Free A Question of Honor by Charles Todd

park.
    “I think,” I said warily, “someone must be living here now.”
    “I shouldn’t be surprised.”
    The house was foursquare with smaller wings set back on either side. The center block was early Georgian, I thought, while the wings had been added later.
    We were about to turn and leave when a woman came to the door.
    “Can I help you?” she asked, peering out at us. “Are you the couple the estate agent was sending out? We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
    “We were driving past and stopped to have a look,” Simon said. “Before speaking to the estate agent.”
    “I don’t know if that’s quite proper,” she said, wringing her hands. “We asked not to have strangers coming by. The estate agent agreed.”
    “Then we’ll be on our way,” Simon told her, taking my arm.
    She stopped us, asking anxiously, “Were you really interested in the house? I’ll take your name, if you like. And give it to the owner.”
    Then she wasn’t the wife of the owner. I’d thought she looked more like a housekeeper, but she was wearing a dark lavender dress, not the usual black.
    As if she’d heard the thought, she said, “I’m housekeeper to my cousin.”
    “We have several other properties to look at,” Simon told her. “We’ll ask the estate agent to contact you if we decide to return.”
    Her expression was apprehensive, as if she was of two minds, letting us have a look around in case we were serious buyers, and keeping to the rules. But in the end, she nodded and closed the door.
    We walked back up the drive and had nearly reached the gates when a man came striding up the road from Petersfield.
    He was wearing the uniform of a chaplain, and one arm was in a sling.
    “We don’t care for trespassers,” he said sternly when he was close enough not to be shouting.
    “We weren’t trespassing.” Simon held his ground.
    “We’ve had enough of curiosity seekers. I thought it had stopped. It drove my uncle mad, made his last days unbearable. Ever since that article in the Sunday papers.”
    “I’ve been out of the country,” Simon replied easily. “I haven’t seen an article about the house.”
    “Then why are you here? The property isn’t listed locally. I was quite firm about that.” He paused. “You aren’t Mr. and Mrs. Davies, are you?”
    “I’m afraid not.”
    Simon had his hand on my elbow and ushered me through the gates to the motorcar. The chaplain stared us off the property and watched to see that we did indeed go away.
    He was still watching as we reversed and headed back to Petersfield.
    “A warm welcome,” I said. “But what article, Simon?”
    “From time to time when there isn’t any other news, London editors dig up sensational crimes. It sells papers.”
    We drove back to Petersfield and found the marketplace nearly empty, the stalls and carts and barrows all but gone.
    “Let’s go into the churchyard,” I suggested, and we left the motorcar by the shops. It was only a short walk up to St. Peter’s.
    The handsome old church was not facing the square but set sideways to it. We made our way around to the west door and from there we went in different directions. I found myself near the enclosing outer wall and saw to my left a small plot with three stones on it. I glanced down at the names and dates, then called quietly to Simon, who was bending over to look at a stone in another part of the churchyard.
    “Come see this.”
    He joined me, then whistled under his breath.
    There it was. The graves of Lieutenant Wade’s first victims.
    It had to be. The year was right, 1908, and the dates matched as well.
    Harvey Caswell, his wife, Isabella, and their daughter, Gwendolyn. They had died on the same day.
    I looked again at the dates.
    “But I thought she was a child, Simon. Everyone said, ‘Mother, father, and daughter.’ She was nineteen.”
    “That’s right.” He did the sums in his head. “Her parents were fifty and fifty-two.”
    I heard the sound of the