Part 34 (1/2)

”Why are you so sure?” I asked as we walked out of the surgery and I looked up at the stars, wis.h.i.+ng that I were back on Britannic Britannic and none of this had ever happened. But no, I couldn't wish that, for Peregrine would still be shut up in a madhouse. and none of this had ever happened. But no, I couldn't wish that, for Peregrine would still be shut up in a madhouse.

”You're a d.a.m.ned good judge of human nature,” he said.

We had started toward the police station just as the ambulance arrived to carry the wounded and the dead to Cranbrook.

I helped to settle Peregrine on the stretcher, although he regarded the attendants with suspicion, and small wonder.

At the last, he put out a hand, and I took it, knowing it was a promise between us that all would be well. He didn't say anything, he didn't need to.

We were watching the ambulance make the turning at the church, in the direction of Cranbrook, when we heard someone calling for Dr. Philips. It was the rector, running toward us with coattails flapping and his hat gone. He was ashen in the ambulance headlamps as they swept over him, and we hurried to meet him, Dr. Philips, Simon, and I.

”It's Mrs. Graham-” I began. She'd been on the verge of collapse. And I was fairly certain the rector would be hopeless in the face of that.

But I'd misjudged him.

”I was on my way back to the rectory,” he said disjointedly. ”Susan had taken Mrs. Graham to her room-Mr. Douglas is with her. Timothy-I went to comfort him and couldn't find him-and just now-he's-Timothy is hanging from a tree in the churchyard!”

One of those ancient trees that stood by the wall. Where I'd seen Robert Douglas bring Mrs. Graham the news that Peregrine had escaped from the asylum.

We rushed to follow the rector, and then Simon was there with his knife, and we could cut Timothy down. It was too late. He must have gone out as soon as he saw his mother return home with the news about Jonathan.

My first thought was for Mrs. Graham and Robert. And then for Peregrine.

Dr. Philips said, ”My G.o.d-” as if echoing my thought.

We took Timothy to the doctor's surgery, and then the rector and the doctor went together to hand a grieving mother the final blow.

And Robert Douglas? How would he face the death of his own child? As he had always done in a crisis-with silence.

I couldn't go with them. I didn't think Mrs. Graham would want to see me now any more than I wished to see her. Instead I stood there in the room where Jonathan had died, looking down into the face of his brother. A murderer. Yet it was unmarked by anything he'd done. As if his conscience had always been clear.

He'd worn a coat-rather like an officer's greatcoat-to the tree, to throw the rope over a heavy bough and tie the end to the bole of the tree. He'd even brought a stool with him to stand on. And then he'd folded his coat and set it aside before putting the noose around his neck. I'd brought the coat back to the surgery with us, and reached for it now to cover his face.

It was then that I saw the tear in the sleeve near the shoulder. I touched it gently. A bullet had pa.s.sed through the thick fabric just there. I opened Timothy's s.h.i.+rt and looked at his arm. Here was a b.l.o.o.d.y crease where the shot had grazed the skin as well. It had hurt, but it would have healed on its own without anyone else the wiser. Now it was proof that he'd been on the road near Barton's tonight.

Simon had come in and was saying, ”There's something in his hand.”

I looked down, praying it was a note, a message, something-but it was too small, only a square clenched in his palm, hardly noticeable.

When I took it out to unfold it I saw with shock that it was nothing more than a list of names, and at the top was Lily Mercer. Lily Mercer. At the bottom, just below At the bottom, just below Ted Booker, Ted Booker, was scrawled in anguish was scrawled in anguish My brother. My brother.

I refolded the note and put it back where I'd found it.

Simon nodded. ”Best that way,” he said. ”The police...”

”There's something I must do first,” I said. ”It's important. Will you wait?”

”Yes.”

I walked alone toward the church. As I came to the west door, in the distance, carrying on the quiet night air, I heard one of the owls call from the wood that had given this place its name.

It was cold as the grave inside, and dark as death. I could just see my way. I remembered Mr. Montgomery, in the organ loft, repairing his precious church. He would be on a ladder tomorrow, looking for new tasks to keep his mind off the suffering he'd witnessed.

I came to a halt in front of the memorial to Arthur. This time I put my fingers out to touch the bra.s.s plaque, running them along the words engraved there, feeling the sharp edges of letters that spelled out the dates of a man's life and death, but not the sum of the man himself.