A Cruel Deception Page 6

  “Where are you staying?”

  Oh, dear.

  I gave him the address of the house where Matron had arranged for me to stay. It was the home of a French doctor and his wife, and she had known them before the war. “I’d hoped to make my duty call on the Lieutenant first thing, and put it behind me. I’ve hardly had the chance to settle in.” I’d traveled to St. Ives instead. Now I’d have to be sure to call on them, before the Major did.

  He nodded. “That isn’t too far from here. I’ll find you a taxi.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  He went to the bar to pay for our coffees, and then walked with me back to the corner, where he hailed a passing taxi.

  Settling me inside and giving the driver my direction, he said, “I’ll leave word for you if I learn anything. And you know where to find me.”

  “Yes, of course.” I thanked him again, and the taxi pulled away.

  When I looked back through the tiny rear window, the Major was still standing there, looking after me. As if to make certain I went where I was supposed to be going.

  Chapter 3

  ALL THE WAY to the house where I was supposed to be staying, I wondered why the Major had been so open with me—a perfect stranger—about Lawrence Minton. It was not very British for one thing, and an officer would surely be more guarded about his men.

  Unless of course he was telling me what he thought might elicit what I knew?

  After all, I hadn’t been very forthcoming, either, but then I was on an errand for Matron, and I was certainly not about to tell him her business . . .

  The taxi’s driver glanced over his shoulder. “We are here, Sister.”

  I paid him and got out.

  A very respectable neighborhood, a street of fairly large white houses with those distinctive mansard roofs. Matron’s friend in Paris must be a specialist, then.

  A maid let me in, taking me to a small morning room where Dr. Moreau and his wife were sitting, going through a box of letters. They rose to greet me. He was a man of medium height, graying, with the black-rimmed spectacles that I’d seen so often in France. His wife was slim and very attractive, her hair still dark and fashionably cut. Her smile was warm.

  They were very happy to see me, and Madame asked the maid to bring us tea.

  Apparently, Matron had told them when to expect me. Oh, dear.

  “But you didn’t arrive, and we were worried. Alors, you are here now,” Dr. Moreau said. Turning to the maid, he added, “Sister Crawford’s luggage can be taken up to her room.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said quickly. “I stopped to see a friend on my way to Paris, and I’m staying with her for a few days. I wanted to call in and let you know that I was in France.”

  They politely inquired about my journey to Paris, asking if I found the city much changed since the war, making me feel at ease here.

  Dr. Moreau asked if I intended to remain in the Queen Alexandra’s. Evidently Matron had told him a little about my training and my experience in the field, and he was curious about some of the English doctors I’d served with. I discovered he’d known several of them personally, and I also learned that he himself had served in the war. He had been at Verdun, as bloody a battle as our Somme.

  Tea came, and after Madame Moreau had served us and the maid had withdrawn, they mentioned Lawrence for the first time.

  “Helena is worried about her son,” Madame Moreau said. “Have you any news of him? I can write to her for you.”

  “He’s not in his lodgings,” I answered, “at the moment. But I shouldn’t worry her at this stage. He could be visiting friends. I gather the peace discussions are not moving at a speedy pace.” I hesitated, then said, “There’s an officer who tells me he’d like to help me locate Lawrence. But I’m not comfortable taking him into my confidence.”

  “Is there a problem?” the doctor asked, his gaze sharpening.

  “He’s a Major in Lieutenant Minton’s regiment,” I explained. “He may feel that he ought to report him, if he overstays his leave.”

  “Mon Dieu, that’s very wise of you,” Dr. Moreau assured me. “We saw Lawrence when he first came to Paris, and he was very enthusiastic about remaining in the Army.”

  “Major Webb may call here—he asked where I was staying, and I felt it best to suggest a friend had introduced me and you’d kindly invited me to stay here. It’s part of the truth, of course, but I was afraid he might make too much of the fact that you knew the Lieutenant’s mother, and I’d been sent to Paris to look in on him.”

  “Of course,” he agreed.

  We’d finished our tea, and Madame offered to show me to my room. “You’ll stay for lunch,” she insisted.

  “That’s very kind of you,” I replied, and followed her into the passage and up the stairs.

  As we climbed, she said, “At least the war is over, and we can look forward to better times.” Pausing on the landing, she pointed to a portrait of a very handsome young French officer. He had Madame’s eyes, and I knew at once he must be their son.

  “André,” she commented. “He was our happiness.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Smiling sadly, she went on up the steps, adding, “He was Army mad. Just like Lawrence. I feel so for Helena, worried about Lawrence. He suddenly stopped coming here, you know. It must be nearly six weeks since we’ve seen him. And finally, two weeks ago, I wrote to ask if he’d been posted back to London. When Helena told me he was still in Paris, I made discreet inquiries amongst our friends at the Conference and discovered also that he hadn’t been attending for some time.” We had reached the first floor, and she turned left. In a quieter voice that wouldn’t carry, she said, “I knew something must be wrong. But Helena asked me to do nothing—she wished to deal with the matter privately. Michel was quite upset—he’s very fond of Lawrence. He feared he might be ill, perhaps too ill to send for him. And so he made the rounds of French hospitals, searching for him. But to no end.”

  “What did you think might be wrong?” I asked as we stopped at a closed door.

  “Well, of course—a young man, single, in Paris. I thought he might have—contracted something unspeakable.” She reached out and opened the door. “One of Michel’s colleagues reported someone coming to him for opiates, but he suspected the man used a false name, and he turned him away. But there is a market for such things, if one knows where to look . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  I couldn’t tell her what I’d witnessed in St. Ives. She would wish to contact Matron immediately, and I wasn’t sure that was the best solution. Until we knew why Lawrence had suddenly cut off all ties with Marina and the Moreaus, I didn’t think Matron herself could help him.

  With only a nod, indicating agreement, I stepped into my room.

  It overlooked the back gardens, and was very pleasant, done up in shades of yellow that ranged from the pale walls to darker shades covering the bed and at the windows. The carpet was a pattern of greens. So much prettier and more comfortable than where I was presently living. A fire was ready laid in the hearth, and I could see that Dr. Moreau and his wife were expecting me to come and stay sooner rather than later.

  Turning to her, I said, “Madame, would you mind terribly if I stayed where I am for the moment? I think I might be able to—to learn more if I am on my own. I can’t explain why, not just yet. It’s someone else’s privacy I’m dealing with. And I’d rather not put this person at risk.”

  “At risk?” she repeated, more than a little alarmed.

  “In the sense that this person is afraid of losing the Lieutenant’s friendship by confiding in me. I don’t know much of the story yet. I hope to learn more. But I rather think the Lieutenant is in some difficulty and just now he’s not willing to seek help from anyone.” I’d said more than I’d intended, but it was the only way to explain myself.

  “Gambling? A woman?” she asked, worried.

  “I don’t believe so. A war memory?”

  Nodding, she went
to the window to look out. “My husband has had some experience dealing with that. If you need help from him, I promise you he’s discreet. I have tried to shield him from worry about Lawrence. After we lost André, Michel turned to Lawrence. Writing him letters as he used to write to André. Wanting to see him whenever Lawrence was at all close to Paris. It helped, a little, to ease the pain of our loss, you see.”

  I could understand that. All the more reason not to bring up the laudanum. Not yet at least. As a doctor’s wife, she would know how dangerous that was. And it would worry her even more.

  Turning from the window, she asked, “Have you seen him, then? Do you at least know where he is?”

  “Please don’t ask me. I’ll tell you everything as soon as I can.”

  I thought she was going to argue with me, but she shook her head, drew a deep breath, and said, “I will hold you to that, Sister Crawford.”

  “My name is Elizabeth. My family and friends prefer to call me Bess.”

  “Bess,” she said. “It’s rather informal. Would you prefer Elizabeth?”

  “Bess will do nicely,” I said, summoning a smile.

  “As soon as you can, will you tell me what you know? I shan’t tell my husband until I must, but it would help to understand . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “If you promised not to write to Matron. I don’t think he will want her to—to worry prematurely. And she has responsibilities in London. Wait until we see that coming to Paris is the right decision.”

  I couldn’t help but think, if only I could manage to bring Lawrence here, where he could have proper medical care. But how on earth was I to do that? At this stage? And removing him forcibly from that house in St. Ives would very likely make matters worse. He wouldn’t trust anyone, then.

  Madame smiled fondly although rather sadly. “I remember Lawrence as a child. Such a lively little boy, full of curiosity and energy. He learned French very quickly, and my daughter adored him. She was three years older, you see, and treated him like one of her dolls, to be petted and looked after.”

  I wondered if I had been given her daughter’s room. It was so pretty and bright, very feminine. But where was she?

  Almost as if she’d heard the thought, she added, “She married a man from Toulon. A naval officer. I was so grateful—she was well out of Paris and our fears that the Germans would be upon us at any moment. She has a daughter of her own now, and we shall finally be able to travel to visit her.”

  She left me to rest, although I had a feeling it was to give herself time to recover. Instead I stood for some time at the window, looking down into the back garden. A white wrought-iron love seat just below my window was inviting, sheltered from the wind, and later would have the best view of summer’s blooms. Farther along, a man was working, clearing away winter’s debris, dressing the beds, and turning over the kitchen garden so that it would be ready for planting when the weather improved. I couldn’t see him clearly—he wore a usual workingman’s smock and a broad-brimmed hat that shaded his face. But I thought he must be an ex-soldier, the way he carried himself. A few minutes later he wheeled a barrow filled with the tools of his trade—I could see hoe, pitchfork and shovel, secateurs and string—to the shed at the bottom of the garden, stowing them away.

  It reminded me of home, and Bertie coming into the kitchen for his tea, telling Cook that our tulips were poking their noses up, and which trees were budding well.

  Suddenly homesick, I turned away and went down to the elegant dining room.

  After we’d dined, Dr. Moreau pulled on his heavy coat, reached for his hat, and accompanied me to find a taxi. There was an avenue, he said, three streets away.

  As we walked, he asked about me, polite inquiries about my parents and how they had felt about my nursing, but I could tell that his mind was really on Lieutenant Minton. He said finally, “Whatever you learn about Lawrence, you must tell me. I don’t want my wife to be worried. She hasn’t really recovered from the loss of our son. Meanwhile, if there is anything I can do, as a doctor, as a friend, please come to me. Anything you need.”

  I thanked him, and then remembered something. “You corresponded with Lawrence during the war, I think?”

  “Yes.” He shook his head. “We comforted each other, in a way. He’d lost his father, I’d lost my son. It helped me, those letters. I’d like to think they helped him as well.”

  “So many men were changed by the war,” I began carefully. “Was there anything in particular that affected Lawrence?”

  He paused, and I stopped beside him. “Early on, I think there was something. It was before I got to know him so well. It was at Mons—after Mons—I might be wrong, of course, but he never talked about those first days of the fighting. It was intense. Things happened. The British Expeditionary Force was battle tested, but they were outnumbered. As we were along the Marne, in the beginning. We could see no hope, it appeared we couldn’t stop the Germans. We knew the taste of defeat.”

  A taxi was approaching, cutting off the conversation. Dr. Moreau raised his hand to signal it, and as it pulled up beside us, he took my hand. “Anything,” he said firmly. “Anything you need. Promise?”

  “I will remember,” I said, not wishing to give him a promise I might not be able to keep.

  I got in, the door closed behind me.

  And for the second time that day, a man had stayed where he was until my taxi turned the corner, out of his sight.

  I caught myself drifting into sleep on the train, much to the amusement of the man across from me. He wore the black suit of a shop clerk, a silver watch chain in the pocket of his waistcoat, his hair slicked down with Macassar oil. I could smell it from my seat opposite.

  I was back in St. Ives in time for supper, such as it was, and I gave a moment’s thought to the dinner I’d have enjoyed in the home of the Moreau family. Still, I had had my taxi wait while I bought a large canvas holdall and filled it with whatever I could find in the shops before continuing to the Gare. Cabbage, the outer leaves looking rather winter-weary, a few carrots, some eggs, onions, a half round of cheese, and miracle of miracles, a tin of milk and a little tea I saw on a high shelf. In another shop I found a pot of honey, dark with age but, I hoped, still good.

  My fellow passenger kindly helped me lift my purchases down and took them off the train for me, but there was no one to carry them up the slight rise to the house.

  With the money I’d left her, Marina had found a scrawny chicken, and we made a pot of stew, filling the house with its aroma. She had also found more coal for the cooker and the fires.

  When I asked if she’d seen Lawrence at all that day, she shook her head. “He’s avoiding us.” Sighing, she said, “I should go back to Paris. He doesn’t want me here, and no doubt I’m making matters worse. But if I go, what then? What will become of him?”

  And then she admitted, not looking up from the onion she was chopping, “I thought perhaps you’d not come back. I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

  “My valise is here,” I said lightly.

  “Yes, but you could have sent for it.”

  “That would have been rather cowardly, don’t you think?”

  That brought a fleeting smile. “I am glad not to have to face this alone.”

  But Lawrence Minton was not as pleased.

  I encountered him in the front room, after Marina and I had finished in the kitchen. The Lieutenant hadn’t joined us for dinner, and I hadn’t seen him since my return. I’d gone into the room to close the curtains and found him sitting in one of the chairs, apparently asleep. He was pale, disheveled. A lamp was burning on a table by the door.

  I stopped short when I saw him there, and I was about to slip out of the room when he came awake with a start. When he realized who it was, he got to his feet, angry with me. “I thought you’d had the good sense to go.”

  “You are a guest in this house, just as I am,” I replied, purposely making my voice cold. “You can’t order me to leave.” Reaching up for the
curtains, I added, “Do you really expect me to report what I’ve found here to your mother?”

  “There’s nothing she can do about it.”

  “That’s rather callous of you. I’d be ashamed of myself, in your shoes.”

  His face flushed. “But you aren’t in my shoes, are you?”

  “No, thankfully, I’m not. All the same, I’ll help you, if you will let me.”

  “I just want to forget.” There was sudden anguish in his voice, as his face twisted in almost physical pain.

  “And when this level of forgetting isn’t enough to stop the memories, then what?” I softened my tone.

  “Who said there were memories?” He was instantly menacing, moving toward me. I realized that I’d touched something I didn’t really understand.

  Backing up, I said, trying to keep my voice calm, steady, and sensible. “It stands to reason, doesn’t it? Why else would you want to dull your mind, except to escape from something?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Sister Crawford.”

  Just then Marina came into the room. She looked from one to the other of us, and said, “Lawrence—” as she saw his flushed face.

  “I won’t be spied on,” he said harshly, turning to her. “My mother sent her to spy.”

  “I can’t ask her to leave at this hour,” Marina said, pleading with him. “There’s no train tonight. Nowhere for her to go.”

  “I don’t care where she goes or what happens to her. I won’t have her here.”

  Marina was about to respond when he added, “Either she leaves or I shall.”

  She turned to me, looking for support.

  I snapped in the voice I used with recalcitrant patients in the wards. “Stop being childish, Lieutenant. Neither one of us is leaving tonight. I was just going up to my room. Good night.”

  Marina threw me a grateful glance, then said, “You’ve missed your dinner, Lawrence. Come and eat something. You’ll feel better afterward.”

  He put his hands to his head, his eyes closed, his body doubling over, as if he was in pain. “Don’t you understand? Food won’t help me. Nothing will. Nothing short of oblivion.”