Part 18 (1/2)

”Because she owes me a favor. Will you be willing to go back to Kent? Will you risk it?”

He watched my face, as if trying to see beneath skin and bone into my brain. ”I don't trust you. I can't trust you.”

”The sooner you're satisfied, the sooner I'm rid of you,” I said. ”I protected you when you were ill. But I can't condone your escape from the asylum-you aren't trying to make amends for what you did, you aren't even trying to start life anew. You want to relive it.”

”I don't want to relive it,” he said, his voice tense. ”I want to understand it.”

”I'm going back to Kent. There are some things I must do, information I must find. Will you stay here with Diana, and not harm her? She'll do your marketing, and she'll be my hostage, if I betray you.”

”I can't sit here waiting. I'll go with you.”

”If you do, and you're recognized-”

”I'll chance it,” he told me grimly.

And so that evening we set out for Kent again. When we reached Tonbridge, I found a hotel on a side street, bespoke two rooms, and asked if there was anyone who could take me to Owlhurst in the morning. They found a man who was willing, and after breakfast, I left Peregrine cooling his heels in his room while I set out, wondering what I was going to say to anyone.

I watched the villages come and go in silence, for I hadn't slept well, worried about Peregrine taking it in his head to walk away. He was two people, the sick man I had watched over day and night for nearly a week, and a man obsessed with a b.l.o.o.d.y moment in his childhood.

I tried to shut out Peregrine, but he was there, a dark figure in the back of my mind. I turned to the middle-aged man driving me. His name was Owens.

”Do you know Owlhurst?”

”Oh, yes. My Aunt May lived there for a time,” he said. ”I visited her often enough, boy and man.”

Oh, dear. Mind your tongue, Mind your tongue, I warned myself. I warned myself.

”Did you know an Inspector Gadd?” It was the first name that came to me, other than the Grahams and Dr. Philips. After all, the man had been dead for some time. It should be safe enough to claim acquaintance there.

To my surprise, Mr. Owens replied, ”He lived next house but one to my aunt. Taught me how to ride my first bicycle. Shame about his dying so young. A good man.”

”Yes. Er, do you know if his widow is still living in Owlhurst?”

”She went to stay with her brother in Rye. She couldn't bear that house afterward.”

Rye.

I said hastily, ”Will you take me to Rye instead?”

He turned to look at me. ”You said Owlhurst.”

”Yes, but that was before I knew Mrs. Gadd now lived in Rye. Will you take me there, and bring me back again?”

We settled on a new price for his trouble and were soon on our way south to the small town that had once been a Cinque Port, one of the five major harbors during the great days of the wool trade.

It was a journey of several hours by motorcar, but I soon found myself at the foot of a high bluff on which sat a gray stone church. We looked for the local police station, and I went in to ask the desk sergeant if by chance he knew where I could find a Mrs. Gadd. Oh, yes, he said, he knew her well.

”Go up to the church, Miss, and turn to your right. At the corner of the churchyard, turn left, and at the next corner, turn right again. You'll have a lovely view of the water from there. Her house is on the left, the small one with black trim and an anchor for door knocker.”

I thanked him, went back to the patient Mr. Owens, and pa.s.sed the directions on to him. We climbed the hill, went around the large, gray stone church, and found ourselves on a street that seemed to be eager to run straight down into the sea. From the heights, we had a wonderful view of gray water, rough with the turning of the tide. I located the house easily and told Mr. Owens to find himself tea and something to eat while I went inside.

”Knock at the door before I go,” he suggested. ”She might not be to home.”

Good thinking. If I was as brilliant in questioning Mrs. Gadd, we might actually accomplish something, I told myself ruefully.

Using the anchor, I tapped briskly. After a moment someone came to the door. She was not young, perhaps in her middle fifties, but her hair was still fair, and her face unlined. She'd been a pretty woman in her youth, and that hadn't faded with time.

Before I could speak, she peered over her spectacles at the man in the motorcar. ”Is that you, Terrence Owens?” she asked.

”Yes, Mrs. Gadd, it is. How are you faring? I haven't seen you in a good many years.”

”Well enough. Harry died, you know.”

”Your brother? That's sad news. My aunt is gone as well.”

”Oh, my dear. I'm sorry to hear it. Won't you come in?”

”I think this young woman would prefer to speak to you privately. But I'll step in when I come to fetch her.”

”Fair enough.” She turned to me, frowning. ”I don't believe we've met, my dear.”

”My name is Elizabeth Crawford. I've come to speak to you about something that happened in the past. While you were living in Owlhurst.”

There was the briefest hesitation.

She knows what I'm here to ask her....

”Do come in out of the cold, then. The wind is brisk here on the bluff.”

Indeed it was. I followed her inside, and after she had taken my coat and gloves, we sat by the fire. My fingers and toes were instantly grateful for the warmth.

”I was a nurse on Britannic,” Britannic,” I began, ”and one of the men in my care was Arthur Graham. You probably remember him as a child. I knew him as a man, a very brave one. He died of his wounds, and I was with him until the end. I spent some time in Owlhurst until a week ago. A guest of the Graham family, in fact. What I've learned about Peregrine Graham during my visit has been confusing-contradictory. I didn't like to ask his family more than they were willing to tell me. But it has become rather important to me to understand about the murder of the girl called Lily.” I began, ”and one of the men in my care was Arthur Graham. You probably remember him as a child. I knew him as a man, a very brave one. He died of his wounds, and I was with him until the end. I spent some time in Owlhurst until a week ago. A guest of the Graham family, in fact. What I've learned about Peregrine Graham during my visit has been confusing-contradictory. I didn't like to ask his family more than they were willing to tell me. But it has become rather important to me to understand about the murder of the girl called Lily.”

Mrs. Gadd spread her hands to the fire, and at first I was sure she wouldn't answer me. Then she said, ”Is it just idle curiosity that brings you here?”

”No. You see, I carried a message from Arthur Graham to his brother. No one told me what the message meant, but I came to believe it might have something to do with Peregrine. And I had the strongest impression that the family chose to ignore what amounted to Arthur's last wish. Were they right to do so? I'll tell you something else in confidence. While I was visiting the Grahams, Peregrine was brought to the house suffering from pneumonia. I nursed him back to health. He was so different from what I'd expected-I couldn't-he seemed normal. As normal as Arthur or Jonathan or Timothy Graham. That troubled me.”

”What will you do with this knowledge, once you have it?”

”I've come back to Kent, and now here to Rye, to settle my own conscience. I have no right to pry, and I respect the possibility that you have no reason to confide in me.”

I'd tried to be honest-just leaving out the fact that Peregrine had fled from the asylum and only I knew where he was.

”Your concern does you credit, my dear. A duty to the dead is a sacred matter.” It was an echo of what my father had said to me. ”What is it you want to hear?”

”What do you recall about Peregrine and the decision to send him to the asylum? How much did your husband tell you?”