by Charles Todd
“At any rate,” he went on after collecting himself, “when they spoke to me, I jumped at the chance. I’d rather be back with my men, but if that’s out of the question, I’ll use this assignment to prove that I’m ready to fight again.”
“Going over the top is not easy with a bad leg,” I said. “You know that as well as I do.”
“Yes, I can get others killed if I’m a burden,” he said impatiently. “That’s been brought home to me. But your father saw to it that I was given a background that wouldn’t make anyone suspicious. And your father asked me to give you this.”
He moved in the darkness and his hand stretched out toward me. In the palm lay the little pistol that Simon had given me once before. I recognized it immediately.
“My father? Not Simon himself?”
“I never saw the Sergeant-Major, Bess.”
I bit my lip. Once before I’d been afraid that bad news was being kept from me. I had that feeling again. Had Simon not lived to reach England? Had he lost that arm?
I looked down at the little pistol. Nurses were not permitted to carry weapons, but this time, remembering my feeling of helplessness when that arm had come around my throat and how lucky I was that I’d been able to kick the water pail, then scream, I touched it with my fingertips and then settled it carefully in the pocket of my uniform.
Captain Barclay was saying, “Better to wing him, Bess. Your father wants him alive.”
“But who is he?” I asked. “Why did he—what reason could he have for attacking me? I’ve never made an official report of any kind.” I wanted to know precisely how much my father had told the Captain.
“It appears he killed one Major Carson, who was in your father’s old regiment. And that he’s willing to kill again to protect himself. That woman. The one who lived near the Gorge. Apparently he’d killed her husband as well. The orderly who had discovered the Major’s body.”
Finally satisfied, I nodded. “He must be in the Army. He would have to be to reach the Major and then to attack me. One can’t simply take the next ferry across the Channel.”
“Yes, that was your father’s theory. They don’t know what rank he actually holds. But it’s easy enough out here to kill someone and steal a uniform. One unmarked grave more or less wouldn’t be noticed.”
But one couldn’t murder a Major without a flag going up. He’d be missed. A private soldier wouldn’t.
What’s more, whoever this was had been able to carry off the masquerade as Colonel Prescott. Both in person and in the contents of the letter he’d written Julia Carson. I wondered how many roles as a military officer William Morton had played on the stage. Shakespeare was filled with them, seventeenth- and eighteenth-century plays as well. Gilbert and Sullivan had created lively military characters. Productions had come out to India and were amazingly popular.
But then Matron had questioned Colonel Prescott’s manner—something had made her uneasy. Of course until I asked questions, Matron had kept her doubts to herself. Had I allayed her suspicions—or would she at some point bring them up with someone else?
Matron. I felt a chill. She’d seen his face. But he’d made no effort to harm her. Why? Had there been no opportunity? Or did he think she could wait?
Captain Barclay was adding grimly, “Something could have happened in the trenches between this man and Carson. Not everyone out here is a gallant soldier serving King and Country.”
I’d heard stories of shooting unpopular officers in the back when the opportunity presented itself. Charging across No Man’s Land is a chancy business at best, and it would be easy, firing at the enemy, to find one’s nemesis in the crosshairs.
If Sabrina had been cut off without a farthing when she married her actor, there could very well be hard feelings against Vincent for not doing more for her when the elder Carson died.
But Vincent hadn’t been shot in the back; his neck had been broken.
Captain Barclay gingerly climbed out and restarted the ambulance. “We’ve delayed long enough. They’ll begin to wonder, up ahead.”
The overworked motor coughed and struggled for several seconds before finally turning over properly. Captain Barclay reversed gingerly, the wheel jerking in his hands, and then we were safely back on what passed for a road. I stopped a sigh of relief, but I had a feeling he felt the same way.
We traveled in silence for a time.
I said, “Someone knew I was at the aid station. I don’t see how he could.”
“It shouldn’t be that difficult.” He turned to me in the darkness. “ ‘My sister’s at a forward aid station.’ Or ‘I served under Colonel Crawford before he retired. Is it true his daughter’s a nurse out here?’ Word gets around.”
And so it had last winter, when I’d asked for information about convents that took in French orphans. The answer had come back to me in the most unexpected way.
“Then I’m still at risk. But he won’t try to kill me at the aid station here. Not again. For one thing, I’m carefully watched. All the sisters are. But my next posting—or on the way to it—I’ll be vulnerable.”
“Quite. But I wouldn’t write off someone stopping this ambulance and killing both of us,” he said tightly.
I shivered at the thought, and touched the weight of the little pistol in my pocket. Simon had reminded me that it wasn’t of a caliber to kill or maim. But it was better than no protection, and it could make enough noise and cause enough pain to stop my assailant until someone came to my rescue.
With that thought in mind, when we had reached the station, I slept more soundly in what was left of that night.
Barclay was always in sight, wherever I was, and I wondered when or if he slept at all. He looked tired, and some of that I put down to his leg still being weak. His limp seemed to be worse, but he never complained.
Sister Clery, sitting down beside me as I ate a hasty dinner before returning to my duties, eyed me with interest. “I think,” she said after a moment, “that you have a beau. And he really is handsome, even though he’s not an officer. He ought to be. Perhaps there’s something mysterious in his past that prevented him from joining the Army under his own name.”
Realizing she was speaking of Barclay, I laughed. “He’s actually a rich American in disguise, and he followed me to France because I’ve refused his proposals of marriage nine times.”
She laughed with me. “I tell you, Bess, if that were true, I’d volunteer to mend his sad and broken heart myself.”
“Alas, I fear it’s beyond mending.”
“Ah, well. But I’ve noticed that everyone has been keeping an eye out for us. I don’t mind telling you, I was badly frightened when you were attacked.”
“Whoever he is, he’s well away from here now,” I assured her, and hoped that it was true.
New orders came for me before the week was out. Dr. Hicks informed me of them when he and I had finished working to stabilize an abdomen torn by shrapnel before taking the risk of sending the patient on to Rouen.
“I shall miss your steady hand and good eye,” he said. “But my loss is another station’s gain.”
“Thank you, sir.” And then, with a sense of foreboding, I asked, “Could you tell me who ordered my transfer?”
“I spoke to him by field telephone this morning. A Dr. Percy had requested you.”
I’d never worked with a Dr. Percy. “Was it Dr. Percy on the telephone?”
“No, no, I could hardly hear the Major, there was so much interference. But he confirmed you are to leave at once and the paperwork is to follow by the end of the week.”
“But that’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“True, but apparently they’re shorthanded outside of Ypres, and they can’t wait for the orders to come.” He studied my face. “Are you worried about this transfer, Sister Crawford?”
“I—yes, I must admit that I am,” I said, speaking frankly.
“I can assure you it was all straightforward. I made sure of that.”
“Could you try to reach Ypres and make certain that this was not a mistake?”
“Is it the attack on you that has made you so wary? My dear, you will probably be safer in your new posting than you are here, so close to the lines. I shouldn’t worry, if I were you.”
“Thank you, sir.” I couldn’t protest any more than I had.
Yet this was what I had dreaded—a new posting I knew very little about. I’d been sure Dr. Hicks would keep me, but someone had been insistent and convincing. I had no choice in the matter.
I went back to my tent, trying to think of a way to send word to my father. I’d seen Captain Barclay no more than an hour ago, but now he was nowhere to be found.
Troubled by his continued absence, on my first break I finished packing my possessions as ordered. If I could reach Rouen, surely I could find a way to contact the Colonel Sahib. But when I changed my apron, I made certain that the little pistol was in my pocket.
Outside I could hear the grumble of ambulance motors as they prepared to leave for the Base Hospital.
Just then Dr. Hicks came to say good-bye.
“Be safe, Sister Crawford. Did I tell you that there will be accommodations for you tonight at the American Base Hospital? Your transport to Ypres, as I understand it, will leave tomorrow morning from there.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Sister Clery also came to say good-bye, and several of the others who weren’t busy with the wounded. But still there was no sign of Captain Barclay.
Sister Clery, seeing me look around a last time before taking my seat, smiled and said, “I’ll tell him you’ll miss him, shall I?”
“Don’t bother,” I said, trying to convince myself that he had gone ahead to look into the transfer.
The ambulances followed the usual track, stopping at one other aid station to take on three more patients, and then finally, when my spine felt like a washboard, I could see the lights of Rouen ahead.
We discharged our patients, handed in the lists of names, and the drivers went away to hose down the ambulances.
I said to the sister in charge, “I’ve received a new posting, but the paperwork hasn’t come through. Oral orders for Ypres. I’m told you have a bed for me tonight.”
She glanced at my valise, then raised her eyes to my face. “Sister Crawford? I don’t think—let me look at the roster.”
My heart sank, but I smiled and waited patiently.
After a moment she shook her head. “No, sorry. There’s nothing here.”
I knew then that this was not an official transfer. “Do you have a bed? I don’t believe my transport leaves until tomorrow morning.”
Again she shook her head. “We’ve got no space, Sister. We had beds for eight hundred and we’ve got nearly sixteen hundred patients. I’ve moved in with another nurse myself, we’re that cramped. I’m so sorry.”
I put the best face on it I could.
“My transport expects to find me here tomorrow before dawn. Could you leave a message that I am in Rouen and will meet it on time?”
She wrote a message and clipped it on a board by her desk where there were some twenty or thirty others. “I won’t be on duty tomorrow, but the nurse who is will see the message. Will that do?”
I could tell she had more on her mind than dealing with my problems. But there was one more question I wanted to put to her.
“There’s one more thing,” I said with a smile. “I’m being sent to work with a Dr. Percy, near Ypres. I hear he’s something of a Tartar. Have you had any dealings with him or his patients?”
“Near Ypres? Most of those cases go directly to Dover.”
I could only push the matter so far. I thanked her and walked out of Base Hospital’s Reception.
So much for my attempts to find out anything useful. Communications were sketchy at best here in France. The military used runners and motorcycles when contact was imperative. Radio telephones were not always dependable. And so it wasn’t too surprising that someone here in Rouen wouldn’t know a doctor on the coastal sector of the Front. Unless of course he had a reputation that fed the rumor mill. I’d have to wait until morning and see what sort of transportation showed up.
Ordinarily I’d have sorted out the problem of where to spend the night without a second thought. Rouen was not a small town; it was a sizable city, and wandering about in it alone—something I’d done a dozen times before this—was no longer something I cared to do. Under the circumstances.
And what had happened to Captain Barclay? I’d convinced myself that he’d come ahead to prepare the way. After all, he could hardly openly desert his duties by leaving the aid station when I did. But there was no indication that he’d even reached the Base Hospital; otherwise he’d have left a message for me. Was he even in Rouen? Now I wondered if he was alive, because he took his duty to me seriously, and yet he had vanished without a word. What’s more, the ambulances that had brought me here had already pulled out for the Front, and there wasn’t even a possibility of sending word back to Dr. Hicks, much less getting his answer before I myself left the city.
I stood there on the street, thinking fast. Hotels were not the best choice for a woman alone. But there was one place I was assured of a bed: the convent I’d visited last winter and several times in the early spring before the influenza epidemic took hold.
I’d always brought something with me—money, medicines, soap, food—to help with the care of any ill or wounded children. This time I had only myself.
And so I found myself on the doorstep waiting for the porteress to answer the ring of the bell. The convent had little comfort to offer a stranger at their door, but they greeted me warmly and shared what they could.
The youngest nun came in quietly to wake me at three o’clock, and I dressed by candlelight in a room that held the night’s chill from the river. Then I slipped out into the predawn darkness to make my way back to where my transport should be waiting.
I wasn’t particularly frightened in the dark, narrow streets where the sounds from the docks echoed and the sporadic shelling at the Front was a counterpoint in the background. No one knew where to find me, and there was no one else about. It was too early for the milk wagon or the lorries bringing in foodstuffs from the outlying villages, too early for the ships to arrive from England with new recruits. I knew the city and could find my way without difficulty, only my own footsteps echoing.
I was within sight of the racetrack and the American Base Hospital, when I glimpsed the outline of a motorcar some thirty yards on the far side of the hospital entrance where summer bushes were thick and dark. My driver? Why hadn’t he halted under the lamps where I could see him better? But of course I was a little early. He was probably sleeping at the wheel after his long drive.
Still, I was uneasy. After all, I had no idea who he was, and I’d already decided to ask for some form of identification. If I wasn’t satisfied, I would have the Base Hospital verify that he’d come from Dr. Percy.
Should I wait where I was? I was vulnerable here, if the wrong person knew I was expecting to meet transport this morning—and even if the transfer was legitimate, in spite of the fact that no accommodations were waiting at the hospital, it would be the perfect opportunity to find me alone and unprotected.
Or approach?
What if the driver was already dead behind the wheel, so that he couldn’t raise the alarm if I didn’t die quietly?
For that matter, what if that motorcar wasn’t for me after all?
Standing there in the shadows of a building, I debated what to do. At this hour of the morning, it was easy to believe in danger of any kind, with my own breathing the only sound I could hear, and not even a bat swooping through the darkness to distract me from my thoughts.
I decided not to wait where I was but to move closer to the Base Hospital, where I could be heard if I had to scream. If all went well, there would be nothing to worry about. If it didn’t, I hoped I could count on help sooner. I’d taken only one step in
that direction when there was a sharp movement just behind me. My valise was in my right hand, but before I could swing it at my assailant, it was snatched out of my grip. I was spun into the deeper shadow of a doorway, a rough hand over my mouth.
I realized in that instant that I had stepping unwittingly into a trap, that the motorcar had held my attention while the driver had come up behind me.
Biting down on the hand over my mouth, I began to fight.
I’d just managed to force my hand down toward the pistol in my pocket when a voice whispered savagely, “Damn it, Bess, if you kick me or shoot me, I’ll never take you to the Grand Hotel.”
Captain Barclay. I stopped struggling. He held me close for a moment until he was sure it wasn’t a trick.
As he let me go, I demanded angrily in a whisper of my own, “Did you have to frighten me like that? Why couldn’t you simply tell me who you were?”
“Because,” he said shortly, “you must not get into that motorcar. Or let the driver see you.”
He still had one arm around me, holding me in the shadows of the doorway. I didn’t know if the driver of the motorcar had seen me or not, or if he was even there. It was too hard to tell. It was still a quarter of an hour before I was to meet him, and it was possible that he had gone into a café for coffee to keep himself awake.
“Who is he?” I asked, keeping my voice low. “Did you see him? For that matter, where have you been?”
“It was more important to watch for you and stop you—look! He’s just coming out of that alley across the way. Pay attention to his manner of walking. Do you recognize him?”
But the man who had just appeared was hurrying away, coughing once or twice, as if he had been ill. He disappeared into the darkness beyond, with only a last cough to tell us where he had gone.
“I don’t think—that can’t be him. How long have you been here? Do you know if he’s inside the motorcar?”
“It was there when I got here. I’ve been watching it. Nothing.”
“Then let me go. I won’t get in, I promise you. But it’s important to get a good look at him. We may not have another chance.”
