“When he was calmer, yes.”
I could have told Inspector Howard that according to the rector and Dr. Philips, there had been a late visitor to the surgery. But there was no proof that whoever it was had even spoken to Ted Booker. The police would believe Jonathan Graham if he claimed he was nowhere near the doctor’s house. And it would add tinder to the fires of doubt regarding Dr. Philips, that his surgery was not properly secured.
I knew I had felt my own share of guilt for what had happened. But it was emotional, not rational. Dr. Philips must have experienced the same thing. People died, however much you tried to save them…
“Sometimes,” I said, “Lieutenant Booker was unable to tell the present-today, his wife, his son, his responsibilities-from the past-his duty to the men serving under him. He could easily have awakened, confused, not understanding where he was, or why he was bandaged, and tried to return to his unit. Not realizing that in the attempt, he was going to die.”
We stopped, and the inspector stood there, his eyes on the cricket pitch. “You think it was confusion about where he was and what he was doing, that led to his death?”
Remembering how hard Ted Booker had fought to save Harry, I nodded. “He would have done anything, sacrificing himself if need be, to keep his brother alive. It’s the only explanation I can offer. As for Dr. Philips, I’ve known him only a very short time, but he’s well trained and compassionate. I’d trust him with my own life.”
“And yet I understand that when Mrs. Graham’s son Peregrine was very ill, she didn’t call in Dr. Philips to oversee his care.”
The gossips had been busy.
“You are well informed,” I said.
“Well, yes, the asylum notified us that Mr. Graham was ill and in the care of his family. There were constables within call as long as he was in Owlhurst. It was reported that Dr. Philips came to the house once but was turned away.”
“Hardly turned away. Not really needed is closer to the mark,” I answered, my voice nearly betraying my surprise at news of the constables. “I was in charge of the sickroom.” I didn’t add that Peregrine Graham’s case had been such a near run thing that I’d had my hands full. Dr. Philips’s presence would have been reassuring. Besides, the Grahams weren’t turning him away as much as they were keeping Peregrine behind closed doors. Out of sight and out of mind.
“And Jonathan Graham isn’t attended by Dr. Philips, in spite of a rather nasty war wound.”
“Dr. Philips isn’t a surgeon, Inspector Howard. Lieutenant Graham’s bandages haven’t been removed, and he may require more surgery before he’s fully healed. I daresay he’ll remain with the medical staff in charge of his case until they are satisfied that there is no infection.”
“I see.” He nodded, as if he did.
I ventured one last remark. Let the crows come home to roost. “I’m sure Mrs. Denton is distraught over her son-in-law’s death, but it’s unkind to blame Dr. Philips. In my opinion, for what it’s worth, she was not as sympathetic as she might have been during Lieutenant Booker’s illness, and perhaps that’s weighing on her mind now.”
He smiled. “You are very forthright, Miss Crawford.”
I knew then the crows had found their rightful nest. Yes, Mrs. Denton had been busy protecting her daughter. That was as it should be. But she had also been partly responsible for Ted Booker’s plight. I wasn’t about to let her ruin Dr. Philips’s reputation as well.
“I spent several hours in Mrs. Denton’s company one afternoon while we watched over Mr. Booker. I had the opportunity to witness her feelings about him.”
A little silence fell. Finally Inspector Howard turned back toward the church. “Let me walk you home, Miss Crawford. You’ve been very helpful.”
He asked what had brought me to Owlhurst, and I told him. He said, “It’s a great sadness, this war. So many young men lost to us. My sister’s son, for one. He was a bright boy. He could have made something of his life. Now we’ll never know what it might have been.”
“Are you married, Inspector?”
“Indeed I am. And I’ve been blessed with three young daughters.”
We laughed together.
“Will you speak at the inquest?” He appeared to be offering me a choice.
“If my opinion carries any weight, of course I shall.”
Ahead of us was the church. He said, “Would you mind if I left you here? You know your way, I think?”
“I’ll be fine. Thank you.”
He turned to go and then had one last question for me. “In your opinion, was Ted Booker mad?”
“Not mad, no.” I looked toward the church steeple, thinking about Peregrine Graham. “Not as we think of madness. He was as wounded in spirit as Jonathan Graham is wounded in the flesh.”
Inspector Howard touched his hat to me as he thanked me, and then walked on toward the High Street of Owlhurst.
Looking after him, I wondered how much good I had really done-and how much harm. On the whole, I thought the Colonel Sahib would have been pleased with his daughter’s handling of that interview. Inspector Howard was no fool.
When I reached the house, I could almost sense the curiosity welling behind that front door, and the questions I’d be asked about what the inspector had had to say to me. The very thought was enough to make me keep on walking. I wasn’t ready to answer them, and I refused to add to any speculation about police interest in Dr. Philips. And so, with nowhere else to go, and my feet feeling like numb blocks of ice, I called on Susan’s mother. It was the only other sanctuary I could think of where there was a fire and a warm welcome.
No one had told her the sad news about Ted Booker, and tears came to her eyes as she sat down in the nearest chair.
“Oh, my good Lord. No.”
I tried to comfort her, but she took his death hard. “I was that fond of the Booker twins. The truth is, I liked them better than the Graham boys, barring Arthur of course. Steady lads, honest and caring, that’s what they were. Sons a mother could be proud of.”
I was surprised. But then Peregrine was a murderer, Jonathan seemed to be callous and uncaring, and Timothy-Timothy I hadn’t really understood yet. He seemed to be open and honest, but sometimes that appeared to be what was expected of him. As if to show he bore no ill will to Fate for having given him a clubfoot. Again, that English insistence on stiff upper lip, pretending nothing is wrong.
Susan’s mother sat there for a time reminiscing about the Booker twins, and then said, “I don’t know how many more shocks I can bear. First Arthur and then Harry, and now Mr. Ted.” She shook her head. “I ought to count poor Mr. Peregrine as well. He’s as good as dead, isn’t he?”
“I was talking to Mrs. Clayton earlier. She told me she had expected to go to London with the family, until plans were changed at the last minute. Were you to go as well?”
“I was to stay here. I can tell you, I was more than a little envious of Hester Clayton, at the time. As it turned out, I was glad I wasn’t there. It was a terrible shock. I heard Mrs. Graham speaking to Inspector Gadd, describing how he’d ripped that poor girl to pieces in an orgy of lust and blood. Very like Jack the Ripper, it was, that’s how she put it. I didn’t sleep for two nights, picturing it. And Mrs. Graham walking in to find the body and Peregrine there with blood all over him. It’s a wonder she didn’t lose her mind.”
Shocked, I said, “I thought-” But I don’t know what I thought. A nice quiet killing with no blood and the victim someone I didn’t know and never would? Appalling and all that, but somehow until now, not real.
“Mrs. Graham cried all night, saying she wished he’d died there and then, so she could bury him beside his father and have done with it, and never have to think about it again. Ever.”