“What did Peregrine have to say for himself?” I asked.
“Very little. He was quite naturally dazed by the turn of events, and on that score, it isn’t surprising. I asked him how he had come to kill, and his answer was that he wanted his father’s knife returned to him, he was quite upset that it had been taken away. I asked him how he felt about what he’d done, and he said that he didn’t care for the smell. I asked him if he’d liked the unfortunate victim, and he replied that she was spiteful when no adult was present, and that he had disliked her for it. All very consistent, according to the doctor, with the boy’s inability to tell right from wrong. He couldn’t seem to grasp the severity of his actions. There was no malice, no cunning, no viciousness. There was no doubt in my mind, as there was no doubt in the minds of the London authorities, that prison was inappropriate and that Barton’s Asylum was the proper choice, where he could be evaluated.”
“Why not a London hospital?”
“I believe that the doctor, a man called Hepple, who was a specialist in mental derangement in children, had recently removed to Barton’s. Mrs. Graham was very persuasive. She felt that her stepson had no prior history of violence, no indications of a violent nature, and that it had most likely been a disagreement over a pocketknife, about which he was obsessive, that might have triggered this event. In supervised circumstances, it was likely he would never kill again.”
I could see that I was speaking to a wall. Lady Parsons had made up her mind that night, and she was not accustomed to changing it. I could also see that Mrs. Graham had been terribly distressed but had somehow kept her wits about her as well. And that would be indicative of a shocked and horrified mother who had to fight for a child she loved with every tool at her disposal. Nothing else mattered, not even her own near collapse.
I thanked Lady Parsons for her time and prepared to take my leave.
She said, “My dear, when one is young, one sees dragons everywhere, and one is prepared to fight them. That’s an admirable trait. But as one ages, one often sees that injustice is rare, and that what had appeared to be dragons are merely the shadows the mind creates when it wishes to avoid a bitter truth.”
I stood there for a moment, then asked, “Did you feel I was fighting dragons when I made the plea for Lieutenant Booker?”
“In a way, I did. Shell shock is little understood, although I believe that in young Booker’s case, it was clear that both Dr. Philips and you had fought hard against his dragons. But the dragons won, and that was neither justice nor injustice, but the simple fact that in the end, he didn’t have the strength to endure.”
She hadn’t used the word courage, but it hung in the air between us.
The little dog accompanied us to the door of the drawing room, either ready to defend his mistress or hoping for a walk, it was hard to say.
Which brought me to another matter I hadn’t intended to broach.
“I understand you had a terrible fall from your horse some years ago, Lady Parsons.”
“Oh, my dear, I was frightened to death that I wouldn’t walk again! I don’t know why the horse fell-my groom found cuts on the mare’s knees, and he very rightly called in Constable Abbot, but I could swear that there was nothing on the path that might have tripped up Henny. We had ridden through high grass before we reached the wood, and she might well have encountered something there that I couldn’t see. I don’t wear my spectacles when I ride.”
And that was Lady Parsons’s dragon-that no one would dare touch her or her horse. She was sacrosanct.
Simon said as I walked out to the waiting motorcar, “You don’t appear to be happy with the outcome of your visit.”
“I’ve been fighting dragons. Or so I’m told.”
Simon put the motorcar into gear and drove several miles until he came to a place wide enough for us to pull to the side of the road. The view across the Downs was wonderful in the cold light of a winter’s day.
He said, simply, “What can I do?”
“Dear Simon, I thank you, but it isn’t a position the army can take with full cavalry charge in support of the infantry.”
“Try.”
I shook my head.
“Bess-”
“Do you remember some twenty years ago, there was a scandal about a steeplechase where a favorite lost to a horse with no record of winning-and suddenly in this one race, he was a phenomenon, ahead of the field by some ten lengths? And much later, it was discovered that the horse who won had actually taken the place of the one legally entered in that race? My father was angry when the truth came out. He’d had a wager on the favorite.”
“As I remember the substitution wasn’t discovered for five years.”
“Exactly. I think this must have happened when Lily Mercer was found dead. The wrong boy was blamed, because it served everyone’s purpose for him to be sent to an asylum.”
“That’s a rather strong accusation. The police don’t often get things wrong.”
“And they didn’t. It was a child in that house. Only, the real killer was protected, and the scapegoat was not missed by anyone.”
Simon was silent for some time. And then he asked, “Has this boy-the real murderer-killed again?”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “Circumstantial evidence says he may have. I’m not a policeman, I can’t prove what I believe.”
“You’re too close to the people involved-too close to be objective.”
“And if I’m sent to France in a fortnight, it will all be swept under the carpet again, and an innocent man will continue to be blamed for something he didn’t do.”
Simon turned to look at me. “Are you in love with this innocent man?”
I laughed. “Hardly.” The laugh faded. “But I see the injustice here, and I’m helpless to change it. And what about the dead girl? What does she deserve? Even her family abandoned her, in a way. She wasn’t the victim, she was the problem, to be swept under the carpet as quickly as possible.”
“You were ever taking pity on the halt and the lame and the lost.”
“I know. I’ve seen so much death, Simon. I’m glad I took up nursing-I’ve been able to do something about the war by saving the lives of wounded men-but there are things I’ll remember until I die, and memories that come in the dark, when I’m trying to sleep.”
He got out to crank the motor. “You should have been a son, Bess Crawford. It would have made life much easier for the rest of us.”
“No, it wouldn’t have done any such thing. You’d have been following me into battle to keep me safe.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I TOLD PEREGRINE that shifting Lady Parsons’s belief in her own judgment was going to be an uphill struggle. “And one I don’t think we’re likely to win.”
He got up and began to pace. “I don’t even know what I believe. Logic tells me I could have done it. Honesty says I probably killed her. The problem comes back to what I remember. And memories are difficult to refute.”
“That’s probably because you were drugged to keep you out of the way and manageable while in London. And it turned out to be a godsend, that you were acquiescent to whatever was asked of you.”
Stopping at the window, he lifted the edge of the white lace curtains that my flatmates and I had hung there, idly glancing out. And then his interest sharpened, and he stood there, watching something or someone in the street below.
After a moment, he said, “Come here, will you?”
I went to stand beside him, reaching to pull the curtain wider so that I could see the street. But he caught my hand, pulled me in front of him, and said, “No. Through this crack. Don’t disturb the curtain!”