A Bitter Truth

Instead the words seemed to echo around the stone walls, loud in our ears as we listened. Captain Ellis’s long fingers drummed a tattoo on the knee of his trousers, and Lydia kept her eyes on the stained glass windows in the choir, their colors muted by the cloudy day. Mrs. Ellis was biting her lip to keep herself from fidgeting, and Janet Smyth, the rector’s sister, looked stricken.

It was clear that the rector had not expected the Ellis family to attend morning services, and his prepared remarks and the choice of hymns must have seemed innocuous enough. But he had been there on the evening Lieutenant Hughes had brought up the missing child, and he could not pretend otherwise. “What Child Is This,” sung by the choir, was the final blow.

I looked across to where the doctor and his wife were seated, and I could see that they too were feeling some distress. For themselves or for the rector or for the Ellis family, I didn’t know.

Finally the ordeal was over and we could rise and walk out of the church. And standing at the main gate where the motorcars had been parked, was Inspector Rother, looking like the wrath of God. I found myself thinking that at any moment he would storm the church doors and brand us all as heathen murderers and heretics.

As it was, I was a little ahead of the family and I happened to see him first, just as the rector quickly shook my hand and murmured a few words, as if eager to get his duty over with before someone brought up his sermon. Roger Ellis simply nodded briefly, ignoring the rector’s outstretched hand, which Mrs. Ellis took in her son’s stead and wished Mr. Smyth a good morning. Roger had just retrieved his umbrella from the stand and was about to open it when he saw Inspector Rother.

There was the briefest of hesitations, and then he handed the opened umbrella to his mother, and picked up another to share with his wife. With that, he moved toward the gate, as if nothing had happened. Lydia, huddled under his umbrella, trying not to touch him, stumbled and then recovered her balance. He took her arm and tucked it beneath his, for all the world the loving husband. Lydia glanced at him but had the presence of mind not to pull away. Mrs. Ellis, sharing her umbrella with me, said something under her breath that sounded like a prayer as we neared the gates, her arm tense in mine as she watched to see whether the Inspector was intent on stopping her son.

But Inspector Rother let us pass without a glance. It was clear that he had someone else in mind, and looking back over my shoulder, I saw him stop Janet Smyth as she came out of the church, drawing her to one side, out of hearing of those still leaving the service.

I could also see her face turn pink and the curious stares of her brother and everyone else.

Just beyond them, in my line of sight, was the white marble statue of the kneeling child.

She looked cold and lonely in the winter rain.

Roger Ellis said as he began to turn the motorcar back toward Vixen Hill, “The fool should have had the decency to change his sermon.”

“I expect he didn’t have another one prepared.”

Ignoring my answer, he said, “And what does Rother want with Janet Smyth? She hardly spoke two words to George that whole evening.”

“Still, she was there-”

“What angers me most,” he went on as he slowed to make his way through a flock of sheep barring the road, “is that he should show his face at St. Mary’s, just as the service was finished. Taunting us, that’s what he was doing. He could always find Janet at the Rectory.”

But I thought Inspector Rother had something on his mind, and he wasn’t the sort of man to stand still when he was on the scent. It made him all the more worrying, even to those of us without a guilty conscience. But why indeed had he come?

I had looked for Simon at St. Mary’s, thinking he would take the chance of speaking to me. But he wasn’t there, and I didn’t know if it was because he didn’t expect us to attend, or if something had come up.

The same something that was on Inspector Rother’s mind?

We had turned into the lane that led to the house, the distances seeming shorter as I grew accustomed to them. Still, if I had been George Hughes, I wouldn’t have wished to walk to the church.

Had he gone of his own volition, to avoid having to face Roger Ellis at breakfast? To see Juliana’s grave? Or had he gone with someone-been asked to meet someone there?

Suddenly, in my mind’s eye, I saw Mrs. Ellis pausing to set the marble kitten back in its proper place by her daughter’s outstretched marble fingers.

Had that lovely bit of stone been the murder weapon that the police-so far as I knew-failed to find? The way the kitten sat on its haunches, it would fit in the hand well, and it was solid enough to knock a victim unconscious, and possibly even kill him.

We had arrived at the door, and Roger Ellis switched off the motor before going to help his mother descend from the other vehicle. I opened my umbrella, preparing to hold it over Mrs. Ellis’s hat. As I did, something white fluttered past my hand, caught first by the wind and then beaten to the ground by the rain.

I stooped and picked it up, mostly my nurse’s sense of tidiness. And then I realized there was writing on it.

Damp as it was, I quickly stuffed it into the glove on my left hand and took Mrs. Ellis’s arm as Daisy held the door wide for us to hurry through.

We went our separate ways to change out of our wet coats, and in my room I carefully removed my gloves, setting them on the chest by the door.

The scrap of wet paper lay in my palm.

A message from Simon? I thought it might well be, but how did he know which umbrella I was using? And where had he been, because I hadn’t seen him?

Unfolding the limp square of paper with care so as not to tear it, I saw that the ink had begun to run from its exposure to the rain.

I couldn’t make out the handwriting, much less the two words.

eet m

Meet me?

When I held it under the bright lamplight, I thought I was probably right about that. The missing M and the missing e were so faint I had to squint to make them out.

If it wasn’t Simon-then who had sent that message?

Was it for Lydia? And if it was for Lydia, what should I do now? Say nothing? Or take it to her?

The question was answered by a tap at my door, and Lydia walked in.

“I’ve never been so mortified in my entire life,” she said, going to the fire and holding out her hands, as if chilled to the bone. But I thought it wasn’t a chilling from the winter cold. “I should never have let Roger persuade me to go. Everyone- everyone! -stared at me as if I had two heads, wondering how I came by this bruise. And then the rector’s sermon was inexcusable. And I could hardly believe it when Inspector Rother arrived.”

“The sermon was probably written several days before he dined here.”

“Well, then, have the good sense, and the good manners, to change it. He saw us sitting there.”

“He was as uncomfortable as you were.”

“It was a mistake to go. What’s that in your hand?”

I was still holding the scrap of paper. “I’m not sure,” I began, but she came quickly across the room to where I was standing by the lamp, holding out her hand.

“Where did it come from? Was it here, in the house? Surely not-”

“It was in the umbrella Mrs. Ellis and I were using. I don’t know why it hadn’t fallen out before. But as I was opening it again when we arrived at the door, it must have shaken loose.”

She took it from me. “The ink has run. Can you read it?” She peered at the letters, sounding them out. “Meet me. Is that what it says? Who wrote it?”

“I don’t have any idea.”