A Duty to the Dead by Charles Todd Page B

evening wore on that Arthur’s mother was anxious, as if she’d wanted me to come here and, now that I was under her roof, wasn’t certain how to entertain me. She was often silent as Jonathan and Timothy talked to me about the war, and I tried several times to change the subject for her sake.
    We finished our meal and went into the parlor where the tea tray had been taken. After another hour or more of polite conversation, I excused myself, saying that the journey had been tiring, and went up to bed.
    I carried with me the picture of a close family still grieving for their loss.
    In the morning, Susan tapped lightly on my door and took me down to the dining room where breakfast was waiting.
    Jonathan and Timothy must have come and gone, judging from two empty cups and saucers on the table. Mrs. Graham was just helping herself to a dish of eggs from the sideboard.
    I filled my own plate and sat down, taking up my cup. Mornings aren’t my best time, and I let the tea flow through me, waking me up. Mrs. Graham was cheerful and the conversation general until we’d finished eating.
    And then she said, setting her knife and fork across her plate, “You have a message, you said. From Arthur.”
    I set down my knife and fork as well, though I hadn’t finished eating. “The message is for Jonathan, Mrs. Graham. Though Arthur sent you his dearest love.”
    “Yes, I understand. But surely you could share it with me?”
    “I’m—I’m not sure that was what Arthur wished me to do. But I think Jonathan should be the one to answer that.”
    She was frowning at me, her back straight, her shoulders squared, as if bracing herself for an argument. And then she relaxed.
    “Of course. You’re right, my dear. It’s just that I’m hungry for any crumb of comfort. You can’t imagine what it is like to know your child is buried at sea in a foreign place, and will never come home again. I haven’t been able to believe he’s gone forever. I tell myself, and then I slip into the habit of putting it out of my mind.”
    I thought she was cajoling me. But I was saved from an answer when Jonathan came into the room and said, “Miss Crawford? If you’ve finished your breakfast, perhaps you’d like to see the memorial to Arthur in the church.”
    “Yes,” I said—not too quickly, I fervently hoped. But my relief must have been plain on my face. “I would like that.”
    “I’ll ask Susan to fetch your cloak, while you finish your toast.”
    “Thank you.”
    While Mrs. Graham watched with a mixture of frustration and worry, I drained my cup and rose to leave the room.
    As I reached the door, she said, “Forgive me for pressing, won’t you?”
    “Yes, of course, I’m sorry to have made you uncomfortable.”
    And I was gone, hurrying to the hall, where Susan was just bringing down my cloak. Jonathan was standing there, his face unreadable, but one hand was clenching and unclenching, as if he dreaded what was to come.
    I wondered fleetingly if he already knew about the girl…or was she merely a figment of my own runaway imagination? I was beginning to think she was. Certainly Susan, who must have been closer to forty than thirty, wasn’t a likely candidate for Arthur’s affections.
    We went down the front steps and turned toward the churchyard. The wind had dropped, and the air was crisp. I said, as we walked, “I’m afraid I’ve upset your mother. But Arthur was still very much in command of his faculties when he asked me to speak directly to you. I don’t think he intended—” I broke off.
    “We were close,” Jonathan said, but somehow I hadn’t got that impression from Arthur. He’d not spoken of his brothers except in passing. I knew very little about any of them.
    We opened the iron gate and walked through it into the churchyard, my boots crunching in the cold, dead grass. Above us the golden stone of the church apse led the eye upward to the pinnacles gracing the top. Against the blue-gray sky, they stood out