An Unwilling Accomplice (39 page)

I felt Simon there to stand behind me.

The nearest group of men had calmed down a little, faced with Miss Neville in a temper. But those behind them were still clamoring for the Major.

“Of course it’s not his doing,” she snapped. I thought if she’d had a sword in her hand, she might have attacked the lot of us. “You know it couldn’t possibly be.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Neville,” I began, just as I heard a door slam above us. “They won’t listen to us.” At that moment the Major appeared at the top of the stairs.

He began to make his painful way down the first flight, clutching the banister and grimacing with the effort of each step. In his hurry, he hadn’t bothered with his crutches.

The men who’d reached the doorway fell back, staring.

“You men, stop this at once,” he ordered, and it was a command, given in the same tones I’d heard my father use when he expected instant obedience.

To my astonishment, it worked now.

As he reached the bottom of the steps, I went to support him. Setting me aside, he made his way, furious, to stand beside Miss Neville. “Now what is this all about?”

It was the greengrocer, Hancock, who answered him. “I’m sorry, sir, but as you were the one using a revolver on the estate and were very likely the one who burned down the old barn—”

“And most likely who shot the miller, whatever he might say to the contrary—” someone else added loudly.

“—then when the hut was set afire just now, and someone was firing a revolver, you appeared to be the one behind it,” Hancock finished.

Someone behind him shouted, “We’ve not sent for the constable in Biddington, but we will, if you can’t explain yourself.”

“I’m damned if I owe any of you an explanation,” he said stiffly, “but for the sake of Miss Neville and her stepmother, I will ask you to come inside and see for yourselves if I had anything to do with tonight’s events.”

But no one stirred. Miss Neville turned, ignoring the cluster of frightened servants at the back of the hall, and set about lighting candles in the room, taking the lamp from the housekeeper’s trembling hand and putting it safely down on a table near the door.

Major Findley stepped forward, intending to walk outside. The crowd fell back before him. Simon had taken my place at his side, and the Major stood for a moment in the doorway the villagers had hastily abandoned, and then kept going. Men quickly moved out of his way as he walked unsteadily but with determination past Simon’s motorcar, so that everyone could see him. By this time, despite his fury, his face was pale and there was perspiration on his forehead as he struggled on.

An uneasy silence fell. The Major stopped, swaying a little, his mouth in a tight line. Simon was at his back, ready to help him.

No one in his right mind could have thought that this man could possibly have made it to the gate, much less as far as the burning hut.

Without a word, he turned and made his way back to the doorway. There he faced the men in the drive, pointing toward Upper Dysoe. “Go back to your beds. If you wish to send for the constable tomorrow morning, by all means do so. I shall be here.” He almost stumbled as he tried to keep his balance, but Simon was there, lending him a shoulder.

I could almost describe it as slinking away. By twos and threes, the crowd was already making for the gates, quiet now, not even talking among themselves. In short order, the drive was cleared and the gates carefully shut behind the last man.

Simon waited until the last man was out of sight before helping the Major back inside. Miss Neville had a chair ready, and he sank down into it. Even in the candlelight he looked drained, exhausted. But he had done what he’d set out to do. Now he could admit to weakness without dishonor.

“I’m sorry,” he said to Miss Neville, looking straight at her. “It’s my fault they came here tonight. I had no idea . . .” His voice trailed off as he clenched his teeth against the pain.

“Thank you” was all she said in reply. Turning to Simon, she added, “Will you see him back to bed?” Then she rounded on the housekeeper and the other servants. I expected her to lash out at them for doing nothing to help her. Instead she said, “And thank you as well. Go to bed. There’s nothing more any of us can do tonight.”

“Should I wake up Cook to put the kettle on?” the housekeeper asked.

“No, that’s not necessary. If the Major requires anything, it will be a brandy.”

She waited until the housekeeper, still a little pale from the shock of finding angry men in her face as she opened the door, had gone on to the kitchen stairs.

“Tell me exactly what has happened?” she asked Simon, ignoring me.

“Someone set the shepherd’s hut afire. The one up the lane, where the sheep sometimes graze. No harm done, save for the loss of the hut. But whoever it was kept firing a revolver. No harm done there, either, but the villagers were angry. They believed it was the Major. There was no way to stop them, and so we followed them here in the event you needed help.” It was an expurgated version of the truth, but there was no need to tell her about Sergeant Wilkins.

“No harm done. I wonder?” She reached out and touched Simon’s sleeve, where she could see blood. “I’m grateful to you.”

“I could have told them I’d wounded the man with the revolver, that he couldn’t have been Major Findley. But it was better this way. They won’t be back.”

The Major snapped angrily, “I should think not. I’ll sit here all night if need be.”

Simon smiled. “No, sir. I don’t think it will be necessary. If you’ll allow me?”

I thought the Major was going to refuse. But he nodded curtly and with Simon’s help he got to his feet and started for the stairs. Then he hesitated.

“I’m sorry,” he said to Miss Neville again. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

I wondered if she knew that he was apologizing to her for more than just this night’s mob.

Miss Neville said nothing, standing there watching them go. When they were halfway up the stairs, she pushed the chair back to the wall where it belonged.

“I’ll be glad to see the last of you,” she told me. “You bring trouble in your wake. Now tell me the truth. Who was responsible for that fire?”

“We don’t know,” I told her honestly. “Someone who had a horse. Perhaps from The Shepherd’s Crook, perhaps one of yours. I don’t think he’ll go far. You’ll find it in the morning.”

“You’re wrong. The miller has a horse, and there must be more than a dozen other people in these three villages who still have one. I doubt they had anything to do with the fire or the shooting. But you know who did, I think.”

“He’s staying at Chatham Hall. I can’t tell you his name. He couldn’t have known what had happened to the man who’d come here to kill him. We never expected he would follow that man to Upper Dysoe, to finish whatever is between them.”

“You must summon the police. This is a dangerous business. I don’t care to be threatened as I was this evening.”

“I shall have to send for Scotland Yard,” I replied. “But first we need to make sure that this doesn’t happen again. We were on our way to Chatham Hall to tell them it was over, when we saw those men coming here.”

“Leave it to the police, I tell you.”

But there was only a constable in Biddington.

“I wish we could. Unfortunately, it’s more complicated than that.” When she appeared to want to argue, I added, “It has something to do with the war.”

Head on one side, she regarded me. “You’re rather brave, if you’re searching for a man who would shoot the Sergeant-Major and cared nothing for the sheep in the meadow. What if the grass had caught as well? My sheep, as a matter of fact.” She glanced toward the stairs. “I’m astonished that the Major came so quickly to my aid. I could have handled those men myself, of course.”

I thought it bravado on her part. The insistence that she was not dependent on anyone.

“He wanted to protect you,” I said. I could hear Simon coming to the head of the stairs and silently begged him to hurry. “The Major could care for you, if you’d let him.”

“Nonsense,” she said sharply, but there was no force behind it.

“Please yourself,” I told her. “I know what I see.”

Simon ran lightly down the stairs, saying. “I gave him a little brandy from the decanter in his room. He should rest comfortably now.”

“Thank you.” Once more she studied Simon. I wondered if she found him attractive, or if she couldn’t quite read him, and it annoyed her. Neither her expression nor her eyes gave her away.

We took our leave and she shut the door firmly behind us. Through the long windows above the door, we watched the lamplight stay where it was for a moment, and then move resolutely toward the stairs.

I saw to the gates as Simon turned the bonnet toward Lower Dysoe.

“I wonder if this man would have beaten Sergeant Wilkins to death if we hadn’t come along. He was prepared to use the revolver tonight. I don’t think he intended to die as easily as Henry Lessup. Which reminds me, where is the sergeant’s revolver?”

“I was looking for it when the door was barred and the fire began. There was a loose floorboard that I didn’t have a chance to raise. As for the man in Lower Dysoe, I don’t think we’ll ever know. When he set fire to the hut, he intended to finish it.”

We were silent after that, tired and knowing the night was far from over if we were to drive on to London.

We’d just reached the wisteria-covered wall when I heard a horse coming fast from the direction of the lane.

Simon was already reaching for the brake.

The horse came thundering down the lane, turned toward Middle Dysoe, and swerved wildly as it came almost head-on toward the motorcar.

There was someone crouched on its back, low over the withers, and it was several seconds before I realized what I was seeing was a woman, not a man.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-ONE

“I
THINK IT
’
S
Miss Percy!”

“You’re right.” Simon turned the motorcar around and started after the horse. It didn’t take us long to catch it up. Simon gave it a wide berth so that it wouldn’t throw its rider.

I said as we pulled even with it, “Miss Percy? What’s wrong? Where did you find this horse?”

She turned a tear-streaked face toward me. “Please, leave me alone,” she pleaded. “I must get to Upper Dysoe as quickly as I can.”

“Who needs a doctor? Can I help? I’m trained—”

The horse was shying from the motorcar, and Simon dropped back a little.

Phyllis Percy ignored me.

“Let her go,” Simon told me, dropping farther back. “We’ll only frighten that horse, and he looks as if he’s been hard-ridden already.”

“If she needs Maddie, we could bring him to her.”

“She won’t listen to reason.”

“It must be serious then. Take me on to Chatham Hall. There may be something I can do until Maddie gets there. You’ll have to go on to Upper Dysoe to be sure the sergeant isn’t left alone.”

He wasn’t happy with that proposal, but we didn’t have any idea what we’d find at Chatham Hall.

“I’ll see you safe first, and then worry about Wilkins.”

It was the best I could do.

We turned about, and he drove fast toward the village, then headed down the lane. Long before we’d reached the gates, I could see that they were standing wide and that the house was as brightly lit as if Mrs. Chatham were entertaining guests.

When I reached the door, I knocked twice before an elderly woman I’d seen on another occasion opened it to me and stared, frowning.

“You aren’t Maddie,” she accused me, as if I’d spirited Maddie away and taken his place.

“No. But I’m trained to deal with wounds,” I said, indicating my uniform. “I’ll be happy to help until Maddie can come.”

She was about to turn me away when someone on the stairs behind her called, “Let her in, Mary.”

And so for the first time I stepped into the foyer of this house, Simon just behind me.

“Who is
he
?” the woman on the stairs asked in alarm.

“He’s a friend,” I said. “We saw Miss Percy just now. She was on the road to Upper Dysoe. We felt you might need help sooner.”

Mrs. Chatham was a petite woman, fair and fragile, but I could see the resemblance to her sister. Her face was pale against the heavy black of mourning she wore, even to the tiny scrap of black lace on her fair hair.
Like Queen Victoria,
I thought, remembering photographs of the Widow of Windsor.

“Then come—quickly.”

She hurried back up the stairs, and I was hard-pressed to keep up with her. When I reached the top, Simon just behind me, she was just disappearing through a doorway down the passage to our right.

We followed her. It was a guest room, handsomely decorated and clearly in use. I could see clothes hanging in the armoire, hairbrushes on the top of the tall chest, a book open on the table that served as a desk. On the bed lay a man without a shirt, and beside the bed were pails of water and bloody cloths.

His eyes were closed. I thought he was probably in and out of consciousness, because there was a long crease wound along one side of his head, and it was bleeding copiously.

I glanced toward Simon. His aim had been truer than he’d thought. Here was the man he’d shot, the man who had tried to kill Sergeant Wilkins with that stone and who had then come to Upper Dysoe to finish what he’d begun by burning down the hut.

“We can’t stop the bleeding,” Mrs. Chatham was saying, wringing her hands and on the verge of tears. “I don’t quite know what to do. I think he’s dying.”

Head wounds tended to bleed profusely. Yes, in time it could weaken the patient, but on the whole this man was very likely going to live to answer questions.

I took off my coat and set to work. I sent Mrs. Chatham away, asked Mary to bring me cold water, as cold as she could find, and more cloths. When they had gone, I leaned over the bed.

I hadn’t thought to ask the man’s name or who he was. Now I said, “Can you hear me? You’re going to be all right. It’s not a serious wound.”

Simon hadn’t spoken since we’d come up the stairs. Believing we were alone in the room, the man in the bed reared up, lunging toward me, his hands groping for my throat, his face twisted with anger. For an instant I was too surprised to fight back, but Simon was there, wrestling the wounded man back into his pillows.