the hangman. But I don’t think it would have come to that. I don’t think they’ve hanged anyone his age in a hundred years. Not at Maidstone, they hadn’t.”
I shivered at the thought. “How old did you say he was?”
“He wasn’t even fifteen when it happened and not well, in the bargain. If he’d been taken away and put into prison, it would have been a terrible burden for the family to carry, wouldn’t it?” She collected the bundle of sheets. “I’ve said enough, more than I should.”
I handed her the pillow slips that I’d been removing, and asked, “You aren’t going to have to do all these by yourself, are you?”
“No, Miss, thank you for asking. There’s a laundress comes to see to the washing and ironing.”
After Susan had gone, I stood in the empty room and thought about the man who had lain so ill in that bed.
Perhaps it wasn’t the first time Peregrine Graham had attacked someone. But that was neither here nor there. His brothers had had to grow up in the shadow of his crime of murder, and it must have been exceedingly difficult. While Peregrine had for the most part been civil and seemed perfectly sane, as far as I could judge, who knew what lay beneath the surface? I had glimpsed the force of his anger once, and that had been enough.
It was to his credit that Peregrine acknowledged what he’d done. He hadn’t tried to pretend to me that he was an innocent man, or that he didn’t deserve his fate. He knew very well that he must return to the asylum, and he went back peaceably. But his family, knowing his history better than I did, must have spent a good many uncomfortable nights while he was under their roof.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHEN WE GATHERED in the dining room for our noon meal, Mrs. Graham was profuse in her apologies for using a guest so poorly, and added her gratitude for saving her son’s life. I wasn’t sure I believed the latter. The Grahams could decently mourn the dead, and admit that they’d loved him. Even if they choked on the words.
How would my own parents feel if I were taken up for murder?
A sobering thought that made the Grahams’ dilemma strike home. And yet I couldn’t forget that they had protected themselves-at whose expense?
“My training wasn’t solely for the battlefield, Mrs. Graham. I was taught to work with the sick as well,” I reminded her.
“We heard almost nothing from the sickroom except the endless sound of his coughing. Did-was Peregrine able to speak? I worry that they were treating him well, that he’d had proper care.”
I knew what she was fishing for. She could have come and asked him about his care herself.
“He was hardly able to speak more than a few words,” I told her. “He asked where he was, and if the war was still going on. He asked what year it was…” I let my voice trail off, as if I were having trouble remembering anything else. I most certainly couldn’t tell her that he believed she or Robert had killed his father.
She seemed to be surprised that he didn’t know what year this was. “But surely they tell him-” She stopped, then went on in a different direction. “Well. He’s always been troubled in his mind. Even as a child. At least he doesn’t appear to be any worse-violent, difficult to manage.”
“I don’t think he had the strength to be difficult.”
We had just finished our pudding when Dr. Philips came to the door and asked to speak to me.
While I was playing angel of mercy, Ted Booker had tried again to kill himself, and it had been necessary to strap him down to a bed and keep him at the surgery.
“I don’t know what will happen to him. I feel I’ve failed him in some fashion. He wants to see you. Meanwhile I must contact the clinic and tell them to hurry. Booker can’t wait six weeks for space. Not now.”
“He’s asking for me? I’m surprised he remembers me at all.”
“I expect his wife may have told him. Will you come?”
Mrs. Graham protested, but this time it was more form than substance.
I went to fetch my coat and stepped out into the still, cold air.
“When I heard that Peregrine was ill,” Dr. Philips said as I preceded him down the walk, “I offered to come. They told me you were managing very well. I wasn’t surprised. I’d already witnessed a little of your skills.”
I turned my head to look at him. “But-I kept wondering why you hadn’t at least overseen what I was doing.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Graham would have sent for me if she’d believed he was truly in danger. It was a compliment that she trusted to your training.”
I opened my mouth to tell him just how ill Peregrine Graham had been, how I’d lain awake hour after hour, worried as he struggled to breathe. And then I stopped myself in time. What good would it do to make him wonder why Mrs. Graham had turned him away?
It hadn’t yet begun to snow, and I made some remark about how heavy the clouds were. Dr. Philips told me snow was unlikely. The awkward moment passed.
We walked in silence to his surgery, cutting through the churchyard. I told him about the rector’s carpentry.
“He’s quite good with his hands. I could wish him a stronger force-he’s sometimes of two minds about what should be done when he ought to be taking a stand.”
“Perhaps he’s chosen the wrong profession.”
“You haven’t heard his sermons. They’re quite good as well,” the doctor assured me. “It’s solving problems of a practical nature where he’s something of a paradox.”
I wondered if he was thinking about the rector’s views on Ted Booker.
The doctor’s housekeeper met us at the door and let us into the surgery, saying as I entered, “You’re the young woman who knew Arthur.”
“I did, yes.”
“We all mourned him. Such a shame.”
What do you say in response to that? I smiled, and she took my coat before leading me back to the small room where they had put Ted Booker.
He lay on the bed, his eyes closed, but he opened them when Dr. Philips said quietly, “She’s here.”
I saw such misery in their depths. My heart went out to him. But I said in my brisk voice, “What’s this I hear about you doing yourself a harm?”
He looked at the doctor, and both Dr. Philips and the housekeeper withdrew, shutting the door softly after them.
Lieutenant Booker said, “I’m a coward. Just as they say. A brave man would have got it done properly.”
“Perhaps it isn’t your time to die,” I replied. It was an echo of what I had said to Peregrine Graham. “Had you thought about that?”
“No.” It was blunt.
“Well, it’s something to consider. Hasn’t your poor wife suffered enough? Even for Harry’s sake? He would be the first to tell you to put the living before the dead. You won’t bring him back by sacrificing yourself as well, you know. And he doesn’t have a son to carry on his memory. But you do, and it’s your duty to see that your own son remembers his uncle with pride and honors him for his courage.”
He held up his wrists, bandaged now. “I couldn’t do it. Not even for Harry.”
“Then I’m proud of you. Something deep inside prevented you, and that means in time you’ll heal. The living must go on living, or we fail the dead.”
“It wasn’t that. I heard my brother crying out to me. As clearly as I hear you now. He stopped me, I didn’t stop myself.”
I digested that, then said, “Which proves I was right. There
“It shook me to the core.”
I could see that it had. “Of course it did.” I pulled up the only chair in the small room and sat down by the bed.
