A Cruel Deception Read online

  Dedication

  FOR:

  Mommy Kitty, so tiny, so pretty, so strong in spirit,

  who survived so much before finding a home and

  the love she so deserved. Love she gave back

  for seventeen wonderful years and left her paw print

  on our hearts forever. God bless her!

  Mark McLucas, whose heart failed him too soon,

  and yet it was his kind heart that endeared him

  to those who cared about him. He was an artist,

  a lover of all things Harley, a lover of dogs

  including his wonderful Jenny, who was with him

  to the very end. A father who loved his young children

  and fast cars and movies. Who left no mark

  on this world, and yet who left it

  a kinder and better place for having been in it.

  May he find peace at last . . .

  Jackson, so beautifully marked, a bashful giant,

  a veritable lapful, who offered love and loyalty

  and a wonderful spirit to the very end.

  Who found his forever home,

  alas without his brother, Jesse,

  and had his own special place

  in two big people’s lives.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  About the Author

  Also by Charles Todd

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  England, Late March, 1919

  I WAS CHANGING the surgical dressing on a patient in Ward 3 when Matron sent for me.

  For some weeks now I’d been posted to a clinic in Wiltshire, for surgical cases like this abdomen. A piece of shrapnel missed in earlier surgeries had worked its way into the colon and caused a massive infection. Sergeant Higgins had been recovering well when this happened, but Dr. Johnson had done a marvelous piece of surgery to locate a source of the infection. It had almost been too late. Another few hours and the infection would have spread to the abdominal lining.

  I finished what I was doing, smiled at the drowsy Sergeant, and handed my patient over to Sister Newman. “That should do for now,” I said, and went to wash my hands before going down to Matron’s tiny ground-floor office.

  She was writing a letter when I knocked, and I stood quietly by the door until she’d finished it.

  When she did look up, she frowned, and I felt suddenly like a schoolgirl who’d been caught in some mischief. As far as I knew, I’d done nothing wrong, but her frown had the power to make a saint feel guilty. It was one of her best weapons against carelessness and stupid mistakes.

  “You’ve had a remarkable career until now, Sister Crawford,” she began. “Have you given any thought to the future?”

  Oh, dear—!

  “There’s still much to be done for the wounded,” I replied. How very unoriginal! But it was all I could think to say.

  She nodded, looking down now at what must be my file. “London headquarters has asked for someone capable, discreet, and able to act independently. I’ve considered my staff, and you strike me as the most suitable candidate.”

  Worse than I thought! I was being considered for a training post in London. My spirits plummeted. Last week Sister Caldwell had been persuaded to return to the hospital where she had done her own training, to teach probationers. I wasn’t sure she was happy about that, but she had taken it philosophically, telling the rest of us in the ward that it was an honor to be asked. But I didn’t want to teach. I wanted to continue to work with the wounded who still needed skilled care. Like Sergeant Higgins.

  She was waiting for a response.

  “Yes, Matron?”

  “Would you consider traveling up to London to speak directly with the person making this request?”

  “If you think it best.” What else could I answer? Although I wouldn’t mind a few days’ leave in my old flat at Mrs. Hennessey’s, the question was, how was I going to convince London—politely—that I’d prefer to return to a clinic?

  “I do,” she said, and nodded as if satisfied with her decision. Looking down again at the letter and the other papers on her blotter, she added, “Say nothing of this, if you please, to anyone else. But be prepared to leave at six tomorrow morning. Take your full kit with you, as it is unlikely that you’ll be returning to us. You are relieved of your present duties and can hand your patients over to one of the other Sisters. If anyone asks, you’ve been granted a brief leave.”

  “Yes, Matron.” I had heard speculation that the Queen Alexandra’s was considering what to do about the hundreds of new nursing Sisters trained in the early months of the war. They couldn’t possibly find positions for all of us, even though quite a few, like my former flat mate Diana, had resigned at the end of February, in order to be married.

  I really hadn’t thought about my own future. I’d been too busy with the wounded who hadn’t gone home at war’s end. Men like Sergeant Higgins or Private Tomkins, who were still in clinics like this one. They deserved the gratitude of their country.

  I realized that Matron was still giving me instructions. “There will be a car waiting for you tomorrow morning. And may I add, the very best of luck to you, Sister.”

  “Thank you, Matron. I shall be sorry to leave this clinic.”

  “We are sorry to lose you. Good-bye, Sister.”

  I was dismissed.

  Outside the door, I took a deep breath and tried to think what I’d done that had made Matron so eager to be rid of me.

  But there was no time to dwell on that. Six o’clock would come soon enough.

  By the time I’d stepped out of the motorcar that had been my transport from the railway station, and walked up the steps to the Queen Alexandra’s headquarters in London, I had marshaled every argument I could think of to stay on the active-duty roster. They seemed lamentably thin, given how very many we were. The staff could choose from the finest.

  Putting on the best face I could, and remembering my great-great-great-grandmother who watched my great-great-great-grandfather hurry off to stop Napoleon at Waterloo, I opened the door.

  This could very well be my Waterloo.

  I was surprised to find myself expected and ushered directly into the office of the Chief of Nursing. I had met her once before, when we had finished our training and she had come to congratulate us and wish us Godspeed to France.

  This wasn’t the same person. One of her assistants?

  She was an older woman, with a stern expression and gray streaks in her brown hair. And nearly as formidable. I could feel a sense of doom falling over me.

  But she smiled as I entered and said, “Sister Crawford reporting, Matron.”

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, Sister. I knew your father out in India. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I was happy to see your name at the top of my list.”

  “If it’s for a teaching position—” I began, but she cut me short.

  “Were you not told why you volunteered?”

  Volunteered?

  “No, Matron. Just that I was to report here today.”

  She smiled but it was with a great sadness, I thought, not humor. “You must be thinking this is some cloak-and-dagger assignment.”

  Looking away for a moment, she paused, and I braced myself for dismiss
al from the Service.

  “No, I’m afraid the truth is rather simple and rather embarrassing. My son is in Paris for the peace talks, and I’m worried about him. He was wounded last October, and he hasn’t really been well since. He’s assured me for weeks that he was recovered and was busy attending discussions at the Peace Conference—he’s attached to the staff of one of our delegates. And then a friend who has just returned from Paris informed me that over the past few weeks, he’s not been in attendance at any of the meetings. I could ask through channels—but if he’s in some sort of trouble, it would finish his career. He’s staying in the Army, you see. Your father’s old regiment.”

  “You fear that he’s had a relapse?” During the war that was one of our concerns—a man who tried to persuade us he was able to return to active duty, when he was not. But this would surely explain why she needed a nursing Sister.

  She faced me again. “Not in the usual sense. I have reason to believe it isn’t his wound that’s troubling him.” And I saw that it wasn’t an easy admission for her to make.

  “If he’s well—if he’s fully recovered—it might be more helpful to send a friend rather than a Sister.” And then I wished I could take back my words. All at once, it occurred to me that it might be something else we always worried about. A drug dependency from all the medications we’d have to give a severely wounded man.

  Some change in my expression must have told her I’d guessed. And yet she couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

  “I would like you to find him, assess his condition, and report to me. If there is a medical issue, I can see that he’s given the proper care in the proper place.” She hesitated. “If the war were still on, I wouldn’t spare you for such a personal task. Your skills would be needed elsewhere. But we are not short of nurses, now, and I am told you are—discreet. As well, you are familiar with the Army.”

  I could interpret that to mean that she was desperate to know what was wrong and had nowhere else to turn. She could depend on a Sister to keep her observations to herself and report them to a superior. To her, not the Army.

  “Would it not be possible for you to take leave yourself?”

  She took a deep breath. “My appearance would draw—attention. Speculation. I’m not sure that’s the wisest course at present. And my son would resent my interference.” A wry smile flicked across her face and was gone. “He’s rather like his father, you see, and he feels he’s long since out of leading strings and a Nanny. But this might not be something he can deal with on his own.”

  She was right, a drug dependency too often wasn’t.

  I could hardly refuse her. I could tell how worried she was—even to send for me took far more courage than she wanted me to see.

  “I expect you will need little more than a few days of—leave—to make a brief visit to Paris and return.” She looked away. “Of course, if you need more time . . .”

  Images from my last visit to Paris suddenly came welling up from my memory. Wartime then, with everyone trying to make do with bread that tasted of sawdust, meat that was gray, and coffee that barely deserved the name. Soldiers everywhere, and the German guns still far too close for comfort. Women in handsome gowns, laughing and pretending all was well. Had the city recovered? Apparently I’d soon find out for myself.

  “Let’s hope it won’t require more than that.” I summoned a smile, although I was already wondering what sort of news I would bring her. There could be any number of reasons why her son was in trouble, and not all of them good. What’s more, I wasn’t certain he’d welcome having his mother send someone to spy on him. That would be how he saw it. After all, he had been through the war, he’d consider himself his own man now. Had she thought about these possibilities?

  I was casting about for a polite way to ask when she interrupted me.

  “Then you’ll go?” she said, striving to hide the eagerness I could see in her eyes.

  I knew now how Sister Caldwell must have felt, after she’d been talked into teaching: cornered. Resigned to what Matron proposed. But if I could finish this affair successfully, it might go a long way to earning me more clinical duty instead. That wasn’t selfishness. It was my belief that I could offer more skills working with the wounded than I could ever do as a teacher.

  “Yes, Matron. I’ll be happy to do what I can.”

  There was relief now, replacing the eagerness, as she tried to hold back tears.

  “This will not go on your record—it’s leave, after all. But I shall see that you are rewarded, Sister Crawford, for your kindness.”

  Still, I felt a surge of guilt, as if she’d read my thoughts.

  She was handing me several sheets from a file open in front of her.

  “These are the papers you will need to travel, and here’s my son’s address as well. Look them over and then I’ll put your name in the blanks.”

  I did as she asked. Travel documents, letters showing that I was on official business, even a letter of credit allowing me to draw whatever funds I might need from an account on a French bank. An envelope containing English pounds and French francs. Tickets for the crossing and for trains. An introduction to a French doctor in Paris. Even a photograph of her son, so that I could recognize him. It was that last that worried me. I began to wonder if she suspected more than I’d realized.

  “I’m sure I won’t require half of these, but I appreciate your concern for me.”

  “You may tell anyone who asks that you’re conducting a survey for me. Conditions in the remaining clinics, and so on. And that I’ve given you a few days of leave in Paris to visit an old friend of ours who has survived the war. That shouldn’t arouse any suspicions at this stage. I would be remiss if I didn’t send messages to my son about friends of his who are home now.” She shook her head. “So sadly few. Well. It will have to do.” She passed another letter to me.

  I returned the documents to her, and she filled in my name in all the proper places.

  When we had finished our business and I was preparing to leave, she thanked me again. And as I opened the door, she added, “Sister Crawford?”

  “Yes, Matron?”

  “May I say, you are your father’s daughter.”

  It was a compliment of the highest order.

  “Thank you, Matron. I am proud to be his daughter.”

  And then I was in the passage again, wondering just what I’d got myself into.

  I went to Mrs. Hennessey’s house, and she was delighted to see me.

  At the start of the war, she’d converted her large and spacious home into flats for nurses like me undergoing the rigorous Queen Alexandra’s training program, and we had kept them for a pied-à-terre whenever we were on leave in London and didn’t have enough time to travel on to our homes. I’d kept mine at war’s end, since I was still in the service. Diana had married, but Mary and Lady Elspeth had kept their rooms as well. It still was frowned on for a woman to stay in an hotel alone, but even that was changing with the times. We’d left too many men in the muddy fields of Flanders and France.

  Mrs. Hennessey and I caught up on news over her precious hoard of tea, and she asked if I had leave and intended to go to Somerset. I told her that I was going to Paris on official business but expected to be back in a few days.

  We pressed all my uniforms, packed them in a valise rather than my kit, and then I had dinner with my mother in one of our favorite restaurants.

  I’d sent my parents a telegram to let them know I’d be in London, ostensibly for a brief bit of leave, and so I was rather surprised when the familiar motorcar pulled up in front of Mrs. Hennessey’s door and only my mother stepped out.

  She smiled. “We might as well be back in the war, darling. The Colonel Sahib is busy with something or other that he can’t talk about, and Simon has disappeared into the heather in Scotland. At least that’s what I gathered from his note.”

  My father had been called back from his early retirement to help with the war effort, and most of th
e time we had no idea where he was or even if he was safe.

  Simon Brandon, my father’s former Regimental Sergeant-Major, had been recalled as well, and he’d often been involved in training recruits. There had been secret work too. What that was I was never sure, but I’d guessed from various comments afterward that he had been behind enemy lines more than once. I do know he’d appeared and disappeared, sometimes without a word, even in France. And he seemed to relish the action, but he’d also been wounded a time or two, once quite seriously. That had worried my father, who often treated Simon like the son he’d never had. My mother was quite fond of him as well, and he would do anything for her.

  Simon had lied about his age and joined the Army shortly before my father’s regiment was posted to India, and I’d always thought he must have lost his own parents very early, to have so readily adopted us as his family. I’d never heard him mention them or any other relatives. My earliest memory of him was walking into my father’s study one afternoon in India, as Simon, tall, rebellious, and resentful, was being dressed down by my father. Five minutes later, as penance for some infraction, he was ordered to escort the Major’s little daughter to another child’s birthday party. And I’d wanted my father to take me there. We rode away as enemies—and came back tentative friends.

  “Oh, dear. I expect it’s the two of us for dinner, then.” I followed her back to the motorcar, and got in next to her. She was quite an experienced driver, and as she smoothly pulled out into the evening traffic, I added, “What’s happening in Scotland?”

  My mother cast me a look that I interpreted as putting a good face on doubt. “I’m not quite sure. I asked Richard about that, but he didn’t seem to know, either. Simon has been broody lately. We haven’t seen much of him, even though he’s been in the cottage these past few weeks.”

  “That’s not like him,” I commented, thinking about it. His cottage was just beyond the wood at the bottom of our garden. Close enough that he’d often come up to dine with my parents.

  “Iris told me the other morning that he must have a lassie up in Scotland.”

  Iris was our maid, and she’d been with the family forever, keeping up the house in Somerset when my father was posted abroad, taking my mother and me with him.