An Unmarked Grave Page 5

  I didn’t want anyone with me while I spoke to Julia.

  “Humor me, Sister,” he said, reading my expression all too clearly. “It will give me peace of mind to know you are well protected should any problems arise. Matron would not enjoy informing your father that we have misplaced you or injured you on our watch.”

  Reviewing the patients I had come to know, I cast about for a suitable escort. But Dr. Gaines had already made up his mind.

  “Take the Yank with you. He’s impatient, trying to push his recovery. An outing of this sort will do him good. And he’s presentable enough. You needn’t worry about upsetting the family.”

  The last person I wished to have with me.

  But it was clear that I shouldn’t be allowed to take the motorcar at all, if I insisted on going alone. And there weren’t many patients, for that matter, well enough to accompany me. I tried to put as good a face on it as possible and thanked him for the use of his vehicle.

  And so it was that Thomas Barclay and I set out for Nether Thornton in early afternoon. Captain Barclay was in good spirits, glad to be free of Longleigh House for even a few hours.

  “My father’s great-grandfather was English,” he said happily, as if this forged a bond between us.

  “A great many Americans have English forebears,” I replied repressively, turning out of the drive onto the main road. “After all, it was once a British colony, was it not?”

  “There are Germans living in Michigan,” he informed me. “Lutherans, most of them. I find it hard sometimes to think that the Germans I’m ordered to shoot aren’t their cousins or former neighbors. When we take prisoners, I can’t tell the difference.”

  I too had met Germans who were not the ogres of the popular press. “Yes, I understand. My father told me once that nations are often at war, but people are not.”

  “A wise man, your father. Army, is he?”

  “Yes. His regiment was sent to India shortly after I was born, and my parents took me with them. I was educated there, rather than being sent home to school. I’m very grateful to them for that decision.”

  “I’d been to Canada, of course, but otherwise I was never out of the States until I sailed for France. Still, I’ve traveled widely in my own country. My father saw to that. He had many interests in railroads and shipping, and my mother and I went with him as often as not. I know Charleston and New Orleans, San Francisco and New York, Denver and Boston. Ever been to America?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Well, when the war is over, you’re invited to visit. My mother and sisters would like you. They’d take you to Mackinac Island. You’d explore on horseback, sit on the famous veranda to watch the sunset over Lake Michigan, and have a real English tea in the lobby. I think you’d enjoy that.”

  “Thank you.”

  He was relaxing in his seat now, and I realized that he’d been quite tense after we’d reached the main road, waiting for me to overturn the motorcar on a curve or run us into one of the high walls in the surrounding villages. Smiling, I said, “I do drive well. I was taught by Simon Brandon, who never does anything by halves.”

  “You must have been,” he replied, grinning sheepishly. “Neither of my sisters drives.” There was a pause, and then he asked, “Who is Simon Brandon?”

  “A family friend,” I said, not wishing to go into the whole of my relationship with Simon. He had been my father’s batman when he first joined the regiment, and later rose to the post of Regimental Sergeant-Major. He and my father had always been close, despite the difference in their ages, for Simon was nearer to mine than to his. I had known him all my life. He lived in a cottage near our house in Somerset, and like my father, retired from active duty, he was often employed by the War Office in matters that were never discussed. They disappeared for hours or even days at a time, came home weary, sometimes bloody, and often grim.

  “From the way you said that, he must be more than simply a family friend,” he pointed out.

  I turned to him. “Are you jealous, Captain?”

  I expected him to deny it, but he said slowly, “I think I am.”

  We drove in silence the rest of the way to Nether Thornton, and on the outskirts I said, “I’m here to call on Mrs. Carson. Her husband was killed recently.” I explained the connection and was casting about, trying to think of a kind way to ask him not to come in with me, when he solved the problem himself.

  “Then you don’t want a stranger underfoot. Just ahead-the pub, The Pelican. Drop me there. Just don’t forget to retrieve me when you’re ready to go back to Longleigh House.”

  I smiled, grateful. “I shan’t forget. Dr. Gaines would be furious if I lost my minder. And I should like to borrow the motorcar again.”

  “Anytime, Sister. Just ask me.” He paused. “Can you use the crank? Or would you prefer that I come to fetch you? Either way, I shan’t say a word to the good doctor.”

  “Thank you, but I can manage,” I assured him. The Colonel Sahib had taught me the safe way to use a crank.

  I drew up halfway along the High Street, setting the Captain down in front of the handsome half-timbered pub. He had more difficulty descending from the motorcar than he’d had getting into it. I looked away as he struggled, knowing he wouldn’t take kindly to an offer of help. Finally, standing straight, his cane in his hand, he said, “I’ll be as sober as a judge whenever you come for me. You needn’t worry.” And with that he walked in front of the motorcar and entered the pub. I was beginning to learn how much effort such bravado required on his part. And the cost in pain.

  I drove on through the center of the village and to the house close by the church where the Major had lived after his marriage.

  Leaving the motorcar by the front gate, I walked up to the door. Black silk draped the knocker, and I let it fall gently against the brass plate.

  After a moment the door was opened by Tessie, who had been with the family from the time of their marriage. Tall and rawboned and kind, she said, “Miss Crawford! It’s so good to see you. Mrs. Carson will be delighted that you’ve come. Are you feeling stronger? You look quite yourself, you know.”

  “And I am.” I explained about the clinic as she ushered me inside and down the passage to the sitting room.

  Julia rose from her desk as I came in, exclaiming as Tessie had done and coming to embrace me. “I’m so happy to see you. How are you? Your father told me you’d had quite a severe bout with this terrible illness.”

  “I was one of the lucky ones,” I responded. “It quite ravaged France.”

  “Come, sit down. Tessie will bring us tea. I was glad that Vincent died quickly. We also lost our cook to the influenza, and it was a terrible death. Nineteen people died here in Nether Thornton, and we were told we had only a mild outbreak. But we were warned that it could return because of that. The possibility doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  We sat and reminisced for a bit, and then when the tea was brought in, she said, “I thought my world had ended when the news came about Vincent. His commanding officer wrote to me. A Colonel Prescott. A lovely letter, assuring me that Vincent hadn’t suffered, and how much my letters had meant to him to the very end. He must have known my husband well. Little things are such a comfort at a time like that, and he told me that Vincent was liked by his men and that they had been brokenhearted by his death. That they had asked to see his body and pay their respects before it was taken away. Vincent cared for his men. It would have meant so much to him.”

  All this was very interesting to me. How could Colonel Prescott have known so much about the Major’s death in the lines? Unless it was true. I felt a twinge of doubt.

  “It was indeed thoughtful. Er-had he served under Colonel Prescott for some time?”

  “Well, there were the censors, of course, and he seldom mentioned names in his letters. It was Private J. and Captain H. and Colonel R. He kept a journal too, and he used the same code, so to speak, in that. In the event he was taken prisoner and the Germans could
use the information against us. I’m told journals are discouraged for that very reason.”

  Piecing together such small bits of information could sometimes lead to a picture of a regiment’s strength and position.

  “Did Colonel Prescott send his journal home with the rest of his possessions?”

  “I don’t believe he knew about it or he would have looked for it. It wasn’t in the box of his belongings. I wept when they came. They still carried the scent of Vincent’s pipe tobacco. Do you remember? He had it made up for him in London. I could bury my nose in them and feel that he was close again. There was the pipe, his Testament and his shaving kit, and so on. Two of his books, one a volume of poetry, another a history. His other uniforms. So few things to mark a man’s life and death.”

  I had to agree with her. Her husband had been an energetic, intelligent, and caring man. Hard to capture those qualities in the small packet of his possessions.

  Still curious about the journal, I brought the subject back to that. “Did he ever show you his journal? When he was on leave?”

  “He read to me bits and pieces, the parts that he said wouldn’t disturb me. The pages on his short leave in Paris were wonderful. He promised to take me there after the war. Well, after France was herself again. And he read me a section about his first crossing to France, and some of his feelings about leaving me and facing death. I remembered those lines when the news came. ‘I vowed to love, honor, and cherish Julia until death parted us, but this separation feels like a small death. If it should come to the worst, and be the real thing, if I am capable of carrying any thought into the grave with me it will be, I shall love you until the end of time, just as if I’d been at your side until we were old and gray and still slept in each other’s arms.’ ”

  The tears came then, and I chided myself for being the cause of them. But she said as I comforted her, “I find I do well for the most part. And then suddenly I am bereft and I find myself crying uncontrollably. It’s so silly.”

  “It isn’t silly at all.” Indeed, it showed me that there was no trouble in this marriage. “You miss him terribly, and I won’t promise you it will get any easier. But with time, it will be a different pain.”

  She looked up at me. “Your mother said something like that to me. I was so grateful for her understanding.”

  When she was calmer, I asked, “Was there anyone in France that Vincent was particularly close to, someone he confided in?”

  “He and Andrew were close-they were at Sandhurst together. But Andrew died early on, at Mons. After that, Vincent was reluctant to make friends. It was too painful to send them into certain death. The price of promotion, he called it, when he had to give such orders himself.”

  I’d heard other officers who felt the same way.

  “Was there anyone he particularly disliked?”

  “What an odd question!”

  “Not really. Vincent was always such a good judge of character. And as I remember, he wasn’t one to suffer fools lightly.”

  She smiled at that. “No, he wasn’t, was he? I asked him once-well, war is rather terrible, isn’t it, people wounded and dying in front of one’s eyes, and I thought perhaps petty things no longer mattered. He answered that whatever a man was before the war, he usually brought with him to France. Good or bad. But he particularly disliked those who let down the side, who couldn’t be counted on in pinch.” A frown replaced the smile. “It’s odd, now that you’ve brought this up-there was trouble with one of his sergeants. Vincent was very angry with the man. I never knew what it was about, just that later he was angry with himself for having lost his temper. Fortunately soon afterward, this sergeant was shifted to another part of the line. Vincent seldom lost his temper, but when he did, he could be quite furious. It went with his red hair, I think. His mother also had a lively temper.”

  I laughed, agreeing with her. And to my surprise, she added, “There was also that brother-in-law of his. Sabrina’s husband. Vincent called him a slacker. A disgrace to the uniform.”

  “He wasn’t in our regiment, as I recall.”

  “Oh, no. He joined the Royal Engineers. God knows what they saw in him. But he has been serving under Vincent, something to do with mines. He had been serving-” She caught herself and changed the tense. “I can’t seem to stop thinking that Vincent’s death was confused with someone else’s, and he’ll write soon to tell me he’s well and not to worry.”

  I had stayed as long as I should in politeness, and so I set my teacup back on the tray and took my leave. Julia begged me to come again, if I could, and I promised I would. “Were Vincent’s sisters at the memorial service? I haven’t seen them since your wedding. I hope they are well.”

  She made a face. “Sabrina didn’t come. She’s very likely poor again. You never know with that man she married. I think he must gamble or something of the sort. They always seem to be short of money. But Valerie was here. She and Vincent were only a year apart. She stayed with me, and we comforted each other.”

  “I’m glad.”

  With another embrace we said good-bye, and I drove Dr. Gaines’s motorcar sedately back to The Pelican, where the Captain must have been watching for me. He came out at once, smiled as he nodded toward the crank, and said, “Well, well.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  He got in beside me, and I saw the grimness of his mouth as he settled into his seat. This outing had tried his leg. As impatient as he was to leave the clinic and get back to the fighting, it was clear to both of us that he wasn’t ready yet.

  Perhaps, I thought, this explained why Dr. Gaines had sent him with me-to measure his readiness in a way that he could face, rather than listening to a doctor telling him a hard truth.

  I found myself with a new respect for Dr. Gaines.

  We drove out of Nether Thornton in silence, mainly because Captain Barclay was in no mood for light conversation. But as his leg stopped throbbing quite so viciously, his spirits returned and he said, “Was it a good visit?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Julia had unwittingly given me food for thought.

  My confidence had been shaken by Colonel Prescott’s letter. And yet there was the evidence of Private Wilson’s death. And what had become of Vincent’s journal? If it was in his tunic pocket when he was killed, someone should have discovered it and put it with his other belongings. A doctor wouldn’t have undressed him if he had died instantly of his wounds. Sadly there was no time for the dead, because there were so many living in need of attention.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Captain Barclay said after several miles of silence.

  I smiled ruefully. “Sorry. I was distracted.”

  “This wasn’t simply a courtesy call, was it?” the Captain asked after a few minutes. “There’s something on your mind. Why did you go to visit Mrs. Carson?”

  That was too close to the truth for comfort.

  “Actually I was thinking about Major Carson’s journal. He kept one, according to Julia. She’d seen it, he’d read her a few passages from it. But it didn’t come home with his other possessions.”

  “Is it important?”

  “I-don’t quite know. For Julia it is.”

  “It could have been lost when he was wounded and every effort was being made to save his life.”

  “He died instantly, according to his commanding officer.”

  “It’s what we’re taught to write. No mother or wife wants to hear that a loved one died screaming and writhing in agony. When he was hit, his men would have done what they could, and whatever falls into the unspeakable muck in the bottom of a trench is lost forever. Or it could have been buried with him.”

  “True,” I said doubtfully, unable to tell him that it could all have been a lie, how Vincent Carson had died.

  “You don’t believe me. Why do women fix on tangible things? He could have given instructions for the journal not to be sent home. It’s possible he wrote what he believed to be the truth at the time, but still words that perhaps it
would pain his wife to read after he was dead and unable to explain. Or perhaps his commanding officer read enough to feel it was unwise.”

  “Yes, I do believe you,” I said, threading my way through a flock of sheep that was taking up the road. “Thinking about it in that light.” But it once more raised the specter of marital problems. There was nothing about Julia even to hint that she was glad to be free to marry someone else. But if Vincent had fallen out of love with his wife and there was someone else, he could have written about his struggle with himself. A very good reason to order it destroyed if he was killed.

  “Good. Anything else worrying you? I’m always happy to make your burdens lighter.”

  I had to laugh. For the rest of the journey we talked about him-how he’d come to join the Canadian Army, when and where he was wounded, and what he hoped to do when the war finally ended.

  We had come within sight of the gates to Longleigh House when Thomas Barclay said again, without warning, “Tell me again who Simon Brandon is.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I WROTE TO Simon that evening in the quiet of my room. A storm was blowing up, and I listened to the distant thunder, reminded again that I ought to be in France.

  By telling Simon what I had learned, I was able to put it in better perspective.

  Was there anything really suspicious in what Julia had told me? Or was it my imagination looking to support my own belief about how Major Carson had died?

  I sealed the letter and set it out for the post, then went to bed.

  I was kept busy over the next few days. One patient was on the brink of developing gangrene, and with my battlefield experience Matron asked me to work in the surgical theater with Dr. Gaines.

  When I went to read to the ambulatory, Captain Lawrence had been scanning a newspaper, and as he set it aside, I glimpsed a photograph on the page turned up. It was Mrs. Campbell. I couldn’t see the full caption, but the first part read DIVORCEE ARRESTED FOR-