From his expression, I got the feeling that Mr. Bateman knew the rector, and he most certainly recognized the Graham name. But I gave him the necessary directions anyway, and for a mercy, he took himself off, the dog dancing around his legs, as if eager to be out of the surgery and into the night air again.
When I looked in on him next, Constable Mason was beginning to feel a little better, and he insisted that he should be given a chair so that he could sit in Peregrine’s room, on duty. But then he retched again, rather spoiling the effect of his claim to be quite recovered, and he lay back, shutting his eyes against the light-headedness sweeping him.
“Mr. Graham isn’t going anywhere,” I assured him as I closed his door. “We’ll be giving him a sedative shortly. It will be more effective than a dozen constables.”
Dr. Philips and I worked feverishly for a quarter of an hour. I was right about Constable Mason’s concussion. He could remember his name, but he was clearly seeing double when I held up two fingers, and he had no idea what had happened on the road. He asked to speak to Constable Whiting, but before I could answer that, he had drowsed off, and I had trouble waking him again.
Peregrine had a fractured clavicle close to where it met the shoulder, and he lay there against his pillows, his eyes closed to avoid being questioned as Dr. Philips gave him something for pain and strapped the shoulder and the left arm to Peregrine’s chest. It was a clean wound, and barring infection, he would be all right.
Jonathan was far more seriously injured, with the likelihood that the bullet had nicked a vein, causing internal bleeding. It was still lodged somewhere in his chest, and the broken ribs made breathing difficult. He was awake, stoically following our movements but saying nothing until Dr. Philips left the room.
“Are Mason and Whiting dead?” He didn’t wait for me to answer him. “I shot them all,” he managed to add. “I’ve been recalled to join my regiment. I won’t survive France this time. It was best to rid us of Peregrine once and for all. For-for Mother’s sake.”
His voice faltered at the end, realizing that he had used Arthur’s own words.
I’d seen the revolver where he must have dropped it as he fell. I’d shoved it in his greatcoat pocket before we attempted to lift him. But Peregrine too had been armed.
“Peregrine is alive. He’ll live,” I responded. “Dr. Philips is with him now.”
Jonathan swore with feeling. “I want to confess. I want you to write my confession down, word for word. Let the doctor witness it.”
“You’re in no condition-”
“I want to confess.”
To keep him quiet, I said, “Yes, all right, I’ll fetch pen and paper for you-”
I left the room, and ran into Dr. Philips in the passage outside.
“I wish you would tell me what this is about. And did I hear you call that other officer Peregrine? Peregrine Graham? What’s he doing in uniform? I thought-”
I took a deep breath. “The two constables were taking him back to the asylum. Something happened only a few miles from there-that field at the bend. Do you know it? I’m not sure if Peregrine-or Jonathan-Suffice it to say, before they reached Barton’s, they went off the road, and somehow, someone began shooting. It was all over when I got there.”
“And what in hell’s name were you doing-”
“I followed the Graham motorcar from a friend’s house, where Peregrine was taken into custody. But he’d been falsely accused, they had no business taking him back there.”
“He’s a dangerous man, Bess, everyone said so when he escaped. That he shouldn’t be approached. I must send for Inspector Howard-”
“Dr. Philips-he’s been sedated. He’s not likely to harm anyone.”
“There was a pistol in his greatcoat pocket, and a hole there where it had been fired, right through the cloth. I’ve taken the pistol and locked it in my desk.”
Oh, dear God.
“Let me see it. I want to see how many shots are left.”
“Three. I’ve already looked.”
“But-” I broke off, frowning. “Did you-did you think to look at Jonathan’s revolver?”
“He handed it to me. He said four shots had been fired. He was right.”
But that made five, and I’d only heard four.
Dr. Philips was saying, “We should bring Mrs. Graham here as soon as possible. And find the rector. I’m transferring Jonathan Graham to hospital in Cranbrook. She’ll want to go with him. I can’t probe for that bullet here. If he can survive the journey, they just might save him. It will be touch and go.”
“I’ve sent for them.”
“Well done.”
I went on to Dr. Philips’s office, where I quickly found pen and paper. And then I looked in on Peregrine. The sedative was already working. His eyes were closed, his mouth a tight line of pain and despair.
Touching his hand, I said urgently, “Peregrine? What happened out there on the road tonight? You must tell me-who did you shoot? Was it Jonathan?”
He opened his eyes as I spoke. Then he turned his face to the wall and wouldn’t meet my gaze.
“Listen to me! Jonathan has confessed to trying to kill the two constables and you. Is it true? He may be dying, I need to know.”
There was no answer.
“You fired your pistol. While it was still in your pocket.” I reached for his greatcoat, lying across a chair’s back, and showed the blackened hole to him. “Look, here’s proof.”
“I won’t go back to the asylum,” he said finally. “I can’t face it. I’d rather be hanged.”
“Constable Mason will be all right in a day-two. He’ll be able to speak to Inspector Howard. You might as well tell me the truth. It’s the only way I can help you.”
“Mason was the first to go down. He won’t know what happened after that. I shot Jonathan,” he said, and something in the timbre of his voice rang true.
“But that doesn’t make sense. He wasn’t shot in the back while he was driving-and he couldn’t have walked that far from the motorcar, hurt as he was.”
He wouldn’t answer.
“Peregrine. I promise you, you won’t go back there-”
I could read the bleakness in his eyes as he replied, “Bess, you nearly worked a miracle. I’m grateful, truly. But I can’t walk out of here. I stood up just now and tried, and it was hopeless. Someone has taken my pistol, and so I can’t use it on myself. I’ll have to stay and face them. There’s nothing more we can do.”
I didn’t try to argue, but I was far from giving up. My father had always said I was as stubborn as a camel.
“I’ve sent for Mrs. Graham. She’ll be here shortly. I thought you’d prefer to know that.”
And then I went back to Jonathan, hoping for a little time before his mother arrived.
Jonathan was waiting for me as I opened the door to his room. When he saw the paper and pen in my hands, he said, “Hurry.”
And so I sat there, beside another Graham son, this time instead of writing a letter home, I was taking down a confession of murder.
It was brief, no details, just the stark facts. When I’d finished, he held out his hand for the pen, to sign.
I said, “Did you kill Lily Mercer, Jonathan? I know it wasn’t Peregrine. Arthur knew that too. It’s what he meant by his message to you. Surely-surely, if you’re confessing to these deaths, you will want to tell me the truth of that one as well. Peregrine doesn’t deserve to return to Barton’s. He’s suffered enough. Set him free, while you can.”
But he lay there in stony silence, his hand shaking a little as he reached a second time for the pen.
What was it about these Graham men? Stubbornly silent when they might set the record straight. First Arthur and now Jonathan and even Peregrine.
I watched him sign the confession. His signature was a scrawl, but legible enough to suffice.
“Take it to Inspector Howard. Don’t let my mother see it. It would be a cruelty.”
I agreed and was about to leave when he said, “Let it be finished.”