“Yes, but that’s looking back, isn’t it? You survived—and so there’s life ahead, marriage, a family, a future. You and Edgar were the lucky ones. You lived. Now get on with it.”
He laughed. “Would that we could.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, Ian, you know what I mean. If you stay bogged down in the trenches, then they’ve won. You went on with your profession. Edgar can go on with his. He’s not the only man in England with one leg. He’s not a freak. He’s not unique. A solicitor can manage with one leg, for heaven’s sake.”
He couldn’t tell her why he’d returned to the Yard last year. At what cost and for what reasons. He answered only, “Have you ever had a terrifying nightmare, Elise?”
“Of course. Everyone has.” She was impatient.
“Think about the worst one you can recall, then try to imagine waking up to find that it was real and would go on for years, not minutes, without respite.”
“That’s not possible—” She stopped. “Oh. I see what you mean.
Trying to shake off a nightmare is harder than having it.” She turned her head, watching the gulls. After a moment she went on. “When I was five, I was frightened by a friend’s little dog. I was creeping up on her to surprise her, and the dog heard me first and attacked me. After that, I was always afraid of dogs. Any dog.”
Rutledge nodded. “Are you still afraid of dogs?”
“Not afraid. Wary, perhaps?”
“Yes. That’s what war does to you. It leaves you wary because you can’t erase what you saw or felt or did. It can’t be safely tucked away in the attic until you’re fifty and decide to bring it out and look it squarely in the face. And Edgar is reminded of his missing leg every time he puts on a shoe or tries to walk across the room or step into a motorcar.
It’s a fact he can’t escape, however hard he tries. And in turn, this is a constant reminder of a day he doesn’t want to remember.”
She turned to look at him. “Where are your scars?”
“They are there. Just a little less visible than missing a leg.” He found it hard to keep the irony out of his voice. Thank God no one could see Hamish. Or hear him. He couldn’t even be explained away logically. A haunting that was no ghost, a memory that was filled with guilt, a presence where there was none. Except to him.
Elise said, “You’re telling me that patience is my cue.”
“I’m telling you that getting on with it will always be easier for you.
And so you must teach Edgar to forget, not only with patience but with the understanding that some memories may never fade. If you can’t accept him as he is, then you must walk away. Now.”
She smiled, a pretty girl barely twenty. He felt like a grandfather in her presence, though he was the same age as her older brother. How on earth would Edgar cope? Or had he deliberately chosen someone so young, someone who had no experience of war, in the hope that it would help him forget?
It was not his business to ask. He was here to support the groom, and that was that.
Elise was saying, “I appreciate your candor. I’ll try to understand.
And when I can’t, I won’t judge.”
“Then you’ll make Edgar an admirable wife.”
Her laughter rang out, fresh and untroubled.
Inside the house, silver rattled against silver.
“Aha. I hear sounds from the dining room. By the way, my matron of honor has arrived. I’ll bring her along to meet you this afternoon.”
She got up and went inside, leaving Rutledge with his thoughts.
4
Ronald Evering stood by his bedroom window that same morning, watching the small mail boat make for the harbor at St.
Anne’s. There was only one passenger on board; he could pick out the blue jacket and white trousers of Davis Penrith, who was standing amidships, his face turned toward the landing, his fair hair blowing in the wind.
The launch came in, tied up, and Davis stepped ashore, looking up the winding hill that led to the only large house on the island.
Evering wondered what he was thinking.
No doubt gauging how many pounds this venture might bring him.
Was he so foolish that he thought he would be trusted again with a small fortune? Did he feel no twinge over cheating a man twice—of his brother and of his money? Apparently not, or he wouldn’t have come.
Evering turned away from the window and went down to await his guest in the hall, but the memory of his mother’s corpse lying there at the foot of the stairs prodded him to move on to the stone steps of the house.
St. Anne’s was one of the smaller of the inhabited Scilly Isles. The Romans had come here, and then the Church, and finally Cornish-men looking to make money any way they could. Cut flowers had become the latest source of wealth, for they bloomed here earlier than anywhere else in England, and so they had been very much in demand for country houses and London weddings. The war had put an end to that, of course. Getting perishable flowers across to the mainland and to their hungry markets had been impossible, what with workmen gone to fight or to factories, the government taking over the trains for troops and the wounded, and the German menace out there waiting to sink whatever vessel sailed into their sights.
He doubted that the market for fresh flowers would be as profitable again, not the way it was before 1914. It would be too costly now, workmen’s wages too high, and no one was entertaining on the scale they once had done. Great vases of flowers in every room, profligate and beautiful, were a luxury now, even for the wealthy.
He was glad his father hadn’t lived to see this day. He had mourned his elder son, then given his only remaining child all that he had dreamed of for Timothy—a fine education, this house, and a love for the Scilly Isles that in the end had come to be the strongest bond between them.
If this day bore fruit, the senior Evering would have lost both sons—one to murder and the other to an unconscionable act that would damn him.
For an instant he was torn. Penrith hadn’t seen him yet. Let him knock at the door, and when no one answered his summons, go back to Cornwall and thence to London, cursing a wild goose chase. Or tell him to his face that it had been a mistake, there was no money left to invest after all.
Evering turned and went back inside.
It would seem too—eager—to be seen waiting by the steps.
Invisible in the quiet parlor, he soon heard shoes crunching in the shell walk that led through the trellis gate up to the door. At the sound of the bell, he counted to ten, then he himself opened the door to Penrith. Welcoming him as his father would have done, with an old-fashioned courtesy Evering was far from feeling.
It’s not too late . . .
Penrith stepped into the cool hall and said plaintively, “I thought perhaps you’d have sent a cart to meet me. The boatman said it was usual.”
“Alas, the horse is lame. But the exercise will have whipped up your appetite. Breakfast is waiting in the dining room.”
“I could do with a cup of tea.” Penrith followed him down the passage to the dining room, its windows looking out to sea, where nothing stood between the stone walls of this house and the great expanse of the Atlantic.
Penrith took his tea standing up, looking out at the cloudless sky.
“Is that a bank of sea mist out there on the horizon? I didn’t notice it from the boat, but of course we’re higher here. I can tell you I wouldn’t care to be caught in one of those. I’ve heard tales of what it would be like—dank and damp, like cotton wool. Worse than a London fog. No wonder the Cornish coast is famous for its shipwrecks. I see the boat has continued on its rounds—I thought it might stay on for a bit. How long before it returns to St. Anne?”