THE NEXT MORNING, Mr. Owens was there with his motorcar when we came out of the hotel after breakfast. He touched his hat to me, then shook hands with Peregrine-Lieutenant Philips.
Eager to hear about the war firsthand, Mr. Owens was disappointed to find that Peregrine’s wound had affected his memory. We were silent, watching the rain clouds build over Dover. In the distance we could see Canterbury Cathedral as we climbed the hill to Chilham and came out into the wonderful square with its Elizabethan buildings. The gates of the Jacobean manor house marked one end of the square and the churchyard of St. Mary’s the other. Where to find Mr. Appleby?
I decided to try the flint church first, walking through the gates to the arched west door. It creaked as I opened it, and the interior was icy, as it must have been for centuries. But I had been right to come here. There was a woman on her knees by the altar, arranging green boughs in bronze vases. At this time of year the arrangement was mostly sprays of holly, its red berries bright among the greenery.
She turned at my footsteps, and smiled. “Hello. Are you looking for Rector?”
“Actually, I’m looking for someone who may have lived here some years ago. He was a tutor, his name was Appleby.”
“Mr. Appleby? Yes, of course, he tutored the Laurence boys. But he’s no longer teaching.”
My spirits sank. “Do you know where he might have gone from here?”
“Oh, he liked Chilham so much he stayed on. He married one of the Johnstone girls. Mary, the eldest. Go back to the square and the little lane that runs down to your right, just after you leave the church gates. The third house is his.”
My spirits rose again. “Thank you. I’m very happy to hear that.”
“Do I know you?” she asked. “Your face is familiar.”
“I was here some years ago. My father was returning from India, and we were traveling with him, my mother and I. Colonel Crawford.”
She stood, her smile widening. “Colonel Crawford. The handsomest man at the dinner party. Of course, I remember now.”
That was the Colonel Sahib. In his dress uniform he was quite remarkably handsome. And had the charm to match.
“Let me finish here, and I’ll show you the Appleby house myself,” she offered. “I’d like to hear how your parents are faring.”
“They are both quite well,” I answered. “But I have friends waiting. If you don’t mind-”
“Of course. Give my regards to your parents. Tell them Sarah Cunningham was asking for them.”
I promised, and made my escape.
Peregrine was pacing beside the motorcar, a frown on his face. Mr. Owens had walked up to The White Horse on the corner, to wait for us. I told Peregrine what I had learned, and together we walked down the curving lane past a lovely stone house where I’d had cookies and milk when we called there, my mother and I. The tutor’s house was easily picked out, and I went up the short walk to lift the knocker.
“Peregrine. Whatever he tells us, promise me you won’t-”
At that moment the door opened. Peregrine sucked in his breath but said nothing.
Appleby was of medium height and thin build, his long face marked by a scar on his chin. His hair was graying, but his short mustache was darker, like his eyebrows. A scholarly man, at first glance, but his eyes were weak and his mouth was small. My father had always held a theory about small mouths-that they indicated spitefulness.
“Mr. Appleby?”
“Yes, indeed. How may I help you?” He looked from my face to Peregrine’s, without any sign of recognition.
I introduced us and then said, “I was one of Arthur Graham’s nurses when he was wounded, and he entrusted me with messages to his family just before he died.”
“I read that he’d died of wounds. What a tragedy that was. He was a fine young man.”
“May I spend a few minutes talking to you about him?”
He was surprised. “To me? Er-what information can I give you about Arthur?” He seemed confused.
I said quickly, “I spent a few days with the Grahams, as Arthur had asked me to do. But there were questions I felt uncomfortable bringing up-”
“You’re here about Peregrine Graham, aren’t you?”
“I-yes.”
“Why are you prying into the past?”
“I’m not prying, Mr. Appleby. I was very close to Arthur Graham at the time of his death. I can’t help but believe he died with something on his conscience-”
“You had better come in.” He stepped aside, and we followed him into the parlor of the house. It was prettily decorated, a woman’s touch with floral covers on the chairs and small china figurines on tables and the mantelpiece. I could hear someone humming in another part of the house.
A small dog was curled on the hearth rug. She lifted her head, considered us, and went back to sleep.
Appleby offered us chairs and then said, “Look, I’ve put the past behind me. It was a fearsome situation, and I felt somehow responsible because the boys were in my charge while we were in London.”
“Yet you continued to work with them for several years afterward.”
“Of course. Continuity is what children need when their world has been turned upside down. Mrs. Graham begged me to remain there until her sons were sent to public school.”
“Did you know Lily Mercer well?”
That took him aback. “Well? Of course not. I’d never seen her before we arrived in London,” he answered indignantly. “She was a member of the temporary staff.”
“I understand that. But you must have spoken to her in the servants’ hall-”
“I never took my meals with the servants. I ate in my room or with my charges or in the small room off the study.”
I recalled that someone had told me the tutor kept to himself.
“I’m not trying to stir up the past, Mr. Appleby. But if Arthur had doubts about what happened in London, I’m honor bound to put the matter to rest.”
“You are honor bound to do no such thing. Peregrine Graham did a wicked thing, and he was put in a place where he couldn’t hurt anyone again. We feared for the family, if you must know-there was no other choice but to send him away. No one wanted a trial, it would have been devastating for the other boys. That they had a brother in prison for murder would have damaged their lives beyond measure.”
I glanced at Peregrine, whose face remained impassive. It was as if he accepted everything that Mr. Appleby was saying.
“What did Lily Mercer’s family want?”
Mr. Appleby opened his mouth to answer me, then shut it smartly. After a moment, he said, “I have no idea.”
“Were you satisfied that Peregrine Graham had done what he was accused of?”
“Miss Crawford. I know you mean well. But let me tell you this. I only saw the body briefly, but the girl was covered in blood. Mrs. Graham told me later that Lily Mercer had been disemboweled. I also saw Peregrine Graham kneeling there beside her, splattered with her blood. What conclusion would you have drawn, in my place?”
Peregrine Graham flinched, shutting his eyes for an instant.
“But I understand that Arthur also had blood on his nightshirt.”
I could tell from his reaction that this was something he was unaware of.
But he said, “You can’t change history, Miss Crawford, however good your intentions. I think you should go now.”
“Mr. Appleby, I’m not trying to change history. I’m trying to get to the truth, and decide in my own mind what the message Arthur charged me with really meant. I have given this message to Jonathan Graham. But I bear some responsibility in seeing that Arthur’s wishes are carried out.”
“That’s your personal choice, my dear. If you cared anything for Arthur Graham, you will put this behind you and move on with your life. Arthur was a fine young man, and it is to his credit that he was concerned for his brother. He went to the asylum one year, learned that Peregrine was not allowed either books or writing implements, and complained to the doctors. They refused to give him either pen or pencil, but they brought Peregrine books to read. I was surprised that he even grasped what was in them-he had shown no aptitude as a child.”
“What do you mean, no aptitude? Was he-mentally incapable of reading?”
“No, Miss Crawford. I’m surprised no one has told you that Peregrine Graham was unable to focus his attention on anything for more than a few minutes at a time. His father’s death had been a great shock to him, and by the time I arrived when he was seven, he was nearly unmanageable. We felt it best, Mrs. Graham and I, to separate him from his brothers and try to keep him as calm as possible. I made every effort to teach him, but I was never sure how well he had comprehended his studies. He wouldn’t answer my questions, he wouldn’t write out an examination, and he refused to accept my guidance.”
And yet the man that Peregrine had become could read.
“Did you like Peregrine Graham, Mr. Appleby?”
“As to that, there was little likable about the child. Mrs. Graham had warned me that I would find him difficult, a liar, and given to throwing tantrums. I was not surprised to discover that she was correct.”
“And for this reason you were able to believe that a boy who had been kept from his family for-what? Seven, eight?-years was capable of murder?”
“Miss Crawford. The boy’s father had given him a very nice pocketknife as his last birthday gift. It was a man’s knife, Peregrine’s grandfather’s-and Mr. Graham insisted that he be allowed to keep it. The boy used it incessantly-to carve any wood that came to hand, whether the table at which he sat or a bit of tree branch that he found in the garden. He wished to use it to carve his meat but was forbidden. It was taken away, but he managed to find it again, and hid it. But he took it to London with him, and that knife was in the body when it was found.”
“Yes, so I was told-”
“And his only remorse was that the knife was taken from him for good. No feeling for that pitiful young woman.”
“I’m a nurse, Mr. Appleby. I can’t believe that a pocketknife could do the sort of-butchery-that you described.”
Appleby’s face was unfriendly. “I’m not a fool, Miss Crawford. There was of course another knife, one from the kitchen, that did the butchery as you called it. But it was Peregrine’s knife in Lily Mercer’s throat that mattered. She couldn’t have screamed if she’d wanted to.”
No one had told me such details. I felt a surge of nausea but collected myself and said, “Everyone knew that this knife was a favorite of Peregrine’s-”
Appleby was on his feet.
For an instant, I thought Peregrine, also rising, was going to strike him down.
And then Peregrine had taken my arm in a firm grip and said, “Miss Crawford. You’re getting nowhere. I suggest we leave now.”
I thanked Mr. Appleby, for manners insisted that I should. But I was furious with him.
He didn’t say good-bye, nor did he see us to the door. We were outside, shutting the door behind ourselves, and standing in the street before I could say anything.
Peregrine spoke first. “I took that knife to London,” he said in a tightly controlled voice. “But I gave it to Arthur when I got there, in exchange for a promise that he would speak to his mother and ask her to allow me to go with my brothers to the Tower.”
I stared at him. “Peregrine? Are you certain?”
“I hadn’t remembered what happened to it. I saw it in Lily’s throat and wanted it back. I told you, I don’t remember much about that night. It comes in bits and pieces, like a puzzle. But I gave that knife to Arthur. I’d swear to it. On my life.”
I could feel my heart turning over in my chest. It was medically impossible, and yet I felt it.
He was a murderer. He had every reason to lie. Even Mr. Appleby had told me that Peregrine lied.
And yet-and yet. I looked into his eyes and knew he was telling me the truth.
“You’ve had years to remember this. Why now?”
“I shut it all out of my mind for years. When I refused to talk to the doctors, and they finally decided that I was mute, that shock had robbed me of my voice, they left me alone. If I couldn’t answer their questions, how could they judge my progress? They tried for the first two years to bring me to a sense of my own guilt, but I’d had that drummed into me by the London police, everyone in Owlhurst-my own family. I was dazed when they found me. I admitted to everything, to make them leave me alone. You don’t seem to understand-I could smell drying blood, it was everywhere, all over my hands, me, and I couldn’t escape it. But no one would let me wash my face or my hands. They hired a carriage and drove me back to Owlhurst, still covered in blood. I would have agreed to everything in the hope that they would let me go to my own room and shut the door.”
“You’re saying you didn’t kill her.”
“No. I’m saying that there must be more to this than I’ve remembered so far. Something happened that night. Something appalling. I can’t think why I walked into that room and killed Lily Mercer. But there must have been a reason.”
He turned to look up at the church, his face hidden from me. “I want there to be a reason. I want to believe that I didn’t suddenly run amok, striking down the first person who got in my way. What if it had been Arthur? Or Timothy? That’s madness of a different order, don’t you see?”
“It never happened before that night. Or since that night.”
He turned back to me. “Since that night, my dear Miss Crawford, I was locked in a room, put into a straitjacket to be taken to the offices where my doctors examined me, and given nothing sharper than a spoon. I was handed a sedative as soon as I’d had my tea, because my history of violence occurred at night. I couldn’t have killed again. They saw to that.”
“Did you ever want to-to kill?”
“I spent most of my childhood alone. I saw my brothers sometimes, Mr. Appleby, the housekeeper, my stepmother, Robert. And that was it. It never occurred to me to hurt them.”
“Have you felt the urge to do violence since you left the asylum?”
He smiled suddenly. “Just now. Speaking to that fool. I was afraid of him as a child. He could decide whether or not I’d deserved my dinner or was to be denied it. He could allow me to sit in the garden for an hour every afternoon, while my brothers were at their lessons, or leave me locked in my room. It was Appleby who refused to take the responsibility for me to accompany my brothers to the Tower. I heard him tell my stepmother that the night before. He was a bully, but I wasn’t to know that, was I?”
He walked on, and I hurried to catch him up. “If it had been my tutor who was found butchered, I could understand it. I would have reveled in it.”
Mr. Owens was waiting for us, stamping his feet and clapping his hands together to keep warm.
“This is a pretty town,” he said as we came up the lane and into the square. “Look at those houses, now. If old Queen Bess was to walk through here this minute, she’d feel right at home.”
Peregrine helped me into the motorcar, and then seated himself beside Mr. Owens.
“I’m sure she would,” I answered him, my mind elsewhere. The black and white buildings with their beautiful diamond-shaped windowpanes reminded me of the rectory in Owlhurst.
“It’s the oak,” he went on. “Good English oak, that’s kept them so fine. Nothing like it, I say. Would you care for a cup of tea to warm you, Miss, before we start back?”
I thanked him for his kindness and told him I was warm enough. All I wanted was to be back in London, a place I knew, where the world made sense.
We drove back down the hill, looking across the Juliberrie Downs toward Canterbury, and wove our way through the countryside toward Tonbridge. We made a stop along the way at a tiny village where the pub offered tea for me and ale for Mr. Owens. Peregrine took nothing, his face gray with fatigue. I saw Mr. Owens glance at him once or twice, concern in his eyes.
A rainstorm on the way delayed us, but we reached Tonbridge just before dusk.
After I’d settled my account with Mr. Owens, I went to my room but felt smothered there, as if the walls were closing in. A certain sign of fatigue and worry. Nevertheless I caught up my coat and went out to walk, past the boys’ school and up to the handsome gatehouse to what was once Tonbridge Castle. The gatehouse, part of the curtain wall, and a broken tower were all that was left, but I walked through and into the grounds, crossing to the cliff that looked down on the Medway and another part of the town.
I hadn’t been there long when someone came up behind me. It was nearly dark now, the dusk fading quickly in an overcast sky. I turned, and found myself face-to-face with Peregrine.
“You should be resting,” I said.
“I could say the same for you.”
We stood in silence, staring down at the lower part of the town, watching a pair of ducks paddling along the quiet river.
“Are you still afraid of me?” he asked.
“I wasn’t in Owlhurst. I was in London. You threatened Mrs. Hennessey, remember, and then any three strangers you met on your way out the door.”
“I was more afraid of you. I didn’t think you’d help me. And I needed that help. I had to trust you, and I wasn’t certain I could.”
“Would you have shot Mrs. Hennessey?”
“I’d have shot myself, I think, if the police came to take me away.”
“I haven’t had many dealings with murderers. Though there was one I knew in Rajasthan. An old man who would sometimes let me ride his camel around the market. He was hanged for killing his young wife’s lover. I didn’t know that until much later. I just wondered why he never came to market again.”
Peregrine was silent for a time. Then he said, “What next? I want to see those journals.”
“I’ve lost my nerve. I don’t want to go back to Owlhurst.” I straightened and turned back the way I’d come. Peregrine fell into step beside me.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to learn any more. About you. About Arthur. About the Graham family.”
“Arthur didn’t kill Lily Mercer. If that’s what worries you.”
But I couldn’t be sure. The way he had made me learn his message by heart-the intensity behind demanding my promise, the refusal to write anything down…It had seemed unimportant then, I’d been too worried to ask questions, prepared to do anything to bring him peace of mind at the end. The Arthur I thought I knew would have confessed, he’d have written it and had his letter witnessed, and sent it to someone-Lady Parsons? He’d have stood up to everyone and cleared Peregrine’s name.
Wouldn’t he?
Why had he told Jonathan that he’d lied? Surely Jonathan already knew about the pocketknife? And what had to be set right, if it wasn’t clearing his brother’s name?
Neither Jonathan nor his mother seemed to be disturbed by the message-that made me wonder if Arthur had tried before this to make his feelings known, and found his mother dead set against changing the status quo. That was a rather chilling thought. That they had made up their minds to ignore any protestations on Arthur’s part long before I’d appeared on the scene.
And where did Robert stand in all this?
It made sense that Mrs. Graham and Jonathan had agreed to let the matter end with Arthur’s death.
But when had she confided the truth to Jonathan? Or had it been Arthur himself?
Look, Jonathan-if anything happens to me…
No, it wouldn’t have been that way. There was too much passion in Arthur’s determination to set matters right. As Death came to collect him, he tried to clear his conscience in the only way left to him.
But when was Jonathan told the truth-and why?
All I could think of was that he’d known from the start, and said nothing.
It was more comfortable not to. Everyone looked up to Arthur, everyone called him a fine young man, even the tutor. After all, Peregrine had been found beside the body. Why look any further? Yet until the moment Peregrine had been taken to the asylum for testing, Mrs. Graham had been distraught with fear. Not for what was to become of him but because somehow the truth might slip out and wreck all her careful plans. I sighed.
Peregrine, a dark, looming shadow beside me, said, “What is it?”
“I was thinking that truth is a very illusive thing.”
He was silent for a moment, and then he answered me, his voice muffled. “I’m not sure truth exists. Perhaps we only think it does. But in reality it’s only what you believe and I believe and Mr. Owens believes-the rest is merely compromise.”
I couldn’t sleep that night. At every sound my eyes flew open and I waited-for what?
My door was locked. Peregrine couldn’t get into my room without waking half the guests on this floor. And yet I was on edge, unable to feel safe.
At one point, on the brink of slipping finally into a drowsy peace, I thought I heard Arthur calling me. It was so real my heart leapt, and I was wide awake again. That was the last straw.
It was nearly dawn by then, and I got up, dressed, and for a time walked the dark, silent streets of Tonbridge.
At one point a constable stopped me, asking if anything was the matter, if I needed help. I told him the truth-I was too troubled to sleep.
He said, “Aye, my daughter’s husband’s at the Front. I find her out and about at all hours. But mind where you go, Miss. There’s not much to worry you here, but one never can tell what’s lurking in the shadows.”
I watched the night turn into a gray dawn, I watched candles flicker into life in attics where servants dressed in the cold. I watched the milk cart making its rounds, watched as sluggard schoolboys made their way to their lessons, and then watched merchants unlock their doors and set out their goods for the day. I saw the gate of the castle rise above the mists of the river, and quiver there, like a disembodied vision.
It was nearly time for breakfast when, cold and courting sleep, I turned back to the hotel at last. I was just walking up the steps of The Checquers, when someone came bounding through the doors, nearly bowling me over.
“I beg your pardon, madam-” he started to say, and then broke off in astonishment.
Beneath the officer’s cap, above the scarf, I recognized the bandaged face of Jonathan Graham. Or to be more precise, I recognized the bandaging.
“Miss Crawford-”
“Good morning, Lieutenant Graham,” I managed to say. “How is your family?”
“My family? Yes, well enough. What-brings you back to Tonbridge?”
“A personal matter,” I replied. I wanted very much to ask him the same. We stood there, confronting each other, neither willing to give the other satisfaction.
Finally Jonathan said, “Will you be returning to Owlhurst?”
“I’ve considered it,” I said slowly. “Perhaps to call on Dr. Philips.”
The words lingered in the air like the morning mists, going nowhere.
Jonathan Graham frowned. I realized, too late, that it sounded as if I were pursuing the good doctor, a very bold thing for a single woman to do. My mother would have been appalled. I could feel my face flush as it was.
Trying to recover, I said, “We had a professional connection, in regard to Ted Booker and cases like his.”
The frown deepened.
I took the plunge. “You weren’t called at the inquest, and I can’t help but wonder why. You visited Mr. Booker, didn’t you, the night before he was found.”
I managed to make it sound like a documented fact.
“All right. Yes, I did. I felt-a fellow invalid’s compassion.”
He’d hardly shown compassion when he’d called Ted Booker a coward.
“I’ve wondered why you didn’t speak up at the inquest. It could have given all of us a clearer picture of his state of mind later in the evening.”
“I spoke to the police. I told them he was asleep when I got there. That I’d turned around and left straightaway.”
I couldn’t have said why, but I didn’t believe him.
And why had Ted Booker killed himself, if he could sleep?
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I truly believed he’d turned the corner. It’s heart wrenching, to lose a patient.”
“As you lost Arthur.”
Touché.
“Do you know when you’ll return to France?” I asked him.
“They remove the bandages tomorrow,” he said. “It should have been sooner, but there was concern about infection. Thank God, their worry was misplaced. Another week, and I’ll be declared fit.”
“I wish you well. Good-bye, Lieutenant Graham.”
I held out my hand and he shook it.
“Good-bye, Miss Crawford.”
I went upstairs and knocked on Peregrine’s door. He was dressed and shaved, preparing to meet me in the dining room for breakfast.
“Jonathan is here in this same hotel,” I told him in a low voice. “It would be best if we left for London as soon as we can find a train.”
“Jonathan?”
“Yes, he’s here to see his doctors. They expect to remove his bandages tomorrow. That means he’ll be in and out, and we’re likely to run into him.”
“I didn’t know he’d been wounded.”
“Across the face. It’s going to leave a terrible scar.”
“I’d have liked to join the army.”
“Be glad you were spared,” I said shortly. “I’ll go and see about tickets. But it might be best if you stayed here, in your room, until we’re ready to leave.”
“Jonathan won’t recognize me. Not after all these years.”
“I wouldn’t wager your freedom on it.”
“No.”
He closed his door and I went to the station, found that there were tickets for the morning train, and before Tonbridge was stirring, we were on our way back to London.
Once on the train, I drew a sigh of relief. It wouldn’t have done for Jonathan Graham to find me with Peregrine. It was dawning on me that the cost of helping this man could well be my reputation. Was there a law forbidding aiding a desperate fugitive from an asylum? I shuddered to think.
As we were nearing London, Peregrine opened his eyes and turned to me.
“Will your friend be at the flat?”
“Diana?” I felt a chill. “I-don’t know. Why?”
“She’s very pretty.”
Oh, dear.
He was saying, “The only women I’ve seen for nearly fifteen years are other inmates and matrons. I’ve noticed too how the world has left me behind. The women are dressed very differently, there are more men in uniform than in civilian clothes-only the very old and the very young aren’t, in fact. There are more automobiles, and very different ones at that. And this morning, while I was waiting for you, there was a flight of aeroplanes I could see from my window. I feel like a stranger in my own country. It’s daunting, frightening, and fascinating, all in one.”
I could imagine. Peregrine had managed remarkably well. I was beginning to realize the tragedy of his childhood. Mrs. Graham had done a cruel thing, whether out of maliciousness or out of an honest belief that he was different, I couldn’t tell. Mr. Appleby had aided and abetted her treatment of Peregrine, the fault was surely not entirely hers.
We were arriving in London. Back in the crowded, anonymous world of people who had things on their minds other than spotting my companion and taking him back to his jailers.
How do you make up for a lost life? I couldn’t think of a way.
Diana was delighted to see us, demanding to borrow Peregrine for an hour that evening, to escort her to a dinner party. He flatly refused, and she was hurt, saying to me later, “He’s the most attractive male I’ve seen in weeks, and the only whole one as well.”
“I’ve promised to see that he doesn’t overdo. Next visit, he’ll be well on his way to recovery.”
“I think you merely want to keep him for yourself.”
I laughed. Little did she know. But I didn’t want a blossoming romance on Diana’s side or any temptation on Peregrine’s. After all, by his own admission he’d killed one young woman. Whether it was true or not.
There was a knock at the door, and I went to open it, thinking that Elayne must be back and had forgot her key again. She’d find a man in her bed. But knowing Elayne, she’d be amused and not angry.
It was my father standing there on the threshold, concern on his face.
“I came to see you yesterday. Your mother was worried. Your friend told me that you’d gone to Kent. Back to Owlhurst?”
My mouth had dropped open at the sight of him. I shut it. Over my shoulder, Diana said, “Ah. I forgot to tell you that your father was in town.”
My father smiled. “I can see that you did. Er-am I to wait on the threshold, or am I allowed into your flat?”
“Come in, of course,” I said, but one part of my mind was praying that Peregrine, hearing a male voice, would stay where he was, in Elayne’s room. All my father had to see was that uniform, and Peregrine would be finished. “Is Mama with you?”
The Colonel Sahib stepped in, his frame filling the room in a way I hadn’t remembered before.
Guilty conscience, a voice in my head pointed out.
“She’s at home. I needed to be in London for a few hours and wanted to ask if you’d decided to come home again. We could travel together.”
I said in a distracted way, “I’m thinking of staying on a few more days.”
“Do you feel your social calendar might accommodate an elderly relative desirous of your company at lunch?”
I smiled in relief. “If the elderly relative is my father-of course.”
For an instant I thought he was about to ask Diana to join us. But she said, “I’ve things to do to get myself ready. Go, and leave me to see to them.”
And then I was instantly suspicious. Had she and the Colonel planned this between them?
I said, “Let me fetch my coat,” and all but ran to my room. I found paper and pen, jotted a brief message for Peregrine, telling him that I’d be back as quickly as I could, and was ushering my father out the door in short order.