what actually happened?” Simon paced restlessly.
I smiled. “The good Inspector is about to find out.”
Suppressing an answering smile, he said, “Go back inside. The cold is making you giddy. But, Bess. Watch yourself. You have no way of knowing who can be trusted.”
He walked me back to the house, and I was grateful to find that the door had not been locked. I could slip in unnoticed.
Simon waited until I was safely inside before walking away.
I had a sudden desire to see Juliana’s portrait again, and went to the drawing room. I had just put my hand on the knob when I heard voices.
No, one voice. Gran’s. And she must have been speaking to the portrait on the wall.
“… Who is that other child? I wish you could tell me. I wish the dead could speak. If only you’d lived, my darling…”
I didn’t catch the next sentences. Gran’s voice had cracked, and I thought she must be crying. And then she said more clearly, “Has he sent you back again? Dear God, I’d like to believe that. Before I die…”
I released the handle gingerly, trying not to make a sound, and stepped carefully away from the door. She wouldn’t thank me for eavesdropping.
I went up the stairs to my room and shut the door.
It had been a very long day. I was afraid the next day, Sunday, would be even longer.
Chapter Nine
It was raining again when I awoke and looked toward my window. Raindrops were skittering down the panes, and I could hear them whispering as the wind pushed them against the glass.
The fire had been banked for the night and the room was cold. It was too early for Daisy to make the rounds of rekindling them, and I got up to see to it myself. I soon had it beginning to take hold on the wood log that I added to the grate, and I stood there for a moment longer, rubbing my hands together.
Then I crossed to the window and looked out. It must have been raining for some time, because I could see little puddles in the knot garden where the earth was bare.
It was Sunday, but I doubted that anyone from the family would choose to attend morning service. I was just as glad. We’d be stared at, and people would whisper behind their hands.
To my surprise, when I went down to breakfast an hour later, I discovered that Roger Ellis was indeed intending to go to the early service.
“With the police badgering us at every turn,” he was saying to his grandmother, “we’ve lost sight of the fact that a friend, a guest in our house, is dead. It isn’t our fault that the police are here, and we’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. We’re going to morning service to prove it.”
“You’ll merely fan the fires of curiosity.”
“Every time the police come to Vixen Hill, there’s gossip.”
Eleanor said, “Please, Roger, I don’t think I could face it.”
“You’re excused, then,” he said shortly. “You’re in mourning.”
“If you insist on this foolishness, you must take Lydia with you,” Gran went on. “And your mother. Miss Crawford as well, if she’s willing.”
He grimaced. “Lydia and I have nothing to say to each other.”
“Then pretend. For the sake of the family,” she answered shortly.
“And you? Will you go for the sake of the family?” Roger Ellis asked, a sour note slipping into his voice.
“I’m staying home with dearest Eleanor and her brother. No one will wonder at that.”
Captain Ellis turned to me. “Good morning, Miss Crawford. Are you attending services with us this morning?”
“I shall, if you like.” I could hardly say no, having heard the rest of the discussion. And I could see that it was wise, after all.
“Shall you do what?” his mother asked me as she came into the dining room.
“Attend morning services.”
Her gaze moved on to her son. “Is it a good idea, do you think, Roger?”
“We’ll have to face them down sometime.”
“Yes, that’s true. All right, I’ll come. Where’s Lydia? She should accompany us as well.”
And so it was decided, although still Gran flatly refused to set foot outside the house. We finished our breakfast and went up to change. The rain was coming down all the harder, and our umbrellas made a bobbing black brigade to the motorcars that had been brought around.
Roger looked up as his wife stepped out to join us. I don’t know who had persuaded her to come, but I suspected it was Mrs. Ellis. She was wearing a lovely black hat with a long veil she had pulled down to her chin.
“You’re not to wear that veil,” he told her. “You’ll have people thinking you’re in mourning for Hughes, for God’s sake.”
“What will they think when they see the bruise on my face?” she retorted.
“Yes, well, you didn’t seem to mind that when you went yesterday into Hartfield.”
She stared at him, and then turned to me. “Did you tell him?”
“No,” I said. “I expect it was the police.”
Angry, she flung back her veil.
Mrs. Ellis said, “We’re getting wet through. Lydia, come with me. Miss Crawford, you will ride with Roger, if you don’t mind.”
We were sorted out in no time, and on our way to the church in Wych Gate.
We left the motorcars along the road and joined the rest of the congregation as it moved toward the west doors. Even so, I could see the trees that overhung the grassy dell and the path where George Hughes had been found.
The church was rather full, in spite of the rain, and those who hadn’t yet taken a seat parted to let the Ellis family pass. Some greeted Roger or his mother by name, and others simply stared. Roger kept us moving, shepherding us toward the seats still vacant in front. The choir was singing, but those who could see us were looking at us rather than at the notes on the pages of their hymnals. The organ came to a crescendo, and there was a sudden silence, which caught a few people off guard, their whispers loud behind us.
“… face,” a woman’s voice was saying, and another was commenting, “… the dead man’s nurse.” Someone else, louder than the others, as if he were slightly deaf, remarked, “… police have no idea,” as if answering someone else’s question.
Lydia, her cheeks pink, stared straight ahead while Roger’s lips were set in a straight line. I saw Mrs. Ellis put her gloved hand on her son’s arm, and the tension around his mouth lessened.
The church seemed a more cheerful place this morning than it had the day before, despite the rain. Candles brightened the gloom, and the congregation contributed a little warmth. Still, I couldn’t help remembering walking down the aisle, into the choir, and then back again, while Mrs. Ellis’s footsteps echoed in the organ loft.
The rector, mounting the steps to the pulpit, seemed not to know how to face us. I saw him glance at his sister, and then clear his throat before beginning the service.
All went well until he returned to the pulpit for his morning homily.
It was an unfortunate choice of message. Preparing for the approach of Christmas, the sermon dealt with the expected birth of a special child, and by extension the lives of children who faced the holidays without a father to care for and protect them, either because they were among the dead or still serving at the Front or on the high seas. It was well intended-I was all too aware of the long lists of casualties and the fact that each one represented a family in mourning for a father, a son, a brother, a husband. It would be a bleak Christmas for them, and Mr. Smyth was pointing to the need in his own parish to see that the widows and orphans were remembered with gifts of food and clothing and above all sympathy for their loss.
Ordinarily it would have been received in the spirit in which it was intended.
