A small black dog got up from beside another house, following me until I crossed the bridge again and then lost interest.

  Midway over the bridge, I looked back to the house with the garden by its side. Just then I noticed another man just stepping into the pub, his back to me as he disappeared inside and closed the door. He seemed familiar, somehow, but I didn’t recognize him. He was wearing the usual farmer’s flannel shirt and brown corduroy trousers, the bottoms of which were stuffed into Wellingtons. But somehow he didn’t look like a farmer at all, in the way he carried himself. An ex-soldier?

  I moved on, not wanting to stare, and was quickly out of the village again and on my way back to the Neville house. I didn’t see the young woman again, as I passed the square and her cottage.

  Walking along the road, empty now, just me and a squirrel scurrying up a tree, that feeling of being watched returned. This time I refused to turn and look. If someone was there, I refused to give him—or her—the satisfaction of appearing to feel anxious. Still, this was a very lonely place, just a handful of animals, some birds above me in the trees, and the sound of the beck tumbling over its stony bed to keep me company as I walked.

  I was in sight of the lane that led to the house, when I heard a loud rustling in the undergrowth, somewhere behind me and, I thought, on the far side of the beck. I found myself picking up my pace a little.

  The sound grew louder, it was coming closer, that rustling. And it wasn’t a fox after a hare or a squirrel. It was moving steadily, and quickly. And then it was at the beck, a wild splashing as something or someone leaped into the water, coming directly at me, and a little behind me still.

  I whirled to face whatever was coming, then stood there, bracing myself.

  Even as I did, a rather ferocious-looking dog broke cover and charged straight for me, teeth bared, growling deep in his throat.

  Chapter Ten

  He was the size of a mastiff, I thought in that first startled moment, and I drew in my breath sharply, lowering my chin so that my throat wasn’t as vulnerable. The urge to run was overwhelming, but there was nowhere to go, and running would only excite it more.

  Its lip was curled back, showing long white teeth, its hackles raised. I cast a swift glance around, saw nothing that could be used as a weapon, and realized I was about to be hurt rather badly.

  No one knew where to look for me—

  All this was happening in a matter of seconds, although it seemed that time had slowed.

  Just as he was about to leap at me, I threw up my arms to shield my face. And in the same instant I heard a low whistle. And the dog stopped. Still growling, still showing me its teeth, holding me at bay from only feet away from me.

  It wasn’t a mastiff after all, but my racing heart still hadn’t realized that. I couldn’t determine the breed, and I didn’t care, as I faced it and shouted, “Call him off. Now!”

  Another low whistle, different in pitch, and the dog gave me one last look before turning and disappearing along the beck toward someone I couldn’t see.

  It took me several minutes to slow my breathing. But I made myself turn away and appear to cross the road quite calmly—while the rest of me fought down the shock. That was swiftly followed by anger. I was furious with whoever it was. If he could whistle the dog away on the brink of attack, he could have stopped him from ever crossing that beck. And he knew he could have done that.

  And another part of my brain was beginning to recognize that the signals were very much like those a shepherd used to control the dogs helping him herd the sheep. But the animal didn’t look like the usual sheepdogs I’d seen in the dales and elsewhere—the black and white small collie breed. This one was brindled, with black, and a good bit taller.

  I remembered then. A similar breed was used by our own Army as messenger dogs.

  I had never seen one on the verge of an attack like this one. I was still shaking rather badly when I turned in through the gates.

  When I got to the house, the door was firmly closed. I had to knock, and the butler, Davies, came to admit me.

  His eyebrows went up. “Are you quite all right, Miss?”

  “I’m so sorry! I forgot to tell anyone I’d gone out.” Then I asked, “I saw a dog just now, larger than the sheepdogs here, brindled with a black face, and yet it responds to whistles. Do you know who the owner might be?”

  “I expect, Miss, that it’s the dog Joe Harding brought back from France with him. I’ve been told he found it as a puppy, and has even taught it to herd sheep. He brought it back for his sister, who lives at his farm adjacent to the Neville land, but it’s more his dog. Well, not too astonishing, after a war together.”

  I’d seen the farm, from the end of the street that crossed the beck and ran to the footbridge.

  Men in the trenches adopted cats and dogs and even birds and rats, something to love and protect at the end of the day. I’d been told that an artillery company kept a deaf white cat, who never minded the sound of the guns, lying there while they worked. Some men took in French or Belgian dogs found wandering on the battlefield and trained them to listen for attacks at night, when their keener hearing gave more warning. It wouldn’t be too surprising that these dogs were trained to whistles, where voice command could give away positions.

  The question was, who was out with it today?

  “Do you know what the dog is called?”

  There was the hint of a smile. “Yes, Miss, I’m told it’s called Cooper. It was called Gladys for a time, until it was determined that the dog was not a Gladys.”

  Gladys Cooper was the quite beautiful actress whose photo was popular with the men fighting in France. I’d seen dozens of them while preparing the belongings of the dead to return to the Army.

  “Thank you, Davies. Has anyone looked in on Mr. Gordon?”

  “I believe Mrs. Neville sat with him for a time.”

  “I’ll go up, then.”

  The fever was worse, I thought, laying my palm on Gordon Neville’s forehead, and he was restless. When I examined and then cleaned the wound, I could see from the bandages I’d removed that it had been draining. That could mean a variety of things, but in general a wound that was draining infection was a good sign. I would keep it under observation for signs of blood in the drainage.

  He lay there silently, watching my movements. Then he said as I was gathering the used bandages, “Mark Caldwell came to see for himself that I was not malingering.”

  “And was he convinced?”

  “He told me the room smelled of rot. Of gangrene.”

  “It doesn’t,” I told him. “And I should think I’m a far better judge.”

  Gordon smiled wryly. “Quite.” Then he added, “I’m dry as a bone.”

  I found the pitcher of water, poured him a cup, and carefully raised him so that he could drink it.

  “Where did you see most of the fighting?” he asked as I settled him again.

  I told him, and he whistled. “That’s impressive.”

  “I was a surgical nurse,” I explained. “I worked with some very fine doctors. Together we saved a good many men from dying. Is there anything else you need?”

  “The wound and the bone are aching. Shoulder is healing. More aspirin would help.”

  I was not as liberal with it as some doctors had been during the war. It helped with inflammation and with fever, but many were more careful about doses. After he’d taken it, I said, “Would it help, if you had more pillows? Now that your shoulder isn’t hurting as much?”

  “God, yes!”

  We had put four or five more pillows in a chair, in case of need, and I brought those over to the bed and arranged them so that he was no longer lying flat on his back.

  The shoulder was still sensitive—but it was still firmly back in its socket.

  “That’s much better. I should be able to get out of bed by tomorrow.”

  “Dr. Menzies tells me you are better off in bed. The minute you walk out that door, Inspector Wade will be here to arrest you. Besides, that arm still doesn’t look good. The infection is still there. You are my patient and I can’t risk you being moved too soon.”

  “At this point I’d much rather face a cell than another day shut up in this room.”

  There was a tap at the door, and both of us looked toward it, tensing.

  I went to open it. Margaret was standing there. “I’ve come to amuse the patient. Mrs. Neville tells me he’s restless and will be running down the stairs and out the door as soon as our backs are turned.”

  I smiled. “So he is.” I turned back into the room. “You have a visitor. I’ll leave you to it.”

  She touched my arm lightly as I left. I was walking down the passage when Grace Caldwell stepped out of her room. I greeted her, and she turned my way. I saw that she was dressed for riding.

  “Hello,” I said.

  Grace Caldwell sounded very much like Gordon Neville when she said, “I’ve asked Arthur to have a horse brought around. I can’t breathe in this house.”

  “I walked into the village earlier. It’s nice weather for a ride.”

  She shook her head. “I wouldn’t care if it were pouring rain. I see that room every time I come up the stairs, and it hurts so I feel light-headed. My parents are coming to take me to their house. I don’t care what the Inspector says about leaving.”

  “I’m sure he’ll have nothing to say about your going. You weren’t even here—”

  She was pulling her riding gloves as she walked toward me. “That’s what haunts me most! We didn’t need an outing. I could have been here, I could have talked to him, held his hand. Instead I was in some shop in Richmond looking at new china for Mrs. Neville’s birthday dinner. We have perfectly good china right now, it was ridiculous, and the worst part of all is that I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. Why didn’t I know he’d been hurt? I’d have come home. I’d have been here.” Her face flushed. “Why couldn’t someone send a telegram to our hotel? Arthur knew which one it was. Why didn’t he send someone? I’d have traveled all night—I’d have walked if I had to.”

  “From what the doctor told me, they hadn’t expected your husband to die that night,” I said gently to Mrs. Caldwell. “He couldn’t judge the internal injuries—”

  She turned on me. “I don’t care if he’d only broken his thumb! I should have been here. I should have come back.”

  “I understand,” I replied, trying to calm her.

  “No, you don’t. You aren’t married, you can’t possibly know what it is like to walk through the door and be told that the perfectly healthy husband you’d left only two days before has died. You have no idea what a shock that could be.” A gloved finger, trembling with her anger, pointed beyond the stairs, down the passage when the family bedrooms were. “They were protecting him. Gordon. And I’ll never forgive any of them. And neither will Mark.”

  Mrs. Caldwell walked on, down the stairs and out the door. I heard it slam.

  I went to find Arthur Neville.

  He was sitting in his study, and I tapped lightly on the door, not knowing if he was busy or simply trying to cope.

  “Come.”

  As I came in to the room, he said, “Bess? Is Gordon all right?”

  “The infection is still worrying. Dr. Menzies will come back tonight to have a look. No, what I’ve come to talk to you about is Mrs. Caldwell. She’s terribly upset. We’ve all watched as she’s tried to take in what happened. But she’s turning bitter now. She tells me that her parents are arriving to take her to their house. It might be best if she leaves. I don’t know what the funeral arrangements may be.”

  “He’ll be taken to Maris Hall, his home, and be buried from there. But I understand from the undertaker that Inspector Wade hasn’t released the body yet.” He vigorously rubbed his face with his hands. “I expect he’s still determined to press charges. The inquest will be Monday, in the village. None of us is to leave before that. Including Caldwell, who insists he wants to give evidence. God knows how that will be arranged—he wasn’t even here.”

  “Have you heard anything more from Lady Beatrice?”

  “I have. She’ll be here tomorrow.” Arthur grimaced. “Much as I look forward to seeing her, I don’t know how much good it will do. Given the household at the moment.”

  “She’s very persuasive,” I said, speaking from experience.

  “I don’t think even my aunt can deter Mark or even Grace.” He rose. “I’ll have a word with Grace. I know how upset she is. This wasn’t something any of us would have wanted to happen, not ever. I should have sent for her. But Menzies assured us that Frederick would live. At the time we did not want to worry Grace before she’d finished her journey. Then after nightfall, everything began to change. She couldn’t have reached us in time if I’d sent a hundred telegrams.” He stopped me at the door. “Sister—Bess. Do what you can to keep my brother out of the village gaol. If he comes from this house to the inquest, it might go a long way toward proving to a coroner’s jury that he’s innocent. If he’s brought there from a cell—” He broke off. “Yorkshire men believe in the proof of their own eyes.”

  “Surely Gordon’s well liked in the village?”

  “When my brother enlisted, half the village went with him. Most of them didn’t come home. There’s some hard feeling about that. As if he should have kept them safe. I know he tried. My God, no one who wasn’t there can even imagine what it was like.”

  He nodded politely and was gone.

  I barely had time to bathe and dress for dinner. As I changed, I was grateful to Lady Beatrice’s seamstress. I at least had a number of changes to make a good appearance at times like these. It would have been impossible to get suitable dresses here in time.

  Unless of course the Colonel Sahib—or Simon—could be persuaded to bring them himself.

  Dinner was quiet. Grace Caldwell stared at her plate most of the meal, tasting this or that but showing very little interest in the food. And it was an excellent meal, given the ongoing problems of austerity. But there were gardens here in the dale, there were plenty of fresh fruits and vegetables. They provided lovely soup courses.

  Still, it was difficult to carry on any conversation in the face of her grief. We made an attempt, then fell silent ourselves. The clink of silverware and fine china filled the handsome dining room, with its paintings of Neville ancestors and intricately carved wooden surround for the hearth. Where I was seated I found myself staring at it, and then realized suddenly that the subject of the carvings was an ark, and all the figures of animals moving two by two toward the ship were beautifully done.

  Noticing my interest, Mrs. Neville said, “It’s Italian. One of my husband’s ancestors brought it home from a Grand Tour. The story is, he kept sending things from his various stops, and for months after he got back, they were still coming in on packhorses. The chandelier is Venetian, the mirror French, and there’s a German painting in the library. The marble bust in the front hall was bought in Rome as well, although it is Greek.”

  I think we were all grateful when the meal was finished. We left the men to their brandy and retired to the small drawing room for our tea. I excused myself briefly to look in on Gordon Neville and be certain he’d had his own meal.

  But when I got to his room, he wasn’t there.

  I stood there in the middle of the floor and stared at the empty bed.

  Where was he? And how long had he been gone?

  It was well after nine . . .

  I’d last looked in on him at six thirty. Someone had brought his tray, and it was still there, on the table, covered with a linen napkin. The lamp had been turned down low, as it usually was when he was sleeping.

  Oh, the silly man! I thought, exasperated and worried and knowing only that I dared not raise the alarm . . .

  I sat down in one of the chairs by the hearth and waited.

  It was a quarter to ten when the door began to open quietly. He slipped into the room, turned—and froze when he saw me sitting there.

  He had a riding cloak thrown over his shoulders, and was wearing a shirt poorly stuffed into his trousers. His feet were clearly bare of stockings, thrust into boots.

  In the staleness of the room, I could smell fresh air on his clothes.

  “Where have you been?” I asked, not stirring from my chair.

  “Bess—”

  “You do realize, don’t you, that if anyone had seen you, we would be hard-pressed to keep you out of gaol. As it is, we’ve stretched the truth thin to keep you here at all.” I kept my voice level, neither angry nor condemning. Just pointing out the truth.

  In reality, I’d have liked to subject him to one of Matron’s scathing lectures when a recalcitrant patient kept the Sister wasting time that could have been better spent with others more in need of care.

  It usually left the subject of her remarks reduced to better behavior.

  I didn’t think it would work here.

  When I’d finished speaking, he moved into the room, and tried one-handed to return the cloak to the armoire. It fell twice before he managed to get it out of sight.

  “Bess, I’m sorry. Everyone was at dinner—the staff busy in the kitchen, then having their own meal. I just wanted to breathe a little fresh air. My limbs still work, they aren’t broken. I can walk.”

  When I said nothing, he added, “I live outside. I have an estate, tenants, even the sheep, to keep running smoothly. I’m simply not accustomed to lying in bed for days on end. Not since I had measles at ten.”

  He crossed to the lamp and turned it up.

  “You haven’t touched your food. Did it arrive before you left?”

  “Yes. I told Ruth that I wasn’t hungry, and I’d have you feed me later.”

  Ruth, apparently, was one of the maids.

  As he crossed in front of me to sit gingerly in the other chair, I said, “Do you wish to eat now?”