finding a telephone as soon as we landed in Portsmouth, before I went on to meet my train.
I put in a call to my parents.
They were delighted to hear my voice and know that I was in England. But I had to tell them the reason why I wouldn’t be coming home.
My father said, “I must be away tomorrow morning. But Simon is in London. Shall I send him to Sussex?”
“Please, would you? I shall need a means of getting about.” And it would be a touch of home for me.
We talked for a few minutes more, as I assured my mother that I was well and hoped to have leave again soon. A little white lie for her comfort, I told myself.
The train to London met with the usual delays, and when I arrived at Waterloo Station, I collected my things and prepared to go in search of the next available connection to Hartfield.
Instead I found Simon Brandon waiting to help me descend from the carriage, and then he reached inside to take up my valise.
“The motorcar is this way.”
A cold rain was falling, but as we handed in my ticket and went out into the fading light, he studied my face and said, “Your mother wished to know how you looked. Tired, but well enough. That sums it up, I should think.”
I smiled. “Yes, very well. Simon, I’ve seen the little French child. Her name is Sophie.” And I went on to tell him how I’d managed to find her, and what I’d discovered.
We had reached the outskirts of London as I finished the account. Simon nodded, “I was fairly sure you would search. Against all advice.”
“There was so little opportunity to look for her. I despaired of finding her. But an Australian sergeant, his name is Larimore, put the word out, compiled a list of convents from the responses he received, and had it delivered to me by way of a wounded Scot. It made all the difference.”
“And you say Ellis knows nothing about this?”
“I don’t think he does. But running into him prevented me from speaking to the solicitor to ask how the child might be returned to her natural father.”
“Hardly your place, Bess.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. But I’d have liked to know if it was even possible. That would guide me in deciding what to do about telling Roger Ellis-or Lydia, for that matter-that I know where Sophie is. Which reminds me, I shall need some money before I return to France. I gave the sister at the orphanage all that I could spare. They have so little, and the children need so much. French law may be very different from English law in these matters. And there’s the fact that Roger was never officially registered at Sophie’s father.”
“Leave it, Bess. You’re unwise to grow attached to this child.”
“I’m not attached. But I have become aware of another side of this war, Simon. It’s difficult enough for us to make sense of it. Think what a child who has lost everything must feel, when the future appears to be so bleak and comfortless.”
We drove on in silence, covering the miles of winter-bare England, and I wished we were heading in the direction of Somerset, on the other side of London.
We stopped briefly for tea and sandwiches in a small shop in Sevenoaks, then drove on to Ashdown Forest. This time as we approached, I recognized the first signs of it now.
“I don’t think I shall be invited to stay with the Ellis family this time,” I said ruefully.
“No. I expect not.”
“I can’t think of why I should be summoned from France for the inquest. After all, the police have my statement. Have you heard anything about the case since we left?”
“Only what you already know, that the inquest was adjourned.”
We drove through Hartfield, the street deserted, the houses already dark. I glanced toward Bluebell Cottage and saw that it looked closed and somehow forlorn. I was suddenly reminded of the cat I’d seen on a blue cushion asleep in the window.
“Simon. What’s become of Davis Merrit’s cat? Surely it wasn’t abandoned, when he didn’t come back!”
“You must ask the police.”
We left Hartfield behind and soon came to the turning where the left-hand track went to Wych Cross and the right to Wych Gate.
In the far distance, across the barren landscape, I could just see the lights of Vixen Hill as we passed the place where the lane ran into the darkness under the trees where Simon had left his horse one night.
I’d been to St. Mary’s Church, but not into the village of Wych Gate itself. It lay on the far side of the trees that stood to the west of the church, over an ancient bridge that crossed the little stream where George Hughes had died. There was a cluster of houses that clung to the road in defiance of the heath that all but surrounded them. Half the size of Hartfield, it was neither bustling nor busy, and most of the inhabitants worked elsewhere in the Forest or just outside it. But once it had been a very wealthy village based on the wool trade, when sheep had replaced the deer and other game that had drawn kings and their courts to hunt. The church was a mark of its past, and of a time when a village could afford to build it.
Inspector Rother lived on the corner of one of the two side streets in Wych Gate. We found him there after going to the police station, once a gaol for poachers and other village miscreants, that stood foursquare between the bakery and a solicitor’s chambers. He had left a note on the door directing me to his house.
He must have been watching for me. He came out of his door almost as soon as we pulled up, and said, peering into the vehicle, “Sister Crawford?”
“Yes, Inspector?”
Reaching for the handle to the rear door, he said, “I’d rather speak to you in the police station, so as not to wake my family.”
He wasn’t the sort of man I’d associated with having a family, a home life. He had seemed to be wedded to his work. I’d never quite pictured him at the breakfast table, his children around him, as I could Inspector Herbert, whom I’d known in London.
Simon turned the motorcar and drove back to the station. We hurried through the rain in Inspector Rother’s wake and waited for him to light a lamp.
In his office the furnishings were plain, with a narrow desk, a chair, and two others in front of it. Over Inspector Rother’s head as he took his seat was a photograph of the King in his naval uniform, staring at the opposite wall.
I made the introductions.
“I expected the station carriage,” he said sourly, “from Hartfield.”
“My family sent Mr. Brandon to see me safely here,” I answered. “It’s rather late, after all.”
“Yes, yes, I recall seeing Mr. Brandon in Hartfield before Christmas. You must be tired, Miss Crawford. I’ve taken a room for you at The King’s Head.”
“Thank you.” I hesitated. It seemed very odd to have made the long trip here only to be told that he’d taken a room for me. Was there more? I added, “Have you found Lieutenant Merrit? The last news I had was that the inquest had been adjourned while the police continued to look for him.”
He considered me, then glanced at Simon, standing behind my chair, leaning his shoulders against the corner of a tall bookcase. “There were questions that only the Lieutenant could answer. For example, why was a watch removed from the body of the deceased when other valuable items were not taken? What became of the murder weapon?”
“You haven’t found it?” I asked, feeling a frisson of guilt when I remembered the marble kitten slightly out of its accustomed place.
Although I had listened, I hadn’t heard the slightest sound from behind the cell door I’d glimpsed at the end of the passage some ten feet beyond Inspector Rother’s office. If Lieutenant Merrit had been taken into custody, he must not be held here.
“So far we’ve been unable to account for it.”
When he didn’t immediately go on, I asked, “When I was at The King’s Head using the telephone-this was before Lieutenant Hughes was murdered-I noticed a cat asleep in the window of Bluebell Cottage. Has anything been done about it?”
“We brought Mrs. Roger Ellis to Hartfield and asked her to look through Bluebell Cottage. She was there very
