“I made Mr. Appleby very angry,” I said. “When I suggested that, after Peregrine had been dealt with and the household had returned to nearly normal, he had doubts about what had been done so quickly and without fuss.”
“But he gave you no feeling for which boy he suspected?”
“Sadly no. He’s an arrogant man, he takes great pride in being a good teacher, but I agree with what someone else said-he’s really second-rate. I don’t think Mrs. Graham wanted a sharp mind seeing through-”
I could hear the rasp of the door knocker.
“Who can be calling at this hour?” Melinda demanded testily. “No, don’t get up, my dear, Shanta will send them away.”
“My father-”
“-is in Somerset, I should think.”
But the sitting room door burst open, and brushing Shanta aside, there stood Jonathan Graham, backed by two burly police constables.
The raw, puckered scar across his face accentuated his determined expression. He knew what he wanted, and he was set on getting it.
“I’ve come to fetch my brother,” Jonathan said.
Melinda drew herself up to her full height and said, “I beg your pardon. Constable Mason, what is the meaning of this abrupt and very rude intrusion?”
I stood there, astonished, unable to believe my eyes. And then I collected my wits.
He’s guessing-he’s not sure-
The Colonel Sahib firmly believed in a sharp counterattack when the enemy began a tentative probe.
And so I did just that. “Your brother is dead. So I’ve been told. If you wish to know why I’ve been asking questions about what happened in London fourteen years ago, it’s because I’m not convinced that the real murderer was ever caught. Then there’s Ted Booker’s suicide-I have a strong feeling that he was murdered. It’s not remotely possible that Peregrine killed him, is it? And what about all those other deaths in Owlhurst-Inspector Gadd, Dr. Hadley, the rector? Peregrine was in the asylum during that time, was he not? This begins to shed new light on Lily Mercer’s murder, wouldn’t you agree, Lieutenant Graham?”
That rocked him back on his heels.
Constable Mason, the older of the two uniformed policemen, ignored me and said to Melinda, “It was reported, ma’am, that there was a dangerous murderer in this house, and we’ve come to fetch him before any harm comes to you or your staff.”
“And why should I entertain a murderer under my roof, pray? I don’t know this officer, Constable, and I’ll thank you to escort him out of my presence before I make a formal complaint to the Chief Constable. He dined here on Saturday last, and I can assure you he wouldn’t have done so if I consorted with murderers, dangerous or otherwise.”
I thought we’d carried it off. I thought we had between us put the fear of God into the constables and rattled Jonathan Graham.
Jonathan had looked from Melinda to me as she spoke of the Chief Constable, and there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
I said, into the silence, “Constable, if you wish to search the house, of course you may. Lieutenant Graham has been misled, maliciously at a guess-”
Just at that moment, Peregrine Graham came unwittingly down the stairs and turned toward the sitting room.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
AT THE SOUND of footsteps, Jonathan Graham whirled, stepped back into the passage, and stared into the face of the half brother he hadn’t seen since they were both children.
There was still a chance.
“May I present Lieutenant Philips?” I said quickly. “He’s an officer in my father’s regiment-he escorted me to Kent-”
But Jonathan saw something in his brother’s face that triggered a memory. A profound recognition on both sides that was our undoing.
“That’s him!” Jonathan exclaimed, “I told you he was here-”
Peregrine spun on his heel and ran for the stairs. The two constables lumbered after him, shouting for him to stop.
I caught Jonathan Graham’s sleeve and prevented him from following.
“Which of you killed Lily Mercer? Do you know? Tell me.”
He stared at me as if I’d struck him across the face.
“If it wasn’t Arthur-and Arthur couldn’t have killed Ted Booker-then it must be you. Or Timothy. You were the last person to see Ted Booker alive-”
“You are as mad as Peregrine is.”
“‘Tell Jonathan that I lied. I did it for Mother’s sake. But it has to be set right,” I quoted. “What had to be set right? What had Arthur lied about, for his mother’s sake? Had he lied about who had possession of Ambrose Graham’s pocketknife at the time Lily Mercer was killed? Did Arthur know and cover it up for your sake or for Timothy’s? And what about those other deaths-Inspector Gadd, the rector, the doctor. All the people who had acquiesced to sending Peregrine to the asylum. Which one of you decided to right that balance, rather than confess to the truth? Or was it done just to see that no one ever changed his mind about Peregrine’s guilt?”
He shook me off so forcibly that I fell back against the doorjamb. And then he was gone, up the stairs in the wake of the constables.
“Peregrine!” he shouted, his voice reverberating through the house.
Where was the pistol? What had Peregrine done with it? Was that what he was after? I couldn’t stand there, listening for the shots. I was at Jonathan’s heels, trying to stop a tragedy that was about to happen.
But Peregrine never used his pistol. He simply ran out of breath, and they caught him as he leaned, coughing harshly, in the doorway of his room.
It was too late to persuade the constables that they had got the wrong man. They would believe Jonathan, not me. There was nothing I could do.
I watched them bring Peregrine down the stairs, without a coat, without a hat, and I could see that someone-Jonathan?-had struck him across the face.
How did they know? How could they have possibly known he was here-unless Mr. Appleby had recognized Melinda Crawford’s chauffeur and maliciously set Jonathan Graham on my heels?
He stood there in the hall, triumphant, cold. “I was on my way out the door. My orders have arrived. I would have been gone in another hour, and then the message came.”
“Where are you taking him?”
Jonathan didn’t answer, but one of the constables said, “He’s to be returned to the asylum, Miss.”
“He won’t remain there for very long,” I warned the constable. “There’s some doubt now that he killed anyone.”
“He’s lied to you, Miss,” the other constable said. “The police don’t make such mistakes.” He looked at Peregrine, standing there helpless between them, no color in his face, and something in his eyes that I didn’t want to see. “Handsome fellow. Easy to get around a young lady. And here we’d all thought he was dead.”
“How dare you-” I began, but Melinda stopped me.
“You aren’t taking him from here without his hat and coat,” she said, her voice stern. “If he’s to be taken back to that place, it’s a long drive. Will you fetch Mr. Graham’s things, Shanta?”
And Shanta moved out of the shadows and went quietly up the stairs. Peregrine’s gaze followed her, and I knew what he was thinking, that the pistol was in his greatcoat pocket.
I held my breath when Shanta returned with the coat. And then I realized what was in Peregrine Graham’s mind. He had no intention of using the weapon on his captors, but somewhere between here and his destination, he would find a way to use it on himself.
I said urgently, “Peregrine. This isn’t the end of the matter. Do you understand me? I have connections, I’ll see to it that this business is settled.”
He gave me an odd smile. “Tell Diana I’m sorry I won’t be there to see her on her next leave.”
And then they were dragging him out of the house and into the motorcar that had brought them here.
Jonathan was the last to go.
I turned on him as he stood on the top step, watching Peregrine being shoved into the backseat, jammed between the two constables.