"Let me see it. I want to see how many shots are left."
"Three. I've already looked."
"But-" I broke off, frowning. "Did you-did you think to look at Jonathan's revolver?"
"He handed it to me. He said four shots had been fired. He was right."
But that made five, and I'd only heard four.
Dr. Philips was saying, "We should bring Mrs. Graham here as soon as possible. And find the rector. I'm transferring Jonathan Graham to hospital in Cranbrook. She'll want to go with him. I can't probe for that bullet here. If he can survive the journey, they just might save him. It will be touch and go."
"I've sent for them."
"Well done."
I went on to Dr. Philips's office, where I quickly found pen and paper. And then I looked in on Peregrine. The sedative was already working. His eyes were closed, his mouth a tight line of pain and despair.
Touching his hand, I said urgently, "Peregrine? What happened out there on the road tonight? You must tell me-who did you shoot? Was it Jonathan?"
He opened his eyes as I spoke. Then he turned his face to the wall and wouldn't meet my gaze.
"Listen to me! Jonathan has confessed to trying to kill the two constables and you. Is it true? He may be dying, I need to know know."
There was no answer.
"You fired your pistol. While it was still in your pocket." I reached for his greatcoat, lying across a chair's back, and showed the blackened hole to him. "Look, here's proof."
"I won't go back to the asylum," he said finally. "I can't face it. I'd rather be hanged."
"Constable Mason will be all right in a day-two. He'll be able to speak to Inspector Howard. You might as well tell me the truth. It's the only way I can help you."
"Mason was the first to go down. He won't know what happened after that. I shot Jonathan," he said, and something in the timbre of his voice rang true.
"But that doesn't make sense. He wasn't shot in the back while he was driving-and he couldn't have walked that far from the motorcar, hurt as he was."
He wouldn't answer.
"Peregrine. I promise you, you won't go back there-"
I could read the bleakness in his eyes as he replied, "Bess, you nearly worked a miracle. I'm grateful, truly. But I can't walk out of here. I stood up just now and tried, and it was hopeless. Someone has taken my pistol, and so I can't use it on myself. I'll have to stay and face them. There's nothing more we can do."
I didn't try to argue, but I was far from giving up. My father had always said I was as stubborn as a camel.
"I've sent for Mrs. Graham. She'll be here shortly. I thought you'd prefer to know that."
And then I went back to Jonathan, hoping for a little time before his mother arrived.
Jonathan was waiting for me as I opened the door to his room. When he saw the paper and pen in my hands, he said, "Hurry."
And so I sat there, beside another Graham son, this time instead of writing a letter home, I was taking down a confession of murder.
It was brief, no details, just the stark facts. When I'd finished, he held out his hand for the pen, to sign.
I said, "Did you kill Lily Mercer, Jonathan? I know it wasn't Peregrine. Arthur knew that too. It's what he meant by his message to you. Surely-surely, if you're confessing to these these deaths, you will want to tell me the truth of that one as well. Peregrine doesn't deserve to return to Barton's. He's suffered enough. Set him free, while you can." deaths, you will want to tell me the truth of that one as well. Peregrine doesn't deserve to return to Barton's. He's suffered enough. Set him free, while you can."
But he lay there in stony silence, his hand shaking a little as he reached a second time for the pen.
What was it about these Graham men? Stubbornly silent when they might set the record straight. First Arthur and now Jonathan and even Peregrine.
I watched him sign the confession. His signature was a scrawl, but legible enough to suffice.
"Take it to Inspector Howard. Don't let my mother see it. It would be a cruelty."
I agreed and was about to leave when he said, "Let it be finished."
"It can't be finished, if Peregrine Graham is sent back to that place. You never went there, did you? But Arthur did. And still he said nothing. Did nothing. What did he mean when he said he'd lied, for his mother's sake? Did you lie as well? Was she she the one who killed Lily Mercer, and blamed Peregrine?" the one who killed Lily Mercer, and blamed Peregrine?"
Goaded, he said, "God, no! Damn you, don't even suggest such a thing!"
"Then why did you have to lie, for her sake?"
"I lied because the police were there and they frightened her. She'd been crying. When they asked me about the pocketknife, I told them that it was Peregrine's, that none of us ever touched it because it was left to him by his father. I didn't know-I was ten, ten, I didn't understand what it was I was doing." I didn't understand what it was I was doing."
But that must have meant he knew who had had possession of that knife.
"Take the paper-go." He was insistent, the urgency reflected in his eyes.
I looked at the man lying on the cot.
He hadn't confessed until he'd realized Peregrine was still alive.... With Peregrine dead, the police would easily have come to the conclusion that the dangerous lunatic had run amok. They might still feel that way.
And Peregrine was claiming he'd shot Jonathan-but not the policemen. If he wanted to hang, why not admit to three people? Then where was the need for Jonathan to take the blame?
It was dark out there in the field. When he'd run off the road, why hadn't Jonathan left the motorcar's headlamps burning?
So that the other occupants of the motorcar couldn't see what he'd seen-that someone else had been there?
And the Graham dogcart was standing in the yard of The Bells. It had been used tonight.
I said, "This confession is a lie. Who did you meet on the road tonight?"
He shut his eyes, not answering me.
"I saw him running away-I thought at first it was Peregrine. But Peregrine was already down, wasn't he? He fired at someone, and missed. While you were struggling for control of your own revolver. That's why I thought I'd only heard four shots. It wasn't Peregrine who wounded you, it was Timothy, wasn't it? And you're still protecting him! How many people must he kill before he's stopped?" And you're still protecting him! How many people must he kill before he's stopped?"
"My brother-he's my brother."
"So is Peregrine, and you left him to the horrors of an asylum."
I took a deep breath, feeling a wave of exhaustion sweep over me. There was only one other thing I wanted to know. But Jonathan was having difficulty breathing and I moved his pillows to make him more comfortable.
Dr. Philips was at the door, saying, "The ambulance is on its way."
I turned to Jonathan. "Will you at least tell me what Arthur had done that distressed him so? I brought his message-"
Someone spoke from just behind Dr. Philips. It was Mrs. Graham, her face starkly pale, her gaze on Jonathan. "He didn't confide in you after all. I was so sure he had. The police asked him if Peregrine had ever been violent before. And Arthur answered that we were all afraid of him. Arthur had been standing outside the parlor where the police were questioning me, he knew what had been said. He knew I'd claimed that I'd found that same knife deep in my pillow one night. It was a large pocketknife, a man's. The police were appalled. I knew they would be. Arthur saw that I was close to breaking down, and he lied to make them leave me alone."
Two boys, barely understanding what was happening around them, telling lies because they were afraid, confused, and trying to please the adults who were interrogating them. And with their words, damning their half brother to a lifetime in a madhouse. But they'd never been taught to think of him as their brother, had they? Mrs. Graham had purposely kept them apart.
"What did Timothy tell the police?"
She took a deep breath. "He told the police that Peregrine had once threatened to carve him like a Christmas goose with that same knife."
I wanted to bury my face in my hands and cry. On the lies of these three children, their mother had been able to protect her own son and keep him safe all these years, even knowing him for what he was. And no one had given a thought to Peregrine. He was the outcast, he was the eldest, and this woman had convinced herself that in the end his life would not have amounted to much anyway.
She couldn't have loved Robert that much. But she had loved Timothy. And Timothy was only nine at the time.
"Why would Timothy wish to kill Lily?"
"Apparently that night she saw his foot after his bath. Jonathan was there later when she told Timothy-a child, mind you!-that it was ugly and hairy and useless. He never showed that foot to anyone. She told him it was the devil's club and he was the devil's spawn. When I heard that, I felt nothing for her, I owed her nothing." Her voice was harsh, cold.
"Did he understand-did he realize he was killing her?"
"I've never asked him."
She came into the room and took her son's hand. She simply held it and told him she loved him, that nothing else mattered to her but that.
I slipped away, and in the passage came face-to-face with Robert Douglas. He stood there, stark anguish in his eyes.
"You can go in," I said gently.
He shook his head. "No. I loved him as my own. Arthur too. But they were Ambrose's sons."
It was an admission, in his own fashion, that he'd protected Timothy because the last Graham son was his.
And that explained so much. The love child, the deformed child, the child of guilt. No wonder Mrs. Graham had guarded him so fiercely.
I turned away, to allow him the privacy to grieve, and went to stand beside Peregrine's bed. I could hear them working with Jonathan, preparing him for the journey to Cranbrook. My training told me he wouldn't make it.
Mr. Bateman, the man from the hop fields, came to the doorway. "I wish someone would explain what's happened," he said, beginning to show signs of angry frustration.
I turned to ask him to be patient a little longer, just as a voice beyond him said, "Let me try."
It was Simon Brandon. "You're the devil to keep up with," he went on plaintively to me. "I've searched half of Kent for you. Why did you have my poor watcher arrested? He was there to keep an eye on you and make certain you were safe. You're covered in blood. And there's a dead policeman in a field not far from Owlhurst, and three men here in the surgery who've been shot." And then he asked in a lighter tone, "Did you do it, Bess? No, don't answer that, I don't want to know." He gave me a weary smile.
Rattled, I said, focusing on one word, "Your watcher? But-I thought someone else had hired him. Why don't you ever watcher? But-I thought someone else had hired him. Why don't you ever tell tell me these things?" me these things?"
He swore under his breath and took away the man and his patient dog. As I was shutting the door again, I saw Mr. Montgomery hurrying by, on his way to Jonathan's room. Robert, realizing what that must mean, followed him.
But so far no one had fetched Inspector Howard.
I said fiercely to Peregrine, "You must listen to me. If you go on saying you shot Jonathan, they'll believe you. They'll want to. Wait until they've retrieved that bullet and know if it was from your weapon or Jonathan's revolver."
He gave me a twisted smile. "Why should I lie?"
"Because you don't want to go back to Barton's. But I think-I'm nearly sure-you were aiming at someone else. We must clear that up, don't you see? You've trusted me this far." But it was a measure of what he'd suffered there that Peregrine would rather hang than go back to Barton's. I could feel his resistance like a stone wall. I still had Jonathan's confession in my hands. I couldn't rip it up until I was sure. It couldn't have been an hour since I'd found the Graham car in that field, but once Jonathan was in an ambulance on his way to Cranbrook, Dr. Philips would have time to remember Inspector Howard. And then it would be too late. Clutching at straws, I said, "Peregrine. What am I to tell Diana?"
He lay there, drowsy from the sedative, thinking it over. I wanted to hurry him, but all I could do was wait.
And then he said in a dead voice that concealed whatever it was he was feeling-love, hate, disillusion, grief, I couldn't tell-"Timothy. Timothy came out of nowhere. He was suddenly there-in the middle of the road-and when Jonathan stopped, he walked up to the window. He said something to his brother-I think it was, "You can't do this, Jonathan"-and Jonathan got out to talk to him. All at once there was a scuffle, and Timothy had Jonathan's revolver. Without a word, he just turned and shot Mason. After that, it was chaos. Jonathan threw himself back behind the wheel and rammed the motorcar into the field when he should have run his brother down. Timothy followed us, and the other policeman got out, trying to reason with him, and Timothy shot him as well. Jonathan said to me, "Run!" and I ran for the shadows just as Jonathan switched off the headlamps. Timothy came after me, and Jonathan after him. They fought, and I fired at Timothy as soon as I had a clear shot. Jonathan's revolver went off at the same time. I thought I'd hit Timothy, but it was Jonathan who went down. Timothy cried out, dropped to his knees beside his brother. Before I could move, he stood up again and deliberately shot me. I struck my shoulder as I fell, and that's the last thing I remember until I saw you there. I couldn't understand why you'd come. I was afraid Timothy might shoot you as well."
I shivered, remembering how he'd tried to shout a warning. And I'd misunderstood it. I'd believed he was running away. But it was Timothy I'd seen. The brothers were nearly the same height, the same build....
Carefully folding Jonathan's confession, I thrust it into my pocket.
Dr. Philips came in. He said to me quietly, "I don't suppose Peregrine Graham can understand what's 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 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." 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?"