An Unwilling Accomplice (11 page)

I smiled. “I won’t be staying here long. And I don’t know anyone to tell.” I glanced back at the bridge. “What about the man in the tollbooth? Surely he saw something?”

“Unfortunately he’d just gone home to his dinner. It’s been worrying me so,” she went on. “I shouldn’t have burdened you with my troubles. But they tell me it’s best not to brood, in my condition.” She bit her lip. “And yet I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Try not to,” I said. “You must take good care of yourself.”

We talked about her pregnancy for a bit and about her husband, still in France. And then she said, “Oh, just look at the time. Mother will be worried about me. I must go. It was a pleasure talking to you, all the same. I hope you’ll come back to Ironbridge soon.”

“I’ll try, if my duties allow it,” I said, not wanting to make a promise I couldn’t keep. And with a nod and a smile, she was gone.

The soldier she had encountered on the bridge might not be Sergeant Wilkins. And she was right, there might well have been someone else who spoke to the murdered man after the soldier—whoever he was—had moved on.

But the timing had been perfect. Close to the dinner hour when even the man in the tollbooth had gone home. The days were shorter, it would have been dark early, just as it was now.

It was damning evidence and would require a court of law to untangle it. But what on earth had brought Sergeant Wilkins to
this
place? He was in fact a stranger here, since no one had recognized him. Was it the other man on the bridge he’d come to see? How had he learned he was here? Or had he known all along? Had some casual remark been made one morning or afternoon in the hospital in Shrewsbury that set this whole affair in motion?
Remember Sergeant Lessup? You’ll never guess. He’s home on extended leave. Lucky devil.

And Sergeant Wilkins need only ask,
Where’s home, then?

Less than twenty miles or so from here. A village called Ironbridge.

I’d have liked to ask the grieving members of Sergeant Lessup’s family if the sergeant had known anyone in Shrewsbury’s hospital. But there was no excuse I could make for disobeying the Inspector’s direct order, and I couldn’t risk being reported to my superiors for interfering in the inquiry into Sergeant Wilkins’s affairs.

I looked down at the racing waters of the Severn, then up the Gorge. Such a lovely place, so wrong for a vicious murder.

Leaving the bridge, I turned toward The Ironmaster pub. Halfway there, I met Inspector Jester just coming out of a shop.

“I hope you’ve come to say good-bye. That you’re leaving Ironbridge.”

“I was. I am. The problem is, I don’t quite know how to go about it. There isn’t a train from Coalport until morning, and as I don’t know anyone here, I can hardly ask for a lift to Shrewsbury.”

“There’s a very early train. I’ll drive you over to Coalport myself in time to take it.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I replied, wanting to add that I would be as happy to go as he would be to see the last of me.

“Seven o’clock then.” He touched his hat to me and walked on.

As I went the rest of the way to The Ironmaster pub, my thoughts busy, I wondered why it was that the Inspector had taken such a dislike to me. Did it mean that by coming here to ask questions, I had made him doubt his own conclusions about the evidence?

Stepping through the pub door, I looked up to see Simon Brandon standing in the small parlor off the main bar, obviously fuming at being kept waiting.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

“Y
OUR MOTHER
,” S
IMON
remarked, turning to see who had come through the door and realizing it was me, “thought you were in London. Mrs. Hennessey thought you had gone on to Somerset.”

“I traveled to Shrewsbury,” I answered, “to speak to people at Lovering Hall. Yes,” I went on, to forestall what he was about to say, “I shouldn’t have. But, Simon, I learned a great deal about the sergeant. And I could see he’d planned very carefully for what he did. If nothing else, it made me feel a little less guilty. There’s no excuse for my part in this business, I know that, but it has helped me come to better terms with what’s happened.”

“And then you traveled to Ironbridge after Shrewsbury.”

“As you see.”

“Bess,” he began in exasperation.

“I know. But, Simon, what else was I to do? I couldn’t sit idly, waiting for what was to come. And I
needed
to
understand
. . .”

Glancing around at the busy pub beyond the stairs, he said, “We can’t talk here. Walk with me as far as the bridge.”

We turned to leave, passing a young officer just coming in.

We didn’t speak until we were at the foot of the bridge. Simon, studying it with the eye of a soldier, said, “Impressive, isn’t it? And there’s the water power of the river, passing through that narrow gorge.”

“It’s amazing.” We moved down the sloping side of the hill to where we could watch the water pulsing under the bridge, dark now and secretive. Behind us the town rose steeply. “I don’t know if the fall broke the victim’s neck or if he dangled there until he choked to death,” I went on. “It’s rather a nasty way to die, however you look at it.”

“The killer took a risk.” He turned. “How many windows look down on the bridge? Surely someone was standing in one of them, and saw what happened.”

“Apparently not.” I listened to the rushing water for a moment, then told Simon about the young woman I’d met on the bridge earlier. “She was certain the soldier she saw and the man in the photograph were the same. I think, if he’s brought in, she might still recognize him. Although she’s almost convinced herself that he wasn’t the murderer, that he, whoever he is, came later.”

“He’s an attractive man—Wilkins. His bearing, what one could see of his face, and he’s well spoken. Not what you’d expect in a cold-blooded murderer. It makes it harder for her to accept.”

“True.”

“Are you ready to go home, Bess?” Simon turned back to look at me, speculation in his dark eyes.

“I don’t know what else to do.”

We stood there for a little longer. Then, just as we turned to walk back to The Ironmaster pub, someone came trotting down the street on a large dark horse, calling for Inspector Jester.

“I’m here,” Jester shouted from the street above the main road into town. “Stebbins, is that you? What the hell’s happened?”

“The bay horse has come home,” the man shouted back.

“Wait there, I’m coming down.”

We watched the Inspector make his way down a side lane toward where Mr. Stebbins and his mount stood waiting. In the dark, I could just make out faces. Simon pulled me back into the shadow of the bridge.

“The horse has come home,” Mr. Stebbins repeated, as if Inspector Jester hadn’t heard him the first time. “See for yourself.”

“What condition is he in?”

“Muddy. Hasn’t been groomed at all. But all right. Legs not savaged.”

“Where did he come from?”

“You’ll have to ask the horse that,” Mr. Stebbins said with a bark of laughter.

“I mean to say,” Jester demanded sharply, “any idea where he might have been?”

“None. I went down by the meadow this morning, and it was empty. I came back not a quarter of an hour ago, and there the bay was, big as life. I took him in, brushed him down, and looked him over.”

“Damn,” I heard Jester say.

“He was raised here, this bay. And he came home again. I’d never have guessed it. I thought he were gone for good.”

“Yes, well, we still don’t know if the killer took him. But my guess is that he must have done. And the horse came back on his own, as soon as he had the chance. It could mean that the killer hasn’t got very far. Could you backtrack the bay?”

“There were muddy prints coming up from the south. But a mile on, he was on grass, and I lost him. Did you put out that query about the bay?” Stebbins asked. “I’m still of a mind to see that bastard in a cell.”

“Of course I did. No one has seen it. At least if they have, they don’t know we’ve been looking.” He reached up and gently slapped the bay’s neck. “All right then. I’ll make a report. You can come in tomorrow and sign it.”

“I’ll be pleased to.” Mr. Stebbins wheeled his mount. “I’m that glad he’s back. A good horse. I hated losing him.” He trotted back the way he’d come, throwing up a hand in farewell.

Inspector Jester watched him go. When it was too dark to see horse or rider, he turned back the way he’d come.

I started to go after him, but Simon held me back.

“But I want to question him,” I said quietly, so that my voice didn’t carry above the sound of the river. Why hadn’t Inspector Jester told me about the missing horse, when I’d asked about bicycles?

“You don’t need to, Bess. The killer must have found that horse in the meadow, unattended, and used him to put as much distance between this place and wherever he was heading as he could. What else can Jester tell you?”

More to the point, what else had the Inspector
not
told me?

As if he sensed that we were there, Inspector Jester turned, scanning the bridge and then the slope where we were standing. I thought for a moment that he was going to come down to see who was there. But he must have decided that there was no one after all, for he turned again and continued on his way up the lane. We could watch him as far as the next street above, Church Street, I thought it must be, and then he rounded a corner and disappeared.

“He had promised to take me to the train at Coalport, tomorrow morning,” I said. “I don’t think he cared for me being here.”

“You’ll be gone long before morning. My motorcar is behind the pub. We’ll leave as soon as you can pack your things. Bess, it’s not wise to be here. Or anywhere that Sergeant Wilkins has been. You don’t want the connection between the two of you to continue being observed. Here or in Shrewsbury.”

I could see his point. The words
guilt by association
passed through my mind.

It had been foolish to come here. Or to the hospital outside Shrewsbury. And yet, and yet, I was glad I had. Just as I’d told Simon.

Deciding it was safe enough, Simon led me back to The Ironmaster, and while I packed my belongings, he settled my account.

As I came down again and he took my kit from me, the owner’s wife smiled. I had the oddest impression that she thought we were young lovers eloping, for she said, “I hope you’ll be safe. You and your young man.”

I answered that with a smile, neither agreeing nor denying the impression. If that was the tale she told about my being here in Ironbridge, so much the better.

Simon went out the rear of the pub to fetch his motorcar, and the owner’s wife leaned forward to say softly, “I was young once.”

I remembered the Inspector, then, and said, “I nearly forgot. Inspector Jester is coming in the morning to drive me to Coalport to take the train back to Shrewsbury. Could you tell him, please, that my family sent someone to bring me home? I shouldn’t want him to think I’d gone away with any stranger.”

“Of course not. I’ll see he’s told.”

But precisely what she would tell him I couldn’t be sure. As long as he didn’t take it into his head that Simon was the Sergeant Wilkins the police were searching for.

We drove in silence until we’d left Ironbridge well behind us. Simon was heading south, I could tell that. Soon we came to the meadow where the bay was quietly grazing now. It was too dark to get down and look for the tracks Mr. Stebbins had mentioned, but I was willing to believe they were there.

“Are you going after Sergeant Wilkins?” I asked hopefully.

“Not exactly. By horseback he could go in any direction, he needn’t follow the road. But it will do no harm to drive on and see what happens. What did he do, after he lost the horse? Or set it free? He’s in no condition to walk very far, is he? There could be some fresh news that hasn’t reached Jester’s ears. Yet.”

“A good point,” I agreed

“You’ll need your dinner.”

“I’m not particularly hungry. And I’d rather not go back to Shrewsbury.”

He said nothing, watching the headlamps picking out the road ahead. Eyes gleamed at us from the grassy verge, where spring’s bountiful wildflowers had gone to seed.

“He lied to the Sister tending him at the hospital,” I said after a time. “Sergeant Wilkins. She thought he was ashamed of having to sit in the presence of the King. But he wasn’t fit for crutches yet, much less a cane. The more bandages, the more people understood why he didn’t rise. That was what she believed. But what he was really doing was making it impossible for anyone in London to imagine he could walk away from the hotel with impunity. He wanted everyone to think he was helpless.”

“Do you think he killed this man in Ironbridge?”

“I don’t know. It could be convenient to blame a man already missing and in trouble with the Army. On the other hand, the woman I spoke to brought the photograph she’d seen to the police. That must have satisfied everyone that it was the sergeant.”

“Is her testimony trustworthy?”

“Inspector Jester couldn’t have found a finer witness. I do wish I knew more about Sergeant Wilkins. Whether he only planned as far as killing Henry Lessup, or if he knows what he’ll have to do next to survive.”

Simon was silent.

Finally I asked, “You met him. You’re a good judge of men. Is he a deserter? A murderer?”

Simon answered slowly. “The man whose record I looked up doesn’t appear to be either. In France he acted with bravery and without considering the danger he himself was in. He could well have died. Given his wounds, he probably should have died. It’s possible that since he didn’t, he felt the time had come to deal with whatever was on his mind. Or perhaps this is the first time he could actually reach his victim.”

“Do you know anything about a Sergeant Henry Lessup? The dead man? You’ve been involved in all sorts of Army matters. Have you ever come across him? If he never went to France there must be a reason. Clerical work? Supply? Logistics? Training?”

I could see, in the glow of the headlamps, that Simon was frowning. “I’ve never run into him. The Colonel might have done.”