. She couldn’t bear that house afterward.”
Rye.
I said hastily, “Will you take me to Rye instead?”
He turned to look at me. “You said Owlhurst.”
“Yes, but that was before I knew Mrs. Gadd now lived in Rye. Will you take me there, and bring me back again?”
We settled on a new price for his trouble and were soon on our way south to the small town that had once been a Cinque Port, one of the five major harbors during the great days of the wool trade.
It was a journey of several hours by motorcar, but I soon found myself at the foot of a high bluff on which sat a gray stone church. We looked for the local police station, and I went in to ask the desk sergeant if by chance he knew where I could find a Mrs. Gadd. Oh, yes, he said, he knew her well.
“Go up to the church, Miss, and turn to your right. At the corner of the churchyard, turn left, and at the next corner, turn right again. You’ll have a lovely view of the water from there. Her house is on the left, the small one with black trim and an anchor for door knocker.”
I thanked him, went back to the patient Mr. Owens, and passed the directions on to him. We climbed the hill, went around the large, gray stone church, and found ourselves on a street that seemed to be eager to run straight down into the sea. From the heights, we had a wonderful view of gray water, rough with the turning of the tide. I located the house easily and told Mr. Owens to find himself tea and something to eat while I went inside.
“Knock at the door before I go,” he suggested. “She might not be to home.”
Good thinking. If I was as brilliant in questioning Mrs. Gadd, we might actually accomplish something, I told myself ruefully.
Using the anchor, I tapped briskly. After a moment someone came to the door. She was not young, perhaps in her middle fifties, but her hair was still fair, and her face unlined. She’d been a pretty woman in her youth, and that hadn’t faded with time.
Before I could speak, she peered over her spectacles at the man in the motorcar. “Is that you, Terrence Owens?” she asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Gadd, it is. How are you faring? I haven’t seen you in a good many years.”
“Well enough. Harry died, you know.”
“Your brother? That’s sad news. My aunt is gone as well.”
“Oh, my dear. I’m sorry to hear it. Won’t you come in?”
“I think this young woman would prefer to speak to you privately. But I’ll step in when I come to fetch her.”
“Fair enough.” She turned to me, frowning. “I don’t believe we’ve met, my dear.”
“My name is Elizabeth Crawford. I’ve come to speak to you about something that happened in the past. While you were living in Owlhurst.”
There was the briefest hesitation.
She knows what I’m here to ask her…
“Do come in out of the cold, then. The wind is brisk here on the bluff.”
Indeed it was. I followed her inside, and after she had taken my coat and gloves, we sat by the fire. My fingers and toes were instantly grateful for the warmth.
“I was a nurse on Britannic,” I began, “and one of the men in my care was Arthur Graham. You probably remember him as a child. I knew him as a man, a very brave one. He died of his wounds, and I was with him until the end. I spent some time in Owlhurst until a week ago. A guest of the Graham family, in fact. What I’ve learned about Peregrine Graham during my visit has been confusing-contradictory. I didn’t like to ask his family more than they were willing to tell me. But it has become rather important to me to understand about the murder of the girl called Lily.”
Mrs. Gadd spread her hands to the fire, and at first I was sure she wouldn’t answer me. Then she said, “Is it just idle curiosity that brings you here?”
“No. You see, I carried a message from Arthur Graham to his brother. No one told me what the message meant, but I came to believe it might have something to do with Peregrine. And I had the strongest impression that the family chose to ignore what amounted to Arthur’s last wish. Were they right to do so? I’ll tell you something else in confidence. While I was visiting the Grahams, Peregrine was brought to the house suffering from pneumonia. I nursed him back to health. He was so different from what I’d expected-I couldn’t-he seemed normal. As normal as Arthur or Jonathan or Timothy Graham. That troubled me.”
“What will you do with this knowledge, once you have it?”
“I’ve come back to Kent, and now here to Rye, to settle my own conscience. I have no right to pry, and I respect the possibility that you have no reason to confide in me.”
I’d tried to be honest-just leaving out the fact that Peregrine had fled from the asylum and only I knew where he was.
“Your concern does you credit, my dear. A duty to the dead is a sacred matter.” It was an echo of what my father had said to me. “What is it you want to hear?”
“What do you recall about Peregrine and the decision to send him to the asylum? How much did your husband tell you?”
“Very little at first. He came home that night shocked and grieving, refusing to tell me anything. Several months later, he was reminded of that night. We’d just finished our tea, and it was beginning to rain when Mrs. Graham sent for my husband. He was gone for hours. It seems that young Timothy went missing. We learned afterward that he’d set out on his own to find Peregrine. I have no idea how Mrs. Graham explained the situation to her other children, but it appeared that Timothy really didn’t know what had become of his half brother. Come to that, most of us weren’t told in the beginning where Peregrine was or why. And to tell you the truth, the boy was so seldom seen by that time that few of us thought twice about his absence. But back to Timothy Graham. My husband learned that Timothy was very upset that day. He’d been sent to his room for disobeying Robert Douglas, and some time in the late afternoon he left the house without being seen and simply vanished. Everyone was frantic; they had no idea where he was or why he’d told no one where he was going.”
“There were search parties?”
“Oh, yes, as many men as my husband could muster. Mr. Craig rang the church bell to gather them. And they were out until late into the night. Finally someone came from one of the outlying farms-a man named Hutter-to say that Timothy had been found in his barn, asleep in one of the horse stalls. My husband asked the boy why he’d run away, and he said that he wanted to find Peregrine and stay with him. It was after he was brought in that Mrs. Graham finally admitted to her sons where their brother was and that he would never come home.”
“How sad!”
“When Henry finally walked in the door, he couldn’t sleep. He paced for two hours, he was that upset. And because he couldn’t put it all behind him, he told me about Peregrine.”
“Did he tell you about how they’d gathered-your husband, Mr. Craig, Lady Parsons, and Dr. Hadley, together with Mrs. Graham-to decide Peregrine’s fate? And then apparently London accepted their decision? Did Inspector Gadd believe it was a just solution?”
“Yes, and I’m sure he felt it was, or he wouldn’t have been a party to it. Still, I was horrified. I’d known those boys, you see, most of their lives.”
“Can you tell me anything about the tutor? Nathan Appleby?”
“I didn’t know him well, but I was of the opinion that he didn’t have the character to rule four lively boys. But Mrs. Graham appeared to be satisfied with him.”
“What do you mean, the character?”
“He was rather pompous, for one thing, and I-well, to put it bluntly, I overheard the rector question Mr. Appleby’s qualifications, when the Grahams could afford the best. Mr. Graham replied that his wife-the present Mrs. Graham-had selected him, and there was no more to be said.”
Why would she willingly choose an incompetent tutor? Unless she felt he would do as she asked?