It was dark under the trees, but peaceful. A little wind rustled the dry, bare branches, and once I thought I heard an owl glide past me, after other prey. They are silent, owls are, as they fly, but there’s something, a disturbance in the air, a sixth sense, that catches one’s attention sometimes.
It was time to turn back. I was nearly out of the wood when someone stepped from the shadow of a tree trunk and confronted me.
I drew in a breath, I was so startled, and he could hear that. He laughed, and then my eyes adjusted to the barest glimmer of ambient light, and I saw that it was Timothy Graham.
“It is you,” he said then. “I thought I saw you walking toward the wood, but I told myself it was impossible. What brings you back to Owlhurst?”
“You gave me such a fright!” I declared.
“Guilty conscience, I’ll be bound.”
That was too close to the mark for comfort. I laughed, more an admission than a denial, I was certain.
“I-a personal matter brought me back. And so I stayed the night. But I’m leaving tomorrow.”
He fell in step beside me. “I saw you coming from the rectory. If I were to guess, I’d say it was Ted Booker who has been on your mind.”
“I’d rather not discuss Lieutenant Booker.”
“You tried to help him. I think it was unfinished business on Ted’s account.”
I answered. “Sometimes when you try to save a patient, and you fail-even if it isn’t your fault, you still take it more personally than you should.”
“As you did in Arthur’s case.”
Surprised, I answered, “In a way, yes. He sent me here with a message, and I felt honor bound to bring it. However it might be received.”
“I can understand that.” He hesitated, then asked, “What did you make of Arthur? I don’t mean what you told my mother, but what you really felt?”
“He was a good patient. We often talked-I’d be coming off my shift, and I’d stop by his cot and he’d tell me what he’d been reading. Or I would tell him about some part of my day. He was restless, his foot hurting him like the very devil, and I knew that any distraction was welcomed.”
“Did he talk to you about Owlhurst or his family?”
“Only in the most general terms. You see, the wounded often live in the present, because they’ve been very badly frightened, even if they refuse to admit it. And so they hold on to the present. The past is still too-I don’t know-precious.”
“Did he tell you about his brothers?”
“I knew he had three, and no sisters. That was all.”
“Not that I was lame, or that Jonathan has a cold streak in him that I’ve never fathomed, and I doubt if Arthur did either? Or that Peregrine had been clapped up for murder?”
“In a hospital ward, with other ears hearing every word, men seldom bring up such personal things. I knew Jonathan was also in the army-I heard Arthur telling someone that.”
“Yet you came all this way…”
“I made a promise, Mr. Graham. I have told you.”
“And so you’d have traveled to Yorkshire, if a patient asked you to.”
“Kent was much easier. But yes. I’d have tried.”
He nodded. “Yes, that’s honorable. I’m angry that I’m not allowed to join the army. I resent the bonds that soldiers share. Arthur and Jonathan wrote often to each other, but less often to me. Or to my mother. It was as if we didn’t exist because we weren’t there.”
I could sympathize with what he was saying. My father, during his years as a commanding officer, cared for his men like a stern but loving father. I doubt they saw it that way, especially those who felt the sharp edge of his tongue, but my mother and I did. We sometimes felt pangs of jealousy, and my mother would say, “I married a regiment, my dear. If you are looking for single-minded love, find yourself someone in civilian life. A nice banker, perhaps.”
I said to Timothy Graham, “I think it isn’t so much the bond between soldiers as the fear that to tell the truth to those one loves would be too painful, and so letters must be brief, before other things spill over. I’ve written to wives and sweethearts and mothers, putting down what I’m told to write, and even knowing it for kind lies, I add nothing of what I know.”
There was the young Welshman who assured his mother that the trenches were quite comfortable, despite what she read in the newspapers, and that he had clean sheets and a good pillow for his bed.
“Did Jonathan tell you about Peregrine?”
“No. Your mother did, when I was asked to care for him. You were there.”
“I’m surprised you could bear to be in the same room with him.”
“A nurse is only concerned with the health of a patient. I wasn’t there to judge Peregrine Graham, only to heal him.”
“What did he tell you?”
“He was so ill. I think once he asked me why I was there-he thought I must be Arthur’s wife-and again he asked where he was, and I told him. He had to fight for every breath, even to tell me whether he felt like drinking more broth, or if he needed another pillow to help ease the coughing. And I was far too busy to worry about what he might have done years before.” It was such a narrow line between truth and falsehood.
Timothy nodded. “I didn’t want to see him. None of us did. He was the painful past, come creeping back. I wouldn’t recognize him if he spoke to me on the street. He must have changed beyond recognition. It explains why he killed himself. I wouldn’t have wanted to be shut away, as he was.”
“No.” We had reached the churchyard wall, and he opened the gate for me.
“I’m glad Arthur had someone with him at the end. It must be rather frightening to die alone. I can’t imagine it, to tell you the truth.”
I went through the gate, and after closing it, he turned toward his home. Then he came back to me. “I won’t mention the fact that I saw you. I can do that much for Booker. And his death did me no good. Mrs. Denton took Sally away with her, and it may be months before she’s home again.”
“Just as well,” I said. “She has a great deal of healing to do before she thinks about any future.”
“You’re a wise woman, Elizabeth Crawford, did anyone ever tell you that?”
I smiled but didn’t answer. And he was gone, limping across the uneven, winter-dead grass in the churchyard.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PEREGRINE WAS WAITING for me, and I said as I reached the head of the stairs, “I walked in the wood for a time, and Timothy saw me there. I came back as soon as I could.”
He was silent. We went down the passage to the door of my room and paused by common consent.
I hadn’t told him what I’d learned about his disappearance and possible death. I couldn’t have said why, except that it had erased Peregrine’s identity, and I wasn’t sure it was for the best to tell him that. He could take passage now to half a dozen countries that wouldn’t ask too many questions, he could create his own past, and walk away from Peregrine Graham. Would he be as eager to learn about Lily Mercer, if he knew all that I knew?
He waited. I said, “Peregrine. We should go back to London. We’ve learned all we can learn, here.”
“You know how the rector died, don’t you?”
“Yes. He tripped and fell down the pulpit stairs. Do you remember? It’s very high and the steps turn and narrow as they descend.”
Frowning, he looked for the memory, then nodded. “Yes. I do remember.”
I had opened my door and was about to cross the threshold, when he said, “You still think Arthur may have killed Lily Mercer, don’t you? I’ve seen your face when you’re afraid the evidence points in that direction. Tell me, how would you choose between Arthur and me, if it came to that-if the only way you could protect him would be to sacrifice me?”
I said, “Arthur is dead. Nothing can harm him now. You are alive.”