The Walnut Tree (12 page)

It seemed to offer the only way out of my dilemma.

I sat down, spoiled the first sheet with an enormous ink blot as my fountain pen leaked and I inadvertently smudged it.

Drawing out a second sheet, I collected my thoughts.

Dear Peter,

Alas, the house in Cornwall is indeed closed, with minimum staff. But there is a cottage in Sussex, and I'm sure that it could be staffed on short notice. Would that do? I am presently in York, where Cousin Bruce is recovering from wounds, but on my way south

It hadn't occurred to me to wonder which clinic Peter had been sent to. I recovered the envelope and looked. To my delight, it was just outside St. Albans.

I could come to you and make the necessary arrangements for a transfer there.

Would that be suitable? I have some leave coming to me, it won't be difficult.

But then how to sign it?

I could feel Alain's ring against my heart, and I felt a flush of guilt.

And so I signed it simply
Elspeth.
And when that was done, I wrote to the piper. I was sure Peter had done so already. But a promise was a promise.

I took both envelopes down with me to my dinner in the small private dining room the innkeeper's wife had set aside for me, and I asked if she would see that they were posted in the morning.

And what was I to tell Bruce, if I left so suddenly? He'd counted on me to be here for the weekend. I couldn't mention Peter.

I tossed and turned all night, my conscience troubling me and yet feeling the frustration of my situation every time I awoke and lay there, staring at the moon rising through the park of the great house where Bruce was convalescing. I wished I could speak to him, ask his advice before that letter went into the post in the morning and I couldn't retract what I had written.

Twice I rose and put on my robe, intending to go down and take it back.

But I couldn't talk to Bruce. Or anyone else. I had only myself to govern my actions. My own sense of self-worth, my honor, my father's memory to guide me.

As dawn broke, it occurred to me that Peter himself might not wish to come to Sussex. He could still choose to go to his brother in the glen where the ancestral house had stood for generations. His brother still lived there with his family, acting on Peter's behalf as laird until he came home again. Whatever the reason the doctors offered for not letting him take on such an arduous journey, I'd go with him and make certain he was all right.

As I fell asleep again, that thought followed me into my dreams.

Chapter Ten

W
hen I walked into the clinic that morning, Matron was coming through Reception with an armful of patient records. She glanced up, greeted me, and then looked more closely.

“My dear, are you ill?”

I smiled and admitted that I'd slept poorly.

“Not worrying still about your cousin, are you? He's coming along famously.”

“Yes, I'm so very pleased.”

She said nothing more, but I knew she must think I was still grieving over the loss of my position with the Service. It was true, but it was not what had kept me awake all night.

And this morning, my letters had already gone by the time I came down for breakfast, the innkeeper's wife telling me quite proudly that she had taken them when she went to market.

As Caesar had said, the die was cast.

Bruce was waiting impatiently to show me what he had accomplished.

“Where have you been? Look—”

And he stood from his chair, held his cane at the ready, and took three steps toward me before I had to rush forward and catch him as he swayed.

“Damn,” he said, more in frustration than anger. “I'd managed four just after breakfast.”

I laughed and hugged him close. “My darling Bruce. I don't think I've ever seen anything quite so beautiful as those three steps.”

“Sister MacLeod and I have been practicing in secret.” He held me at arm's length and then frowned. “You look as if you've been crying.”

“Just a sleepless night. I have those sometimes.” I led him to the nearest chair and added, “I suppose you and I have one thing in common. We're both wishing we could turn back the clock.”

“Matron has told me that she was impressed with your steadiness and devotion to patients. Would it mean so very much to you to return to France?”

“I made a difference. We all did, the doctors, the Sisters, the orderlies. I can't claim that I'm more skilled than the others, but I did what I could, to the best of my ability. Just as you did. And your father notwithstanding, I am proud of what I accomplished in such a short time.”

One of the other convalescents came in just then, and Bruce greeted him with a remark about his crutches. Sister MacLeod joined us, and the exercises began. I watched and coached and laughed when I felt like crying at the bravery of Major Findley, who took his fall with his crutches in stride and got up to try again, in spite of his damaged arm.

The letter from Peter was quick in coming. I'd hardly expected my note to reach St. Albans, but by Monday the answer was waiting for me in my room.

The handwriting was the same as before, but the words were Peter's, and circumspect.

Give my best to Bruce, will you? I am grateful for your offer of the cottage and I hope it will be no trouble for you to take me as far as London. My motorcar is there, in the mews behind my flat. I'd stay there, but the flat is let to an officer seconded to the War Office for the next five weeks. A friend asked if I'd mind his using the flat, and at that time I wasn't sure I'd live, much less would have need of it myself. I look forward to seeing you very soon. You can't imagine how that will speed my recovery.

It was signed with a roughly drawn
P
which I was certain Peter had done himself, to show that he was not quite the invalid I might have imagined. I smiled at the thought.

When I told Bruce that I must go to London, he took it with good grace.

“You've given me more time than I deserved,” he said with an affectionate grin. “And you lifted my spirits no end, when I needed it most. Will you come back, when you can? I might well be able to walk to meet you.”

“I shall, if I possibly can. At the moment, I'm not really sure what I will do with myself, but I'll think of something.”

“You could go on the stage,” Bruce said with a grin. “It couldn't be any worse than nursing.”

An echo of my own thoughts earlier, just after I'd been asked for my resignation from the Service.

“It would serve your father right,” I said tartly, and then apologized.

Bruce shook his head. “You've been hurt by his intractability. But then stubbornness is one of the family's most notorious traits. As you yourself know, to your cost.”

“As if you were spared it,” I said. “Remember my first day, when you threw your crutch across the room? It's a wonder you didn't break it.”

He put his arm around my shoulders in a comradely gesture. “I wonder why you are my favorite female cousin?”

“That's easily answered. I'm your only female cousin.”

Parting from Bruce was not easy the next morning. I was so grateful he was alive, although I couldn't say so. He wasn't ready to admit that he was glad he had survived. But I thought Sister MacLeod would soon make him realize that a lame leg was not quite the horror he had expected it to be.

In York I purchased a ticket for London, and when I arrived I went directly to Peter's flat. No one answered my knock at his door, and so I left a note saying that I'd taken the motorcar to St. Albans, where Peter required it.

I hadn't driven in months. Bruce had taught me to drive Cousin Kenneth's motorcar, but he'd always been there beside me when I took it out for a spin. I was alone, now, and London traffic had increased tenfold, it seemed, since the war began in August. But I soon discovered that working the brake and the clutch came back readily as I set out for Mrs. Hennessey's house.

She was alone—none of my flatmates were in London at present—and so I could speak to her without giving away my plans.

I told her honestly what had happened about being forced to resign from the Service, saying only that my uncle had not seen fit to allow it, and that I was not of age yet, thanks to my father's will. I didn't mention the title.

She was astonished, putting her hand on my arm and saying with tears in her eyes, “How horrid for you, Elspeth, dear. What will you do now?”

“I should like to keep the flat until I decide,” I replied. “Would you mind? I know there must be dozens of young women who would be grateful for it, but I don't think I'm quite ready to give it up.”

“And why should you? There are other ways to serve, and you'll find something to your liking, I'm sure of it. Don't worry your head about that. And I won't say a word to my other lodgers. Not until you know your own mind.”

It was so kind of her. I'd known a lot of kindness since I'd become “Elspeth.”

She insisted on giving me tea, and we gossiped over it just the way we used to. I'd learned so much, living here. I truly considered it my home, despite the vast difference between my room upstairs and the large bedroom kept for me in Scotland. After my father's death, I had felt for the longest time that I had no home. Even Cornwall, where I'd stayed from time to time when I was a girl, had never seemed to be my home in the truest sense, because I was there so seldom. I'd found contentment and even happiness here in this simple house in Kensington, living in cramped quarters with three other women. Odd how such things can happen.

Before I left I gave her the direction for the house in Sussex. “I shan't be there long, only I must make certain that all is well before I leave. I'll stay in the village. Surely there's an inn or some such close by. But if a letter comes from France, will you please forward it at once? I'm so anxious for news. But don't tell anyone else where I am. I need a little time to think. Later, I could well ask you to come down with me, as my chaperone. Would you mind?”

She agreed, and I went out to Peter's motorcar with a feeling that all was well. I had written a letter to Cousin Kenneth, letting him know how Bruce was faring, and now I stopped to post it.

The man crossing the street in front of me was the same one I'd seen so many times before. And this time the package he was carrying away from the post office was a little larger than the one I'd found in my valise.

The looters were getting bolder. And coming as these did through this post office, where so many pieces of mail arrived and went out every day, it was less likely to be noticed. A village postmistress would become suspicious.

I was suddenly very angry. I could do nothing about what I suspected, but there was someone who could.

I drove not to St. Albans but to Scotland Yard.

It was an hour before an inspector came down to greet me, giving his name as Morgan. As he led me upstairs to his office, he said, “What brings you to the Yard? You were reluctant to discuss it with Sergeant Gibson.”

“Because it's all based on suspicion,” I said, waiting until he'd shut the office door behind us. I proceeded to tell him the saga of the Highland painting and what I'd discovered since then.

Inspector Morgan listened intently, and then when I'd finished, he sat there for a moment, as if considering what I'd said. I had the sinking feeling he might thank me for my information and send me on my way. People were seeing spies around every corner. Why not looters as well?

To my surprise he opened his desk drawer and took out a folder. Inside was a photograph, and he turned it around so that I could see it.

I studied it, uncertain where I'd seen the man shown there.

And then I remembered. “He was on the train out of Paris. He was just behind me and helped me with my valise. Sadly, he died of his heart before he reached Calais. I saw them take his body away on a stretcher to a waiting ambulance. Is he involved with those smuggling paintings into England?”

“I'm afraid he was one of our men. We've been hunting a ring of thieves. Sadly, the war has meant greater opportunities than theft. There's been quite a bit of looting, often in that brief interlude between the time owners flee and the Germans arrive. Dangerous work, but lucrative. And Inspector Davis didn't die of his heart. He was murdered. We haven't had a lead on who might have killed him.”

I was shocked. “Murdered? That very nice man? How awful.”

“Indeed. Now, you've given me the name of the shop where these items are taken once they've been picked up. But we'd like you to act as a spotter for us and point out the man we've been looking for.”

It would mean waiting one more day—perhaps even two—before I would see Peter.

I hesitated.

“You'll be protected every step of the way,” Inspector Morgan told me. “We need your eyes.”

I took a deep breath. “Yes, all right.”

The next morning, waiting in a cold rain in a shop near the post office, waiting for the unknown man to appear, we drank pots of tea. The next day there was a cold wind. The sergeant assigned to stay with me wore a plain suit of clothes, ill fitting, as if he had forgotten how to wear anything but his uniform. Even in the warmer shop, after a while I felt like stamping my feet to keep the blood circulating.

On the third day, I saw him. He wasn't going into the post office, he was walking past it. I told the sergeant what I thought.

“He must live out in that direction,” he agreed, pointing with his chin. “All right, Miss, I'm setting out to follow him. Yon constable on the corner will come over and see you safely to Kensington as soon as I step out the door.”

“Will you tell me what happens? Whether I was right about this or not?”

He grinned. “You'll see it in the newspapers, Miss. When he's taken into custody. But we'll let him run a bit first. Leading us down the rabbit hole, like.”

And then he was gone, cautioning me to stay where I was until the constable had come for me.

An hour later, I was on the road to St. Albans, relieved to have no more to do with murderers.

I found the clinic outside the town in a house called The Gables. It was a lovely old Elizabethan manor that had been turned into a hospital for critical chest cases. I could see the moment I walked through the door that it was well staffed and efficiently run.

A Sister greeted me as I crossed the threshold, and I asked if I could be taken to see Captain Gilchrist.

Her face brightened. “The Captain? Yes, if you'll come this way?”

I wondered if she was the Sister who had written Peter's letters for him, but she said nothing to me that indicated she knew who I was or why I had come.

Peter was in a small room just off the library. It appeared to have been a sitting room or morning room, now turned over to convalescent patients for reading, writing letters, or listening to music from the new machine I saw in one corner.

As Peter looked up, I was shocked by how thin he was, and how his face was lined with pain. He hardly seemed to be the same man, and I felt a rush of sympathy for him.

And then he smiled, that lovely smile that touched his dark eyes with such warmth that I felt myself flush.

“I can't rise to greet you,” he said, indicating his wheelchair. “Sorry. You'll have to come to me.” He held out his hand.

I crossed the room, my heart pounding, and gave him mine. He took it in his left and held it tightly. I knew what he was telling me without words, that he would have liked to say more and couldn't in the circumstances. There were patients, nurses, and orderlies everywhere one looked. There was no such thing as privacy.

“I've brought your motorcar,” I said, taking a step backward and releasing his hand. “It might be far more comfortable for traveling than the train.”

“It's very like you to think of that,” he responded and then went on lightly, “You're three days' late. I was beginning to worry that you'd disappeared again. I didn't know you had a house in Sussex.”

“I don't. It belongs to a friend. She offered it to me once, some weeks ago, if ever my leave was too short to reach London or Cornwall. It's a cottage, I gather, her mother's home. The important thing is that it has to meet whatever requirements the staff here has set out for your care.” I smiled. “They will know best.”

From his expression I didn't think he cared what the doctors had to say, but disregarding instructions could be just as dangerous as a relapse. I remembered Bruce throwing his crutch across the room and wishing himself dead because he couldn't walk yet.