A Cruel Deception Page 10

  “So the question is, why was he in that wood, and not on his farm?”

  “Indeed, my dear.” He closed a file on his desk and slipped it into a drawer. Then he peered at me over his glasses and said, “We are speaking of Lawrence Minton, are we not? Rather than a poor farmer?”

  I had to smile, but it was rueful one. “I didn’t know how much of his history you knew.”

  “His mother was concerned about the problem with memory. She consulted me, uncertain whether or not the Army doctors were well enough trained in the subject to help him. But as time went by, and there were no additional problems, it was assumed that he was all right. Would be all right in the future. Some memory loss is not unusual in traumatic wounds.”

  “Yes, I understand that. But I don’t know the details of his case. I can’t judge what he might not have remembered.”

  “There was a brief lull in the retreat down the coast road. Well, lull is perhaps not the right word. The pressure was lifted in one sector as the Germans pushed hard against another. It was discovered that he was missing. At first it was thought he might have been taken by the Germans, but several of his men had seen him the night before, and that precluded being captured. Several days passed, his men were put under the command of another officer, and he was simply listed as missing. Then he was found in a house well north of where he’d been seen last. A beam had collapsed on him, there were other injuries, and for several days he couldn’t give anyone his name. You must remember the chaos at the time. Here was an Englishman, but he couldn’t answer any questions about what had happened. Some idiot of an officer decided he must be a German spy, but his men were continuing to look for him, and one of them discovered him in hospital. The next question was, had he deserted, but since he was discovered where the fighting had been most intense, that didn’t fit the situation either. But Lawrence couldn’t explain how or why he had got there. He returned to duty several weeks later, and there was nothing in his subsequent service that in any way caused alarm. It was decided that his men had been mistaken about when they’d last seen him, given the pressures of the retreat.”

  “Did anyone question them more closely? Afterward?”

  Dr. Moreau looked at me. “It appears that they admitted to some confusion, under the circumstances.”

  In short, they had covered up any doubts.

  “They must have cared about him, to do that.”

  “He got them through a very difficult time. I expect they admired him and were grateful.”

  I knew the Army perhaps better than he did. Lawrence Minton’s men had lied to protect him.

  From what?

  “How is Lawrence handling these nightmares?” the doctor was asking. He’d taken off his spectacles and was polishing them with a silk handkerchief.

  “Not well. He doesn’t understand them—the reason for them, anyway—and so he tries to find ways to stop them.”

  “Alcohol? Opiates?”

  For some reason I found I didn’t want to talk about the laudanum laced with an emetic.

  “Last night it was wine.”

  He nodded. “He will need something stronger. Brandy, perhaps.”

  “I don’t know if there is any available.”

  “It’s best that I see him. Sooner rather than later.”

  “He won’t come. You are close to his mother.”

  “But doctors are not talebearers.”

  I remembered that he hadn’t told me why Major Webb had come to him.

  But would Lawrence Minton believe me if I told him he could trust the doctor?

  “I will do what I can.”

  “Yes. I’m sure. Thank you for confiding in me. Now we must adjourn for our luncheon or my wife will scold us.” He made to rise.

  “There’s something you should know. I warned you about a Major Webb—that he might come here to ask questions about me. He has rooms in the same house as Lieutenant Minton. It might be best if you say nothing to him about knowing the Lieutenant.”

  Surprised, he said, “But he didn’t ask about you, my dear. Or mention Lawrence at all. He came to see me about an old war wound. A knee. There has been some weakness there of late, and he didn’t care to bring it to the attention of the Regiment’s surgeon. I gave him something to rub on it at night, and some exercises that might help.” He considered that for a moment, then added thoughtfully, “I wonder if that is why he chose to come here. To me.”

  I was sure that was the reason. How many physicians were there in Paris? And yet Major Webb had chosen the one I had mentioned to him only a few days ago.

  I said, “At the moment, Lawrence Minton is very fragile. I found him quite by accident, and I could lose him again as easily.”

  “I will take good care that the Major learns nothing from me. You may be sure of that.”

  And I believed him. But I was still quite concerned about the Major’s reasons for coming here. If there had been a sound excuse, surely he’d have acknowledged me?

  Hallo, Sister, you’d mentioned Dr. Moreau—and I’d been considering finding a doctor to look at my knee . . .

  It was as ridiculous as it sounded. What then was he doing here?

  We walked back into the house, and Madame Moreau glanced from me to her husband as we walked into the dining room, and then said, “Secrets, my dear?”

  He laughed. “Hardly. Unless you have a sudden interest in gallstones.”

  She made a face. “Not at the table.”

  It was an excellent meal. A parsnip and dried apple soup to begin, fish for the main course, potatoes boiled with herbs, a carrot soufflé, as well as the ubiquitous bread. Madame Moreau apologized for it, all the same.

  “Vegetables are not at their best this time of year. But we have made do.”

  I thought of the meals that Marina and I had had to create with whatever we could find in a village shop. But I complimented her on her skill at making do. There was a custard of eggs and milk to finish with a little sherry to flavor it, and I thought I might be able to duplicate it for Marina.

  I had to leave soon after, and quickly found a taxi to take me to the British Embassy, where I asked if they might know where my father was staying.

  The secretary who came down to assist me was missing an arm, that sleeve of his coat pinned up to hide the cuff. He was very helpful, gave me the address of an hotel not far from the embassy, and found me a taxi to go there.

  Much to my dismay—I’d counted on seeing him—my father was in a meeting, and it was not expected to break up for another two hours. It would mean missing my train back to St. Ives if I waited.

  “I’m his daughter. May I leave a letter for him?”

  Again, the staff was very helpful, and I was soon ensconced at a small table in the lounge, supplied with pen and paper and ink, and left to write my message.

  How to begin? After several false starts, I gave him to understand that I was not presently staying with the Moreau family, but had been concerned about a young officer who had suddenly begun to have nightmares long after his wounds had been healed. This, I wrote, was of concern, and I needed to know more about the wound to his head that had occurred in the retreat from Mons at the start of the war. Then I gave him all the particulars I knew, and asked him to write to me in care of Dr. Moreau. I had closed the envelope and was addressing it when I felt that someone was watching me.

  I glanced around the small lounge, saw no one, then noticed Major Webb by the stairs to the upper floors, one hand on the newel post. Rising above his head was a golden cupid balanced on one foot, with a lovely little bow and arrow in his chubby hands.

  I nodded in acknowledgment, carried my letter and the other things to the desk, thanking the clerk as I passed him the ink and pen and the rest of the stationery. I said, keeping my voice low, “There’s a letter with the stationery. Will you see that it’s put in the hands of Colonel Richard Crawford, and no one else?”

  The clerk smiled. “With the greatest pleasure, Mademoiselle.” He had se
en the edge of the bank note that accompanied the letter. Pocketing that quite smoothly, letting the letter fall into the open drawer as he put away the extra stationery, he added, “That officer by the stairs. Is he annoying you? I have observed that he has stood there watching for several minutes.”

  “Thank you for noticing. His is not an acquaintance I care to renew.”

  “Understood. Shall I have the doorman find a taxi for you?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He pushed something under the edge of the desk, and while we talked, he kept an eye on the main door. The doorman stepped in, nodded to him, and I was escorted to the door and into a taxi.

  As I pulled away, I saw Major Webb step out of the hotel doors and say something to the doorman. The man shrugged in Gallic fashion, as if he knew nothing.

  And then we were in the swirl of traffic, and I told the driver where I wished to go.

  Major Webb had every reason to be at the hotel where some of the delegates to the convention would be staying, but it was still more of a coincidence than I was ready to believe in, after he’d also appeared at Dr. Moreau’s surgery this noon. He had ignored me there, and at the hotel had not approached, although he’d questioned the doorman as I left.

  I wondered why. And the only answers I could think of were not to my liking.

  I found a shop with a little better selection of vegetables and another scrawny chicken, bought a holder to carry them in, and reached the Gare just in time to make my train. Several people in the carriage eyed my purchases, but they said nothing.

  It was a little distance to the Lascelles house, and by the time I was nearly there, my purchases weighed like iron bars. I was happy to reach the door—and to my surprise, I found it locked. No one answered my summons in spite of the sharp rap I gave the brass knocker with my free hand.

  I tried again.

  Finally someone came, and I could hear the latch lifting.

  The door swung open. Marina stood there, frightened and shaking.

  “Quickly!” she whispered urgently. “Don’t let him hear you.”

  I gave her the holdall and stepped inside, quietly closing and locking the door.

  “Where is he?”

  “In your room.” She cast a terrified glance over her shoulder, then hurried down the passage to the kitchen, the holdall clasped tightly in both hands.

  I ran up the stairs, walked as quietly as I could down the passage, and paused, listening, at my door.

  It sounded as if he had been destroying everything inside.

  I opened the door to find Lawrence in trousers and shirt, barefoot, standing on my bed and trying to catch the pigeon desperately circling the room but hampered by his injured wing.

  “What is the meaning of this?” I demanded in Matron’s sternest tones.

  Caught off guard, he stared at me as if he was having trouble focusing on my face, and at the same time he was struggling with his footing on the mattress.

  “Dinner,” he said, making another lunge for the bird, and nearly going headfirst off the bed.

  “That is not dinner,” I told him harshly. “Now get out of my room.”

  “It’s not your room. It’s Marina’s. Well. Her father’s.”

  I realized looking at him that he was so drunk he was barely able to keep his balance.

  A feather floated down from the frightened bird. It was white, and it brushed against Lawrence’s face as it passed.

  The change in him was dramatic. He brushed frantically at his face, trying to dislodge the feather, but it had already floated down to the blanket, a white spot on the dark blue.

  “No!” Completely losing his balance, still brushing at his face, he pitched forward.

  Thinking only that he mustn’t have another concussion, I rushed forward, trying to break his fall. He was flailing wildly as he realized his danger, and as I reached for him, his weight hit me, knocking the breath out of me, and we both struck the floor hard.

  I struggled out from under him as he attempted to scramble to his feet, and as soon as I was free, I slapped him across the face.

  It not only startled him, coming so unexpectedly, but it also focused his gaze. Sobering him just enough to let him hear me.

  “I—sorry—I’m sorry,” he said, rising to his knees and then struggling to stand.

  Overhead, the pigeon was still swooping, trying to find a safe place to land.

  “Get out,” I said, pointing at the door. “Now.”

  He gestured toward the bird. “Marina came to bring fresh towels—”

  “It’s a homing pigeon. An Army messenger. Get out.” I hadn’t thought to tell her not to come in. It was my fault.

  Lawrence brushed at his cheek again, more a reflex action than an effort to dislodge the feather. “The war is over,” he told me.

  “What I do about that bird is my affair. Not yours.”

  As he made an effort to start toward the door, his feet got tangled in the bedding that had come off the bed with him as he fell, and he put out a hand, catching the nightstand, nearly knocking over the lamp. He fumbled to right it, then lifted his feet with the excessive care of a drunkard, and stumbled to the door.

  I was angry with him, not for my sake as much as for the poor bird’s, and I slammed the door almost on his heels.

  The frightened pigeon kept circling for several more minutes, then fluttered down to his box, too anxious to settle. I stayed where I was, by the hearth, making calming sounds, telling him softly that there was nothing to fear

  He jerked his head, blinking his eyes. But after a bit he calmed down enough that I could pull the scarf over the box.

  As tired as he was, I found the overturned chair, righted it, and then lit the lamp.

  I was just sitting down when there was a tap at the door. I crossed the room to open it, not wishing to ask anyone to come in.

  It was Lawrence, quite hangdog and decidedly even more sober.

  “I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you? Are you all right?”

  “I am fine, no thanks to you. Go away.”

  He nodded, turned, and walked off down the passage.

  I closed my door. My shoulders were hurting where they had hit the floor with his weight pinning me there. And one hip smarted as well. But no harm done, I thought. Nothing broken, although there might be a few bruises here and there tomorrow. I hoped Lawrence found a few also.

  Sitting down, I said to the pigeon, quiet now, “I’m so sorry.” And realized that I had echoed Lawrence Minton.

  Chapter 6

  I WOKE UP just as dawn was breaking, and I couldn’t go back to sleep, try as I would. Longing for a cup of tea, I got up and dressed as quickly as I could, washing my face in cold water and shoving my feet into cold shoes. I had forgot to put them on the bed last night.

  The house was quiet as I let myself out of my room and walked toward the stairs. I was almost there when I heard a swearing and a thumping coming from below. It was still dark and shadowy in the hall, but when I reached the head of the stairs, I could see Lawrence Minton crouched on the next-to-last step, leaning out, struggling with the heaped edges of the hall carpet. He appeared to be shoving it away, pushing at it as if he loathed it, jamming it down against the floor with some force as it seemed to writhe under his hands.

  And then he fought to bring the carpet up to him, where he squatted, grasping at it with both hands, only to lose it at one end even as he worked to gather up the other. Frantic, desperate, he clutched at the rug, moaning to himself as he fought for control of something I couldn’t see—but that he saw all too clearly.

  I watched him for several seconds, undecided about what to do. How long had he been there? But if he was sleepwalking, it would not be wise to startle him. At the same time, he was in such a state that I wasn’t sure what would happen if I left him to snap out of it himself.

  An armful of carpet clutched to his chest, he lowered his head and began to rock this way and that, back and forth, the moaning rising and falling, a
man in the throes of despair.

  I was about to risk quietly calling out to him, when he lost his footing on the stair and began to fall toward the floor. The mound of carpet stopped him, and he jerked as if shot.

  “God forgive me.”

  I could barely make out the words, his voice was so choked.

  I stepped back into the shadows as he became aware of where he was. Looking around, still more dazed than awake but gradually taking note of his surroundings, he got unsteadily to his feet. The rug almost tripped him up, and he stared down at the crumpled heap, as if he’d never seen it before. Kicking it out of his way, he stumbled toward the parlor door and got through it somehow before shutting it behind him.

  Even after I had heard the door shut and could see—barely—that the hall was empty, I stayed where I was.

  The question racing through my mind was, What had Lawrence Minton intended to do with that carpet? It was, I thought, close to six by nine feet. Far too cumbersome to carry anywhere—one usually rolled such a carpet, and lifted it between two people or raised it to the shoulder of one person.

  One usually rolled such a carpet . . .

  I tried to bring back the image of what I’d seen. It was oddly familiar to a nursing Sister.

  The way he was struggling with the carpet, it was almost as if he was trying to manage a body, to lift it and move it, without help. As if it had been a surrogate for the way a body flailed about, the muscles relaxed and no longer in the control of the mind. Before rigor set in.

  It was a chilling thought. Was that truly what I’d just witnessed?

  And afterward—when he’d pulled the rug toward him, holding it fiercely as he rocked and moaned. As if he had been in the throes of grief. Or regret.