Timothy was the youngest. Vulnerable. Would Arthur defend him? But you don’t go round murdering someone just because she’s cruel. Unless this was the first time Timothy had been tormented in such a way and Arthur-
No, he’d have spoken to Robert-to his mother. Wouldn’t he have?
“What else do you recollect?”
He frowned. “I was given my meals in my room. As I always was. I saw the staff only in passing.”
“Peregrine. Was your tutor attracted to Lily Mercer?”
“Mr. Appleby?” He smiled. “I can’t imagine him condescending to a flirtation with a servant girl.”
Mrs. Gadd had said that the tutor was pompous. Still, anything was possible. London was a long way from Owlhurst.
“I’ve changed my mind, Peregrine. I want to go to Chilham tomorrow, instead of London. To see if I can find your former tutor. To see what he could add to the story.”
“I thought someone in Owlhurst had the rector’s journals?”
“Yes, but think-if there had been anything in those journals that the police ought to know, Mr. Montgomery would have told me. He’d read them over. He said as much to me.”
“Who is Montgomery?”
“The present rector. No, I think it might be more helpful to speak to Mr. Appleby. Let me see if I can persuade Mr. Owens to drive me there tomorrow.”
“This time I’ll go with you.”
“You’ll be seen-recognized-”
“Hardly. I doubt Appleby will know me. Not in this uniform. It’s been fourteen years, after all.”
He had a point.
We had a late tea in the hotel dining room, with me on tenterhooks that someone might see in the rather attractive young officer across from me a dangerous escapee from an asylum. But of course no one did. Peregrine complained of being shut up in his room all day and needing exercise, so we went for a short walk down the quiet street. Afterward Peregrine saw me to my door, and said, “Something you learned today disturbed you. Will you tell me what it is? I ought to know, if it has any bearing on my situation.”
I tried to smile, but it faltered. “It was just something-odd, that’s all.”
I opened my door, and he followed me into my room, shutting the door behind him. I tensed.
He said, “Don’t look like that. I’m not going to hurt you. Have I? In any way?”
“No.”
“Then tell me.”
“The housekeeper-Susan’s mother-showed the woman who was the family’s laundress a stain she’d found on the sleeve of Arthur’s nightshirt, and asked if it could be gotten out. She’d found the nightshirt in the valises as she unpacked after everyone returned from London. There must have been no time to do anything about it-or else no one noticed it. It was just-she said he was prone to nosebleeds. Arthur.”
“Was he? I don’t know. Surely my stepmother was told about the blood. Or the London police would have seen it and questioned Arthur.”
They might have, if he’d been wearing the nightshirt when Mrs. Graham called the police. Had he changed it before his mother got home?
Stop it! I ordered myself.
Answering Peregrine aloud, I agreed. “Yes. Of course. I’m tired. It was a long, cold journey. And stressful.”
“I’m sure.” He nodded, and was gone. I stood where I was, listening to the sound of his own door opening and then closing.
I wondered if he believed me.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE NEXT MORNING, Mr. Owens was there with his motorcar when we came out of the hotel after breakfast. He touched his hat to me, then shook hands with Peregrine-Lieutenant Philips.
Eager to hear about the war firsthand, Mr. Owens was disappointed to find that Peregrine’s wound had affected his memory. We were silent, watching the rain clouds build over Dover. In the distance we could see Canterbury Cathedral as we climbed the hill to Chilham and came out into the wonderful square with its Elizabethan buildings. The gates of the Jacobean manor house marked one end of the square and the churchyard of St. Mary’s the other. Where to find Mr. Appleby?
I decided to try the flint church first, walking through the gates to the arched west door. It creaked as I opened it, and the interior was icy, as it must have been for centuries. But I had been right to come here. There was a woman on her knees by the altar, arranging green boughs in bronze vases. At this time of year the arrangement was mostly sprays of holly, its red berries bright among the greenery.
She turned at my footsteps, and smiled. “Hello. Are you looking for Rector?”
“Actually, I’m looking for someone who may have lived here some years ago. He was a tutor, his name was Appleby.”
“Mr. Appleby? Yes, of course, he tutored the Laurence boys. But he’s no longer teaching.”
My spirits sank. “Do you know where he might have gone from here?”
“Oh, he liked Chilham so much he stayed on. He married one of the Johnstone girls. Mary, the eldest. Go back to the square and the little lane that runs down to your right, just after you leave the church gates. The third house is his.”
My spirits rose again. “Thank you. I’m very happy to hear that.”
“Do I know you?” she asked. “Your face is familiar.”
“I was here some years ago. My father was returning from India, and we were traveling with him, my mother and I. Colonel Crawford.”
She stood, her smile widening. “Colonel Crawford. The handsomest man at the dinner party. Of course, I remember now.”
That was the Colonel Sahib. In his dress uniform he was quite remarkably handsome. And had the charm to match.
“Let me finish here, and I’ll show you the Appleby house myself,” she offered. “I’d like to hear how your parents are faring.”
“They are both quite well,” I answered. “But I have friends waiting. If you don’t mind-”
“Of course. Give my regards to your parents. Tell them Sarah Cunningham was asking for them.”
I promised, and made my escape.
Peregrine was pacing beside the motorcar, a frown on his face. Mr. Owens had walked up to The White Horse on the corner, to wait for us. I told Peregrine what I had learned, and together we walked down the curving lane past a lovely stone house where I’d had cookies and milk when we called there, my mother and I. The tutor’s house was easily picked out, and I went up the short walk to lift the knocker.
“Peregrine. Whatever he tells us, promise me you won’t-”
At that moment the door opened. Peregrine sucked in his breath but said nothing.
Appleby was of medium height and thin build, his long face marked by a scar on his chin. His hair was graying, but his short mustache was darker, like his eyebrows. A scholarly man, at first glance, but his eyes were weak and his mouth was small. My father had always held a theory about small mouths-that they indicated spitefulness.
“Mr. Appleby?”
“Yes, indeed. How may I help you?” He looked from my face to Peregrine’s, without any sign of recognition.
I introduced us and then said, “I was one of Arthur Graham’s nurses when he was wounded, and he entrusted me with messages to his family just before he died.”
“I read that he’d died of wounds. What a tragedy that was. He was a fine young man.”
“May I spend a few minutes talking to you about him?”
He was surprised. “To me? Er-what information can I give you about Arthur?” He seemed confused.
I said quickly, “I spent a few days with the Grahams, as Arthur had asked me to do. But there were questions I felt uncomfortable bringing up-”
“You’re here about Peregrine Graham, aren’t you?”
“I-yes.”
“Why are you prying into the past?”
“I’m not prying, Mr. Appleby. I was very close to Arthur Graham at the time of his death. I can’t help but believe he died with something on his conscience-”
“You had better come in.” He stepped aside, and we followed him into the parlor of the house. It was prettily decorated, a woman’s touch with floral covers on the chairs and small china figurines on tables and the mantelpiece. I could hear someone humming in another part of the house.