'Had been. Before the war, when they took women as wel. She was only young, delicate, and had the misfortune to be an heiress with no living parents. Her uncle had her committed after a suicide attempt and George Chilvers moved in on her. Poor little thing basked in this worldly young man's interest, no doubt. Eventualy, around the time she turns twenty-one, Chilvers
'He was kind to her; John was always so nice to anyone in trouble; that was his downfal. I don't think Chilvers was treating her very wel. That's what John thought. He said she was like a child in many ways and terribly lonely. But his help misfired as poor Vera fel madly in love with him and trailed around after him, posting bilets-doux under his door. Of course it soon became obvious. George Chilvers was furious. He might not have been interested in his wife beyond her fortune but he wasn't about to be humiliated by her flagrant obsession with John. John, of course, couldn't go off anywhere else so he was a sitting duck, first for Vera and then for that vile man.
'George had restrictions put on John's movements. That's why he was pushed up to the poky rooms on the top floor under constant supervision. The ones where the lights were left on al night. Where doors were locked from six to six. It wasn't because he was at risk. It was to punish him and to stop Vera getting to him.'
She leaned forward and her voice became more indignant.
'John wasn't that il when he was sent up there. But he deteriorated. He was in a room where the previous patient had been driven to kil himself. They removed everything with which he could hurt himself, from shoelaces to china plates to tin spoons—even his pen. The sheets up there were made of canvas, which couldn't be shredded. It was definitely not a situation that John in particular should have found himself in; George knew it, too. It wasn't about an ilicit trip to London.'
Brabourne had said much the same thing about Tucker, Laurence thought. The deadly intuition of a sadist.
'But it was more than that,' she went on. 'Chilvers actualy threatened him. His weapons were formidable: restraint, drugs. Some of the other staff were kind but Chilvers held the power.'
'But you went out with John?' Laurence was sure Eleanor had accompanied John on his birdwatching walk down the river.
'On my first visit we could walk about—even outside. I took Nicholas with me, but on my last visit there was nothing like that. No freedom.'
'Did George Chilvers speak to you?' Laurence said.
She waited a long time before answering. He had the impression she was trying to decide whether to tel him the truth.
'Yes. He had seen us walking in the gardens the first time I went and something in our demeanour made him suspect that I wasn't John's sister. He had an eye for these things.'
'What did you say?'
'I protested and played the outraged relative. Wel, it was either that or tel the truth and I wasn't about to gratify him with that. But I was nervous that his real sister—your Mary—would turn up and he'd mention me to her. I could imagine him forbidding me from visiting.'
He had the impression she was about to say more but when she didn't Laurence finaly brought himself to say what he'd come for.
'It was you John left the money to realy, wasn't it? I mean, it was nominaly left to Wiliam, because he could justify that, but it was because of you, I think. You and Wiliam were a married couple. It didn't matter who got it, you'd both have the benefit of it without Wiliam being humiliated.'
'What on earth gave you that idea?'
'Because the incident in the trench colapse was nothing in the scale of things. I kept thinking it felt wrong. Men were dying or being injured, horribly, every day.
Trenches colapsed pretty often. Probably the death of a man caled Perkins, Sergeant Tucker's partner in crime, was the most significant aspect of that accident. And Wiliam's part in puling John out was prompt and efficient, but he didn't do most of the digging. In fact, it was Tucker, John's enemy, who extracted him and saved his life. I kept thinking, why did Wiliam get left money when Tucker didn't. And then I thought—forgive me, Eleanor, but it's true— it was simply because Wiliam was married to you. John wanted you to benefit, either because you nursed him when he was injured or, perhaps quite simply, because he loved you.'
She didn't answer at first. Then she looked up and, to his surprise, she said, 'No. He didn't leave it for me. I promise that wasn't why.'
He was embarrassed. He'd been certain John was in love with her and she with him.
'I'm awfuly sorry,' he said.
'No, don't be. There's some truth in what you think, but the bequest wasn't because of me, or only obliquely.'
'Did he write you a letter? At the end?' It was a sudden guess. Could he have posted one to her before he died?
She sighed. 'Yes. Yes, he did, although I never read it fuly. I saw it only when George Chilvers brandished it at me some weeks after John's death. He'd stolen it somehow. I think he half hoped I would try to seize it and then he could have al the fun of seeing how far I'd go to read it. Perhaps he was hoping I'd end up wrestling him for it. Odious, odious man.' Her apparent sarcasm was belied by the slight wobble in her voice.
'I think other letters may have gone missing. Correspondence to him as wel as from him.'
'Of course they have,' she said. 'When John absconded, I imagine Chilvers was terrified he'd tel people outside what had been happening. About Chilvers'
personal vendetta. John stil had contacts. Visitors. I'd posted letters for him once. Probably his sister did too. Ones he didn't want to leave in the hal at Holmwood for posting.'
She paused and poured them both out some more tea.
