Part 26 (1/2)

”I told you the authorities believe he could be. For all I know, you have him hidden in your flat, while you sort all of this out. If it weren't for Mrs. Hennessey and her rules, I'd march up there and see for myself.”

I was glad I was looking away from him, watching a large man walking a little dog with pretty brown ears. Simon would surely have read the alarm in my eyes as I scrambled to think of a response.

”I'll ask her to do my marketing and then smuggle you into the flat. What a story that would make for the Colonel. Just promise not to tell her what you find, or she'll never allow me to live here again.” G.o.d knew how much trouble I'd had smuggling Peregrine in and out. It was a miracle we hadn't been caught long before this.

Simon laughed, and I could breathe again.

”All right, Bess. Stay in London if you must. But your father's no fool, and he'll soon be on your doorstep again with no allowance for your wishes. I'll give you twenty-four hours before I tell him what the Yard told me.”

”But-that's not enough time!”

”You don't have time, Bess. Your father was notified that your orders will be cut within the week. You'll be sailing for France in a fortnight.”

Oh d.a.m.n.

I thanked Simon and went back to the flat, my mind racing.

Peregrine was behind the door when I walked in, and I could see that he was on edge.

”That wasn't your father,” he told me flatly.

”No-that was Simon Brandon. He might as well be my father. Sometimes he's worse!”

”He's not old enough to be your father.”

He wasn't. I hadn't given it a thought before.

”Peregrine. That doesn't matter. Listen to me.” I was taking off my coat, reaching for the kettle, making tea. The English panacea for stressful moments. ”Somehow Simon got a look at the official report on Lily's murder. It says-it says that there was a pocketknife in her throat-but no other wounds are listed. If you'd-well, if you'd butchered her, there would have been something something in the file.” in the file.”

”My stepmother-”

”I know. Whatever she told you, she didn't have the power to change the official record. Are you sure you remember-that you see in your dreams-something so horrible?”

He stared at me. ”I don't know,” he said slowly. ”No. Yes, I dream I'm touching her entrails.”

Dear G.o.d. ”Peregrine, it could be that you dream about it. But that it didn't happen in life. The police can't be wrong.”

He put his hands to his face, covering it. ”You can't make up a dream. Not like that. Not unless I'm mad as a hatter. I used to wake up screaming, I tell you. It was that real.”

I turned around. ”Are you alone? Is someone else in the dream? Who is there in the dream with you?”

”I hear my stepmother's voice, she's speaking to me, telling me I should be ashamed, making me face what I've done. I am nearly sick from the smell, but she won't let me go, she's there.” there.”

The kettle was beginning to boil, I could hear the soft rumble of bubbles forming in the bottom.

”She found you by the body, trying to retrieve your knife from the wound-is that when you see the entrails?”

”I don't remember.” He crossed the room to sit down heavily in the nearest chair. I was pouring the hot water into the teapot now, splas.h.i.+ng a little on my hands, unaware of the pain.

Remember Ted Booker-a little voice in my head reminded me.

Shock can do terrible things to the mind. And a fourteen-year-old boy with limited experience of life might easily be made to remember something that wasn't real. But how? With words?

I couldn't quite grasp what had been done. Or how Mrs. Graham could have allowed it to happen. But a mother will do anything to protect her own child, and destroying Peregrine Graham was the surest solution to the th.o.r.n.y problem of presenting Arthur or Jonathan or even Timothy to the police as the murderer.

I cudgeled my wits, but no brilliant solution offered itself.

Handing Peregrine his cup, I sat down across from him with my own. The hot, sweet tea was reviving. ”Peregrine? You asked me if I'd sacrifice you to save Arthur's good name. But the facts point to Arthur as the killer-he was Mrs. Graham's favorite, he was next to you in age, you were already damaged, and so it was a short step to subst.i.tuting you for him. But I need to know why Arthur would kill?”

”To protect one of his brothers?” But he was unconvinced.

I on the other hand leapt for that explanation.

”It could happen. If Lily, in the house alone with you and resenting that she couldn't have the evening off with the other staff, taunted the four of you for being in her way-”

He shook his head. ”Don't.”

”Peregrine. I'm being ordered back to active duty within the week. Time is slipping through our fingers.”

”It doesn't matter. I can go somewhere else and start another life. The Mercers must have done that in New Zealand, and it would have been harder for them than for me. After all these years in Barton's, I don't need much. I could survive.”

Peregrine was already thought to be dead. There were ways it could be made to happen, this new life. There were people in India I could send him to- But it solved nothing. There was Lily, deserted by her family, however desperate they'd been to accept the offer of pa.s.sage away from England. If I had thought it was my duty to Arthur to bring his message home, what duty was still owed to Lily Mercer?

”Talk to me, Peregrine. Please-if you didn't kill her, someone else did. Do you remember what you told me about that conversation where Arthur and Jonathan discussed doing something six times to give the victim-or perhaps the police-a fair chance to catch you?”

”I've already considered that. Lily. The policeman Gadd. The doctor. The rector. Lady Parsons.”

”You can't count her. She survived.”

”The boy who drowned, then. That's five. And about as farfetched as a fairy tale.”

”Add Ted Booker. Six.”

”Arthur couldn't have killed Booker.”

”To my knowledge, Jonathan was the last person to see him alive.” Unless I was wrong, and Mrs. Denton went to the surgery.

”Jonathan?”

Unless Jonathan had completed Arthur's six. It would have to be Jonathan. But he was never Mrs. Graham's favorite.

He was her son, all the same. And she would be rabid to protect him.

Could he kill at that age? He must have been what, ten? A little younger, perhaps. If he'd caught Lily off guard, he could have struck her with the knife, just happening to find the right place to kill her. Or lashed out and was unlucky enough to cut an artery.

I hadn't liked Jonathan very much, but that didn't matter. The truth did.

But what if it was not the boys? What if it was Mrs. Graham? Or Robert? If he'd tried to seduce Lily, and she'd told him she'd complain to Mrs. Graham, he might have been in a panic. Or to twist it another way, if Lily had seen Mrs. Graham and Robert together-or perhaps guessed that one of the Graham children was his-she might have been killed if she threatened blackmail. What were the laws on inheritance, if it could be shown that a child might not be the legal father's son?

The trouble was, I hadn't known Lily Mercer, and I hadn't been able to speak to her family. I was blind when it came to her nature, her way of seeing life, and what she wanted from it.