“It can’t be finished, if Peregrine Graham is sent back to that place. You never went there, did you? But Arthur did. And still he said nothing. Did nothing. What did he mean when he said he’d lied, for his mother’s sake? Did you lie as well? Was she the one who killed Lily Mercer, and blamed Peregrine?”
Goaded, he said, “God, no! Damn you, don’t even suggest such a thing!”
“Then why did you have to lie, for her sake?”
“I lied because the police were there and they frightened her. She’d been crying. When they asked me about the pocketknife, I told them that it was Peregrine’s, that none of us ever touched it because it was left to him by his father. I didn’t know-I was ten, I didn’t understand what it was I was doing.”
But that must have meant he knew who had had possession of that knife.
“Take the paper-go.” He was insistent, the urgency reflected in his eyes.
I looked at the man lying on the cot.
He hadn’t confessed until he’d realized Peregrine was still alive… With Peregrine dead, the police would easily have come to the conclusion that the dangerous lunatic had run amok. They might still feel that way.
And Peregrine was claiming he’d shot Jonathan-but not the policemen. If he wanted to hang, why not admit to three people? Then where was the need for Jonathan to take the blame?
It was dark out there in the field. When he’d run off the road, why hadn’t Jonathan left the motorcar’s headlamps burning?
So that the other occupants of the motorcar couldn’t see what he’d seen-that someone else had been there?
And the Graham dogcart was standing in the yard of The Bells. It had been used tonight.
I said, “This confession is a lie. Who did you meet on the road tonight?”
He shut his eyes, not answering me.
“I saw him running away-I thought at first it was Peregrine. But Peregrine was already down, wasn’t he? He fired at someone, and missed. While you were struggling for control of your own revolver. That’s why I thought I’d only heard four shots. It wasn’t Peregrine who wounded you, it was Timothy, wasn’t it? And you’re still protecting him! How many people must he kill before he’s stopped?”
“My brother-he’s my brother.”
“So is Peregrine, and you left him to the horrors of an asylum.”
I took a deep breath, feeling a wave of exhaustion sweep over me. There was only one other thing I wanted to know. But Jonathan was having difficulty breathing and I moved his pillows to make him more comfortable.
Dr. Philips was at the door, saying, “The ambulance is on its way.”
I turned to Jonathan. “Will you at least tell me what Arthur had done that distressed him so? I brought his message-”
Someone spoke from just behind Dr. Philips. It was Mrs. Graham, her face starkly pale, her gaze on Jonathan. “He didn’t confide in you after all. I was so sure he had. The police asked him if Peregrine had ever been violent before. And Arthur answered that we were all afraid of him. Arthur had been standing outside the parlor where the police were questioning me, he knew what had been said. He knew I’d claimed that I’d found that same knife deep in my pillow one night. It was a large pocketknife, a man’s. The police were appalled. I knew they would be. Arthur saw that I was close to breaking down, and he lied to make them leave me alone.”
Two boys, barely understanding what was happening around them, telling lies because they were afraid, confused, and trying to please the adults who were interrogating them. And with their words, damning their half brother to a lifetime in a madhouse. But they’d never been taught to think of him as their brother, had they? Mrs. Graham had purposely kept them apart.
“What did Timothy tell the police?”
She took a deep breath. “He told the police that Peregrine had once threatened to carve him like a Christmas goose with that same knife.”
I wanted to bury my face in my hands and cry. On the lies of these three children, their mother had been able to protect her own son and keep him safe all these years, even knowing him for what he was. And no one had given a thought to Peregrine. He was the outcast, he was the eldest, and this woman had convinced herself that in the end his life would not have amounted to much anyway.
She couldn’t have loved Robert that much. But she had loved Timothy. And Timothy was only nine at the time.
“Why would Timothy wish to kill Lily?”
“Apparently that night she saw his foot after his bath. Jonathan was there later when she told Timothy-a child, mind you!-that it was ugly and hairy and useless. He never showed that foot to anyone. She told him it was the devil’s club and he was the devil’s spawn. When I heard that, I felt nothing for her, I owed her nothing.” Her voice was harsh, cold.
“Did he understand-did he realize he was killing her?”
“I’ve never asked him.”
She came into the room and took her son’s hand. She simply held it and told him she loved him, that nothing else mattered to her but that.
I slipped away, and in the passage came face-to-face with Robert Douglas. He stood there, stark anguish in his eyes.
“You can go in,” I said gently.
He shook his head. “No. I loved him as my own. Arthur too. But they were Ambrose’s sons.”
It was an admission, in his own fashion, that he’d protected Timothy because the last Graham son was his.
And that explained so much. The love child, the deformed child, the child of guilt. No wonder Mrs. Graham had guarded him so fiercely.
I turned away, to allow him the privacy to grieve, and went to stand beside Peregrine’s bed. I could hear them working with Jonathan, preparing him for the journey to Cranbrook. My training told me he wouldn’t make it.
Mr. Bateman, the man from the hop fields, came to the doorway. “I wish someone would explain what’s happened,” he said, beginning to show signs of angry frustration.
I turned to ask him to be patient a little longer, just as a voice beyond him said, “Let me try.”
It was Simon Brandon. “You’re the devil to keep up with,” he went on plaintively to me. “I’ve searched half of Kent for you. Why did you have my poor watcher arrested? He was there to keep an eye on you and make certain you were safe. You’re covered in blood. And there’s a dead policeman in a field not far from Owlhurst, and three men here in the surgery who’ve been shot.” And then he asked in a lighter tone, “Did you do it, Bess? No, don’t answer that, I don’t want to know.” He gave me a weary smile.
Rattled, I said, focusing on one word, “Your watcher? But-I thought someone else had hired him. Why don’t you ever tell me these things?”
He swore under his breath and took away the man and his patient dog. As I was shutting the door again, I saw Mr. Montgomery hurrying by, on his way to Jonathan’s room. Robert, realizing what that must mean, followed him.
But so far no one had fetched Inspector Howard.
I said fiercely to Peregrine, “You must listen to me. If you go on saying you shot Jonathan, they’ll believe you. They’ll want to. Wait until they’ve retrieved that bullet and know if it was from your weapon or Jonathan’s revolver.”
He gave me a twisted smile. “Why should I lie?”
“Because you don’t want to go back to Barton’s. But I think-I’m nearly sure-you were aiming at someone else. We must clear that up, don’t you see? You’ve trusted me this far.” But it was a measure of what he’d suffered there that Peregrine would rather hang than go back to Barton’s. I could feel his resistance like a stone wall. I still had Jonathan’s confession in my hands. I couldn’t rip it up until I was sure. It couldn’t have been an hour since I’d found the Graham car in that field, but once Jonathan was in an ambulance on his way to Cranbrook, Dr. Philips would have time to remember Inspector Howard. And then it would be too late. Clutching at straws, I said, “Peregrine. What am I to tell Diana?”