An Unmarked Grave: A Bess Crawford Mystery (Bess Crawford Mysteries)

by Charles Todd

  “No. That’s not safe. Bess, I’m no match for him right now!”

  “I have the pistol.”

  “No, I tell you. It isn’t worth the risk. Wait. See if he shows himself. He’ll grow impatient. He might even walk as far as those lamps by the Base Hospital.”

  But he didn’t. Where was he?

  As I heard the clock in a nearby church tower strike four, I broke away from Captain Barclay’s clutches and stepped out into the street. Walking sedately toward the motorcar, I took my time. I could now see that one wing was dented, but that not surprising. Most of the motorcars anywhere near the Front were dented and rusty. When I was some ten or fifteen feet away, I stopped, looking around, as if expecting to find my driver.

  “Hallo?” I called after a moment. “Anyone there?” I took a step or two nearer the bonnet, and then—apparently uncertain—I turned and took four back the way I’d come. This gave me a chance to look around me, scanning doorways and the windows of a café just down the street without appearing to be suspicious.

  I was almost facing the motorcar again when, without any warning at all, out of the corner of my eye I saw movement behind the windscreen, as if someone had been lying out of sight across the seats. In the same instant the great, bright headlamps came on, their black paint gone, and I was pinned in their glare, startled and unable to see or move.

  But I could hear the motor as it was gunned, and the headlamps were speeding toward me.

  Behind me I heard Captain Barclay shout, but I knew that if I moved too soon, the driver behind the glare of the lights could see where I was leaping, and compensate.

  I almost left it too late.

  Prepared to spring to the left, where I had the whole street in which to maneuver, I realized that he too could use that space to swerve toward me. And so without hesitating, I flung myself right, into the ragged line of unkempt shrubbery that marked that side of the road.

  He swerved too, just as I had feared, but in this direction he had no room—he dared not come too close to the shrubbery, or at that speed he’d lose control and crash into it. Still, he cut it close. I felt the force of his passage, the leading edge of the rusted wing brushing my hip, catching my apron, and nearly dragging me under the rear wheels before the cloth ripped and freed me. I cried out, catching at the prickly, scrubby branches of the shrubs to keep my balance.

  The pistol was in my pocket, and I scrabbled for it, trying to reach it in the folds of my uniform, but I already knew it would be impossible to bring it out in time to fire at my tormentor. All the same, I was frightened and angry enough to do just that.

  I twisted to take a hard look at him. But his face was half covered by a muffler, a dark striped length of woolen cloth that must have been hot this time of year. All I could see were his eyes.

  Matron had said they were gray. But in the reflected light of the lamps, I couldn’t be sure. For they gleamed so palely it was almost as if there were no eyes at all under dark, heavy brows.

  A very pale blue? A clear gray like lake water in moonlight?

  And then he was gone, roaring off down the street, narrowly missing Captain Barclay, who was already rushing toward me as fast as he could.

  It was in the light of the headlamps that I saw Captain Barclay clearly for the first time.

  He was disheveled, his uniform torn and bloody.

  I hadn’t asked him why he had disappeared, but now I had a feeling that I knew.

  Captain Barclay reached me, pulling me out of the shrubbery, brushing at my coat where leaves and twigs had caught, all the while cursing me in words as vivid as any I had ever heard in the Army.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded in the next breath. “Were you trying to get yourself killed? Damn it, Bess Crawford, that was the most brazenly foolish thing I’ve ever seen anyone do.”

  “But I had to see his face. I had to be sure. And he has gray eyes, Captain, just as Matron had said he did. Or very pale blue. I could see them above the muffler. You can change a good many things, but not the color of your eyes. What’s more, I wasn’t entirely convinced he was inside the motorcar. He could have killed my driver and waited for me somewhere nearby. Just as we were concealed in the shadows! When he came out he’d have to face me, and I’d have had a clearer view of him. Even a clear shot, if need be.”

  He shook me, his hands gripping my shoulders. “And he nearly killed you. A few inches closer, and he could have hurt you badly. If you’d slipped, you’d have been under his wheels. I couldn’t believe you would do anything so rash. Your father warned me you were headstrong, but I never dreamed—”

  He released me suddenly and I nearly stumbled into him before I got my balance again. “Come on,” he said, and taking my arm firmly enough to keep me by his side, he started walking. “It isn’t a good idea to stay here. He could decide to swing back this way. And I’ve told you I’m in no shape to do battle.”

  We walked as quickly as we could down the street, then at the first corner took the next street and then the next. We finally came to a small church in a cul-de-sac, and he strode toward the door. Finding it open, we went inside, greeted by the smell of musty walls, incense, and stone. Cold and dark as it was, I felt vulnerable, even though I knew logically that there was no possible way we could have been followed here. As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I could make out the baptismal font, a line of pillars leading down to the altar, and the faint glow of the altar lamp. All of them familiar things that pushed away my initial anxiety.

  Captain Barclay found a row of chairs and we sat down. Wincing, he thrust one leg out in front of him, as if it ached unbearably.

  “Are you badly hurt?” I asked after a moment, and saw him shake his head. “What happened? Where were you? I looked for you before I left the aid station.”

  “He was clever. I never saw the blow coming. The next thing I knew, I was out in the middle of nowhere, near one of the relief trenches. I fell into one of them while I was still dazed, then had to make my way back. You had already gone, and I set out on foot for Rouen. I got a lift from a lorry coming back from the Front, carrying the dead. I’ve been waiting there for you, in the shadows of that doorway, for hours. I saw the motorcar arrive, and I went on waiting, knowing you had to come. Where were you? They told me at the Base Hospital that you weren’t given a room there.”

  “I’d been told they were expecting me, but they weren’t. I stayed in a convent I know of.”

  “Well, at least you were safe. For all I knew . . .” He shook his head helplessly.

  “What are we to do now? I’m supposed to report to an aid station south of Ypres, but if what’s happened here in Rouen is any indication, they have no reason to expect me there. And I don’t have the proper authorization to return to Dr. Hicks. Or to leave France.”

  He was still nursing his grievance. “I couldn’t believe you’d gone away without waiting for me. It could have been a hoax. In fact it was. A trick to lure you away from the protective Dr. Hicks. To Rouen, for instance, where if anything happened to you, you wouldn’t be missed straightaway.”

  “Yes, but there was the message.”

  “Anyone who knew how to use a field telephone could have sent that,” he scoffed.

  “Dr. Hicks assured me the request was genuine. I asked him. He’d spoken to an officer, he said. And so I didn’t have much choice, except to leave with the convoy. When there was no room waiting at the Base Hospital, I couldn’t turn back. It was too late.” I shook my head and felt my hair tumbling down. Quickly putting it up again, I said, “I shall have to get word to my father.”

  “It’s more urgent to get you back to England. Bess, you can’t stay in France. Don’t you see? One attack can be put down to luck on his part. Two? A damned close call. Let’s not wait for three.”

  I was reminded of Simon telling me that he was superstitious enough not to want to see me come close to dying a third time.

  Captain Barclay was saying, “I thought I coul
d protect you. I even told your father that I could. But I was wrong. Falling into that trench was the last straw.”

  “I don’t want to go home to England. If I do, whoever this is will slip away and we’ll never find out why he killed Major Carson.”

  “I don’t know that it’s important to find out,” Captain Barclay said wearily. “Not if it puts you in danger like this.”

  “If I could find a way to return to Dr. Hicks and tell him that the message he received was only a ruse, he’d be happy to keep me there. And I’d be safer there than anywhere else. The only alternative is to go on to Ypres and let them decide what should be done about me.”

  “England, Bess. For your own sake. Or if not for your sake, then for your father’s.”

  I sat there, trying to think. If I went to Ypres, whoever was out there would know where to look for me. If I returned to the forward aid station that I’d just left, he’d still know.

  Perhaps it would be wiser to go to England, after all. Out of reach. But it went against the grain to see a murderer go free. To leave the patients I believed I could help. I had the sinking feeling that I’d be letting down not only Major Carson but Private Wilson and his wife as well.

  What was that old saying?

  He who turns and runs away lives to fight another day.

  All very well and good. But if I ran away, who would I find to fight on that other day?

  If the man with those pale eyes couldn’t find me, then I couldn’t find him. Could I?

  CHAPTER NINE

  ONCE AGAIN, THE decision was taken out of my hands in a very unexpected way.

  We left the church finally, for there was no place here to rest. I couldn’t take the American to the convent to stay for what was left of the night. It would have required too many explanations as to why I was bringing him with me, and the elderly nuns there would have felt uncomfortable if I simply told them that he too needed somewhere to stay. A British nurse didn’t arrive with an attractive young man in tow, orderly or officer.

  We found a small hotel on one of the streets not far from the cathedral, and Captain Barclay went in to bespeak a room. When I was certain he was being given one, I removed my telltale cap and apron, then hurried through the dark, empty streets alone, back to the convent. I reached for the knocker to summon someone inside.

  It was several minutes before anyone appeared.

  Surely even at this hour someone was awake, acting as porteress.

  I knocked again, glancing anxiously over my shoulder. And I was just in time to see a figure sliding quickly into the deeper shadows of another doorway some four houses away.

  More frightened than I cared to admit—for myself and for the nuns inside—I tried to think what to do. Screaming wouldn’t help, and if I left the convent, I would be vulnerable with nowhere to turn.

  I was on the point of leaving when the convent door opened at last and the elderly nun standing there said, “My dear,” in French. “We were at our devotions. Is anything wrong?”

  I glanced again at the spot where I’d seen the figure disappear. And at that same instant, he stepped out of the shadows and lifted a hand in salute before turning back the way I had come.

  Captain Barclay had followed me—and while I was in a way glad of his protection, I was also angry with him for not staying safely in the hotel where I’d thought I’d left him.

  “Who is that man?” the nun asked, peering after him.

  “He’s an orderly. He wished to be sure I was safe, late as it is. As it turned out, my transport was delayed.”

  “How very kind of him,” she said, nodding. “But do come in, my dear, out of the damp air. It will do you no good.”

  I smiled and thanked her, and followed her into the kitchen, where a light still burned. There she saw me clearly for the first time and said, shocked, “But what has happened to you!”

  I had forgot how disheveled I must appear. “A motorcar came along,” I answered, trying to stay as close to the truth as I could, “and in my effort to avoid him in the narrow street, I slipped and fell into a shrubbery.”

  “You must wash your face and hands. And brush your hair. I will see to your garments. You can’t leave us in the morning, looking like this. It would not be proper.”

  I thanked her again, and very shortly afterward, she saw me to the room I’d used earlier, offered me a warmed nightdress again, and gently closed the door.

  Feeling a little better, I thought I might sleep. Instead, I tossed and turned, my mind unsettled over what to do.

  I refused to eat breakfast in the morning, knowing how little the nuns had to spare, and hurried back to the hotel where I had left Captain Barclay. In the early light I could read the sign—L’HOTEL DE LILLE—and I stepped inside to find the clerk, a heavy man in his late fifties, just coming back on duty.

  I said briskly, “Would you please tell my orderly, Private Barclay, that Sister Crawford is waiting for him in Reception?”

  The clerk smiled, offered me a chair, and went up the stairs. After a few minutes, he came down again.

  “The Private is not in his room.”

  “Not—has he come down for breakfast already?”

  “I regret to say, it appears he has not slept in his room. I opened the door when there was no response.” He shrugged. “He was not dressed properly. I thought perhaps he was . . . not what he appeared to be.”

  Taking that in, I said, “May I see for myself?”

  “But of course, Mademoiselle.” He escorted me up the stairs to the second floor and a room that overlooked the street. It was simple—a bed, an elderly wardrobe, a chair, and a table that could be used for meals or as a desk. The bed hadn’t been turned down, and even the counterpane was smooth. No one had even sat down upon it. I could see that for myself.

  “When did you last see my orderly?” I asked.

  “He took a room, went up the stairs, and in a moment had come back down again, going out at once.”

  To follow me through the streets.

  “And then?”

  “I went to bed, Mademoiselle.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  I thanked the clerk and went down the stairs again, thinking furiously.

  What had become of Captain Barclay? Surely he hadn’t been set upon in the streets after leaving me safely at the convent door!

  Was he lying hurt somewhere? But I’d taken the same route from the hotel and back to it this morning. I hadn’t seen anything to arouse my suspicions.

  Outside once more, I debated, and then finally went to the nearest police station, to ask if there had been any trouble in the area during the previous night.

  “My orderly was to meet me this morning. He’s missing,” I explained.

  But there had been no trouble, no arrests, no calls for assistance. The gendarme in charge assured me that it had been a quiet night. “They often are, Mademoiselle. There is little money for drunkenness and even less to steal.”

  I nodded, then asked where someone would be taken if he had been found injured on the street. “If he was English, Mademoiselle, he would most likely be carried to the American Base Hospital.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Once more I was back in the street, this time on my way to the American Base Hospital in what used to be Rouen’s handsome racetrack.

  The orderly minding the gates was yawning prodigiously as he stretched, as if it were past time for him to be relieved.

  I asked him if an American or British or Canadian soldier had been brought in during the night. “Someone found injured on the street, perhaps?”

  “There’s been a convoy of wounded, Sister, but only nine men this journey. All from sector aid stations. No one else has been brought in since well before midnight.”

  Then where had Captain Barclay got to?

  I thanked him and went to find the officer in charge of the port.

  He couldn’t help me at first, and then he spoke to his sergeant, on the off chance there was any
information that hadn’t yet been officially reported.

  The Sergeant, eyeing me with interest, said, “There was an orderly who couldn’t account for himself wandering the streets last night. He’s been taken up for desertion. I’ve sent to the Base Hospital to ask if he’s one of theirs and what we should do with him. So far there’s been no answer. And that’s been several hours.”

  “Taken up for—” I exclaimed. It was the last thing that had crossed my mind. “Could I see this man, please?”

  “It’s a military matter, Sister,” the officer told me politely. “He isn’t the person you’re looking for.”

  “Yes, I understand about the military matter,” I said. “But I must also locate my missing orderly before I report to my own sector. If you have him, then I can explain why he isn’t with me.”

  “What was he doing in the streets of Rouen, then? If he’d come in with the wounded, why didn’t he say as much?” The officer was losing patience with me.

  “I don’t know. He’d been hurt himself.”

  “In a fight most likely,” the Sergeant muttered. “We had a—there was a spot of trouble bringing him in.”

  I stood there, waiting. Finally the officer said, “All right, Sergeant Brent. Take her to him. If she does know him, we’ll have a name, and then we can find out what he’s running from.”

  I wanted to tell the Major that this particular man was resisting arrest because he was to meet me in the morning at the Hotel de Lille. But that would never do.

  The Sergeant led me through the maze of the port to the small square building where miscreants and deserters were held until their situation could be determined. As I neared it, the odor of urine, stale spirits, cigarette smoke, and unwashed bodies struck me.

  Three of the men incarcerated here were, the Sergeant told me, drunk and disorderly. He asked me to wait outside, and after a moment he brought out a reluctant Captain Barclay, who blinked in the watery morning light and then recognized me. There were new bruises and scrapes on his face, but I read the message in his eyes quite clearly.