happening. But he ought to go with Jonathan to hospital in Cranbrook. Do I need a police escort? They’ll want to know.”
“An escort?” I went on briskly before Peregrine could speak. “Mr. Graham will be represented by his solicitors in London, and they’ll be assuming all responsibility for his welfare.” And if his solicitors refused, I knew a firm that would take him on. “As for comprehending his circumstances, you can tell him yourself what’s expected of him.”
Dr. Philips stared at me, and then said slowly to Peregrine, “Are you aware of what I’m saying, Mr. Graham?”
Peregrine responded, his voice thick with sleep, his eyes closed, “I wouldn’t argue with her if I were you. It does no good.”
Dr. Philips gestured for me to follow him into his office, where we couldn’t be heard.
“Madmen can sound perfectly sane some of the time,” he warned.
“He isn’t mad. Any more than Ted Booker was mad.”
“I just looked in on Constable Mason. He told me that someone by the name of Timothy shot him. Does he think Peregrine is Timothy?”
“Of course not. Timothy Graham stopped the motorcar tonight before it could reach Barton’s. He didn’t mean to shoot Jonathan, but he did intend to kill the others.”
Before he could say anything more, down the passage we heard the door to Jonathan’s room open, and Mrs. Graham came out, leaning heavily on the rector’s arm. She was in tears, such grief in her face that I pitied her. And I knew that Jonathan wouldn’t travel to Cranbrook after all. Robert followed her, and I thought about what was to come, the next blow to fall, when Inspector Howard had been summoned.
As soon as they’d passed the office, on their way out the far door into the cold night, Dr. Philips went quickly to Jonathan to do what needed to be done. I leaned against a chair, too tired to think. I had a decision to make, and I wasn’t sure I was clearheaded enough to do it.
Jonathan’s confession would only muddy the waters. It wasn’t true, for one thing, and for another it was imperative now to speak to Inspector Howard before Mrs. Graham could find another way to subvert justice. But I would keep it. I owed Jonathan that.
Simon came looking for me just then, saying, “Mr. Bateman has gone home. I took him in Mrs. Crawford’s motorcar. What do we do about that poor constable lying in a field?”
“I was just coming to that. I’ll have to speak to Inspector Howard, he should have been here before Jonathan died, but-but…” I took a deep breath. “But it was just as well. Constable Mason and Peregrine Graham will live, they can tell him what happened.”
“Do you want a cup of tea first? You look out on your feet.”
I shook my head. “I’ll just find my coat. I can’t remember now where I left it.” But it was on the rack in the passage where I must have flung it as we arrived in such a rush. There was blood on it as well, crusted over now.
Simon helped me into it, then said, “It was never Peregrine, was it?”
“Why are you so sure?” I asked as we walked out of the surgery and I looked up at the stars, wishing that I were back on
“You’re a damned 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 God-” 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 passed through the thick fabric just there. I opened Timothy’s shirt and looked at his arm. Here was a bloody 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
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 brass 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.
He had tried once to visit Peregrine in the asylum and been turned away. It was more than anyone else had done. He’d told the staff to allow Peregrine to have books, because as the oldest of his three brothers he
