“Mr. Appleby knows the truth,” I said. “He didn’t want to admit to it, but he knows. And I know the truth, and my father, and Melinda Crawford, and too many people to be dealt with. It’s only a matter of time, Jonathan Graham, before your brother’s last wishes are finally carried out.”
“Knowing and proving,” he said, “are two entirely different matters. Who is Diana?”
I didn’t answer him.
“Not that it signifies,” he said into my silence.
And with that, he cranked the motorcar, got behind the wheel, and drove off down the drive.
I was so helplessly angry that I burst into tears.
Melinda, behind me, said, “I think we should call Simon. Not your father. Not in this case. Simon will know what to do.”
I shut the door on the cold evening air, and turned to her.
“It will be too late,” I said. “By the time Simon can get here, Peregrine Graham will be dead by his own hand.”
I put in the call to Simon Brandon anyway.
But there was no answer at the other end. He’d gone to dine with my parents, I thought. He did at least once a fortnight.
That was that. The cavalry wouldn’t come in time.
I went back into the sitting room. Shanta was taking away the now cold pot of tea, and I stood before the fire on the hearth, trying to warm myself.
“It was Appleby,” I said again. “It couldn’t have been anyone else. He saw your motorcar and Ram. I was careful, so very careful to keep Peregrine out of sight, except on our first visit to the tutor. And he told Jonathan how to find me, out of spite. The penny must finally have dropped.”
“It wasn’t very clever of me to offer you my car.” Melinda sat down, one arm on the table in front of her, a frown between her eyes. “I don’t think it was Jonathan who killed that girl. Your tutor, this Mr. Appleby, wouldn’t have called him, if he was. Don’t you see? He would have been afraid to let anyone know he had guessed the truth. That is, if you are right and the tutor had seen more than he was willing to tell.”
“And Arthur sent his message to Jonathan. That completes the circle, doesn’t it? As for the other killings-they didn’t include Appleby, because he was out of reach in Chilham.”
“That leaves Timothy, I should think. The only other choice is Mrs. Graham herself. And I find that hard to believe,” she answered, musing. “She was devastated, you said, when the murder was discovered.”
I hadn’t really wanted it to be Timothy. I had disliked Jonathan from the start and could have comfortably concluded that he was the killer.
I said suddenly, realizing the full impact of what we were saying. “It wasn’t Arthur. It wasn’t Arthur.”
“Yes, I should think that would be quite a relief. But how to prove any of this? It won’t be easy. The police had convinced themselves that their case was strong enough to send Peregrine Graham to Barton’s. They won’t wish to reopen the case.”
“But it was Jonathan the rector saw leaving the doctor’s surgery the night that-”
I stopped. I’d believed all along that it was unlikely that Jonathan had visited Ted Booker. And of course he hadn’t. That was why he hadn’t spoken up at the inquest.
It must have been Timothy in Jonathan’s borrowed greatcoat-and Jonathan had lied for his brother. Again.
Shanta came in with a fresh pot of tea and a fresh pitcher of milk.
She poured two cups, passed them to us, and then said, “You are looking very glum. Drink your tea and have something to eat. It will do you both a great deal of good.”
I said, “Shanta. What did you think of Peregrine Graham?”
She considered the question and then answered me. “There is a darkness that follows him like a shadow. I’m very glad that you weren’t eloping.”
I couldn’t touch my tea. The feeling that Peregrine would die before he could be taken back to the asylum grew stronger with every passing minute.
Every wasted minute…
“Melinda.” I was on my feet and heading for the door. “I must borrow your motorcar. I’m sorry, I can’t wait for Ram. I must go.” Ram drove sedately, not the way I intended to drive. Before she could say anything, I went up the stairs nearly as fast as Peregrine had done, caught up my hat and coat and gloves, and was on my way down the back steps to the barn where the motorcar was kept. I heard Melinda calling to me from a doorway, but I didn’t stop to hear what she had to say.
The motor was still warm and turned over with only one revolution of the crank. I drove out of the barn, leaving the doors wide behind me, and went down the drive at a clip that was reckless in this light. I kept my attention on the headlamps as they swept the road while I went through the map of Kent in my head.
There were two ways to reach Owlhurst, or the road leading to it, where Barton’s stood. Jonathan would have taken the more direct. And so would I.
I cleared my head of every thought, concentrating on the road. If I could catch them up before they reached Barton’s-surely Peregrine would wait until they were almost there. He’d be searched at the door, and then it would be too late. Somewhere before the asylum. I could picture that lonely stretch of road just before one saw the walls around the property. There? Sooner?
The roads were winter poor, and in daylight it would have been mad enough to drive at this speed, but I kept it up. They had a head start of what? Twenty minutes? Thirty? Thirty was too long. I’d never make that up.
I narrowly missed a ewe wandering across the road, and again someone on a bicycle, who yelled imprecations in my wake. I prayed I wouldn’t meet anything larger. At this speed, I couldn’t stop in time. Is it worth taking your life in your hands?
I had no answer to that. Would I have agreed to carry a message to Arthur’s brother, if I’d been able to look ahead into the future?
I had no answer to that either.
I was within five miles of Barton’s, cursing under my breath, knowing I was too late, far too late. And then, over the soft murmur of the Rolls motor, I heard shots echoing across the fields. I’d been close to the fighting. I’d fired side arms myself. I could recognize their sharp reports.
Gripping the wheel hard to hold back my fears, I tried to determine where the sounds had come from. To my right-and surely just ahead.
But to my right was only a tangle of briars and dead stalks of last summer’s wildflowers, and on the far side of that, out of range of my headlamps, the flat blackness of what appeared to be a fallow hop field.
I lifted my foot from the accelerator, prepared to find the Graham motorcar stopped in the middle of the road, and I put out my hand for the brake, to keep myself from plowing into it.
But the road ahead was empty…
I was about to pick up speed again when, peering through the windscreen, I noticed that beside me, the tall winter-dry brush along the verge had been flatted by something heavy passing over them and crushing them.
I hadn’t even had time to react to that when from the same direction I caught the sound of raised voices, angry and rough.
Barely a minute had passed since I’d heard those first shots, and now there were two more in rapid succession, hardly distinguishable, and someone cried out in anguish.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I WAS ALREADY braking hard, with all my strength, weaving across the road and slewing sideways as the motorcar came to a halt that felt as if it had jarred my very teeth.
Peregrine had walked away from the asylum-he could have remembered this stretch-
Pausing only to pick up the torch that had been sliding wildly about beneath my feet, I was out of the motorcar and running toward the hop field. But the torch’s beam was weak, and I had to concentrate on the broken stalks, which caught at my ankles and threatened to pitch me headlong. Then I reached the plowed ground, stiff with frost, and at last could cast my light toward the dark, quiet shape that was a motorcar, barely silhouetted against the sky.