The Cliff's Edge by Charles Todd

Author:Charles Todd
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2023-02-14T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

I had lied for someone in my care before. In Ireland. I had done it purposely, to keep him out of prison as well. But I’d known why. Because in prison he wouldn’t have survived. For several reasons. And he was innocent.

Why was I lying for Gordon Neville? I wasn’t sure about anything. My promise to Lady Beatrice? Of course. But I also believed that one was innocent until proven guilty, and I also didn’t trust Inspector Wade not to bully my patient. And until I was sure about Gordon, I didn’t want to do something I might regret, including handing him over without any evidence. I was fairly certain Arthur Neville would stand behind me, if I was in any trouble over it.

As well I could be. This made me an accessory to any crime Gordon Neville had committed. And that might well be two murders . . .

Unhappy about the whole affair, I went down the stairs.

I knew how Gordon had felt, if he was telling the truth about last night. I wanted to escape the house myself. But after my experience with that dog and his master, I didn’t feel safe going off the grounds. And I wasn’t comfortable on the fells, either. They had seen two deaths already.

And so I took refuge again in the library, a handsome room with a lovely ceiling, bookshelves, map tables, and comfortable chairs. A desk stood at the window end, with a view of a terrace and borders. I sat down in the first chair I came to, sinking into well-worn leather as smooth as the years could make it.

Remembering that I’d first seen Mark Caldwell here, I wondered where he’d disappeared to. He’d given every impression of staying at the Hall until the funeral.

About to make trouble, most certainly. And I wasn’t sure he would care either way about Judith Bowman’s death, unless it could somehow be tied to Gordon Neville along with Frederick’s death.

Putting him out of my mind, I tried to think instead about what I should do, before I found myself in serious trouble.

The simplest answer was to tell the truth. But truth could have unforeseen consequences. That was my dilemma.

I tried to tell myself that I should never have come to Yorkshire—should never have stayed after I got there—and should have refused to come to Scarfdale at Lady Beatrice’s request.

That didn’t fly either. I was here. Wishful thinking would get me nowhere.

Either Gordon Neville was a consummate liar—and some murderers were just that. Or he was innocent. It was a toss of the dice at the moment.

I’d been lied to in hospital by men who wanted to return to the trenches before they were fully healed—refusing to accept the need to stay another handful of days until they had got their strength back to the point where they could keep up racing across No Man’s Land in the next attack.

It was a lie practiced by men in the ranks afraid to leave their comrades to fight and die without them.

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