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

by Charles Todd

  I turned away as Simon lifted his left hand to take my father’s.

  And then behind me I heard Simon’s voice begin speaking in Hindi, clearly, concisely, a soldier reporting to an officer. I couldn’t help but overhear some of it, but Sister Randolph was saying at my side, “Oh, how nice, he’s found someone who understands the same language.”

  “Yes, isn’t it?” I replied, my ears pricked. What were they saying? For my father was answering, and then Simon’s voice responded with additional intelligence.

  But even as I was listening with only half my attention on Sister Randolph’s chatter while trying to hear information I was not supposed to have, I felt guilty.

  Behind me, my father swore feelingly in Urdu.

  “Do you realize what you’re saying? And damn the War Office for keeping it from my people. It would have made a difference if I’d known.” He turned and glanced my way. I was already leading Sister Randolph away.

  The conversation went on for another several minutes. Then my father said, “Heal. We need you.”

  He was striding up the room toward Sister Randolph and me, and as he thanked her, he reached for my arm and guided me toward the door.

  “Come with me. Let’s hope we don’t encounter Matron along the way.”

  We didn’t. The staff was busy handing out medications, and Dr. Gaines was closeted with one of his patients. We walked calmly toward the door and out into the evening sunlight. I blinked. The Colonel Sahib led me down the short shallow steps and across the lawns to a bench set under a stand of trees.

  “How much do you know about why Brandon was in France?”

  I’d learned long since to tell my father the truth when it came to regimental business.

  “Only a little,” I told him, adding, “It was the Gurkhas who brought him in after he was wounded. I never saw them, but suddenly he was there. I could guess that he’d been behind the German lines.”

  I remembered too that I’d drugged him, to keep him quiet, when he’d asked specifically to get word to my father. A wash of guilt swept over me.

  “What else?” My father turned his back on the clinic, his eyes on my face.

  “There’s a German spy behind our lines. Or so Simon believed.”

  “Go on.”

  “And he was trying to find him. That’s why it was necessary to capture a German officer to question.”

  “Yes. All right. You shouldn’t have overheard any of that, but no harm done. The question is now, who are we looking for? Who killed Carson and your Private Wilson, and Nurse Saunders? William Morton or one of his brothers? Or a German behind British lines looking for an identity.”

  There had been talk of spies from the start. Even before the war began. German waiters in popular restaurants or staff in hotels were accused of spying. Professors and clerics and students from Germany were suspected. Even men from the north of England, whose accents were unfamiliar, found themselves stopped and questioned by overzealous citizens and policemen. The English coastline, broken by a thousand river mouths and inlets and hidden beaches, was always rife with speculation about spies being landed from submarines or small boats that had escaped the notice of the Royal Navy. There were even tales of spies being lowered from Zeppelins on misty nights and disappearing into the countryside. But was any of it true? Seeing monsters under the bed was one thing, real spies quite another.

  “I don’t quite see what a spy has to gain,” I answered. “But if he exists, he must have spent some time in England. No one who spoke to this man we’re concerned with mentioned anything about him that would indicate that he was German. But there are his eyes, a very pale color. You’d think Berlin could find someone without any characteristic that would stand out.”

  “Yes, well, this spy hunt is of course a secret. I haven’t been told anything about it officially. And apparently Simon was only given enough information to carry out his foray. In fact, he was ordered not to question his prisoner. But between us, I think we’ve begun to piece together enough to worry both of us.”

  “Did he bring someone in?” I asked, curious.

  “He says he did, and that when he was wounded in a rearguard action, the Gurkhas split up, half the company getting Simon to an aid station against all orders, and the rest taking the prisoner in.”

  “They were to leave Simon?” I asked, shocked.

  “They were to see that there were no wounded left behind who could be questioned by the Germans.” My father’s voice was grim.

  Which meant that they were to kill any wounded who were in the way. It was a measure of their respect for the Sergeant-Major that they had disobeyed that order. It explained too why the Gurkhas left him at the nearest aid station and then vanished.

  I bit my lip, trying to see where my father was going with this. “What are we to do?”

  My father was studying the sky, watching a few scudding clouds that had appeared on the horizon, just visible now from under the leafy shelter of the trees.

  The Colonel Sahib turned to me. “A single man, this spy. A single target? If he didn’t come for information—troop movements and the like, where the next attack might come—then he came for someone.”

  “Who?” I asked. “Who in France is irreplaceable?”

  “If he were in the American lines, I’d say one of their commanders. Surely they’re the biggest threat to the Germans just now.”

  “But he isn’t behind the American lines. And he passes himself off as a Colonel.”

  “Hmm,” my father said.

  And then I knew. Or thought I did. Just as my father said under his breath, “The Prince of Wales.”

  He wasn’t allowed to fight. But he visited the Front often enough, and he was very popular with the men.

  “What good would that do? How would it affect the war?” I went on. “And not to be unfeeling about it, the Prince does have other brothers.”

  “It would shock the country, hurt morale.”

  It was hard to believe, all the same. And yet I couldn’t think of anyone else who was as popular as the Prince.

  “I can’t believe—he and the Kaiser are cousins!” I said, still arguing with myself.

  “What the Army does and the Kaiser knows might not be the same. Of course it’s possible that our problem and Simon’s aren’t connected—they seem to be because we know only a part of the story. Are you willing to beard a lion in its den?”

  “A lion?” I asked warily.

  “There are seven sons in the Morton family. Will was the actor, the others were miners and farmers. Respectable enough men, five of them. I shouldn’t think they’re a problem to themselves or others. And then there’s Hugh. He was closest to Will, or so my sources tell me, and he was a union leader before the war, best known for hiring several rather disreputable men to enforce his will. At the moment, he’s missing from his unit in France. He has been since his brother was reported dead. He could have killed Carson. He could be dead himself. But we need to know. And as quickly as may be.”

  “Could Hugh Morton impersonate an officer?” I asked doubtfully. If he had been a union leader, he knew something about charming and haranguing his followers, but those were not the skills that would help him carry off such a charade.

  “If there’s one actor in the family, I don’t see why another brother couldn’t have a talent in that direction. For all we know, he might be even more talented and simply chose not to use it. Take young Barclay with you. The best approach is that you are concerned for young Sabrina. Find out, if you can, which sons can be accounted for. I don’t think we’re going to find that Hugh is our man. He’s dead, very likely, just as William is. Still, if he’s our killer, then we have nothing to do with this spy business and can safely leave it to those who are involved.”

  “What if Hugh is there? In Wales?” I asked.

  “He isn’t. I can almost guarantee that. How is he going to get out of France? What I want to know is if the family mourns him. Or if they consider him still ali
ve.”

  “And Simon?”

  “He’s best where he is. I don’t think Dr. Gaines will let him slip through his fingers.” He looked toward the clinic again, and I read the emotions flitting across his face. Worry, doubt, and a stronger feeling, anger. He had never left one of his men behind. Of course Simon had known the risk. To my father, it made no difference.

  He left soon after that, and later in the evening, I asked Dr. Gaines if I could borrow his motorcar and of course Captain Barclay on my next free afternoon.

  I was given permission and went to ask Captain Barclay if he would accompany me. He’d been avoiding me. Not quite making it obvious, but he hadn’t been seeking out my company the way he had before he’d become Barclay the orderly. One of the sisters had commented that I’d lost my beau to someone else.

  He said, shaking his head as I told him I needed an escort, “I let you down in France.”

  “My father asked if I’d take you to Wales with me. He must not agree.”

  “Hardly the most dangerous place in the kingdom.”

  “It could well be. All right, I’ll go alone if I must.” I’d been a witness to his attempt to trick Dr. Gaines with the butcher’s paper and it must have stung. I realized that this was not the best time to ask a favor.

  Almost as if in response to what I’d just been thinking, he turned his head away and stared out the open door. “I’m useless. To the Army. To you. To myself. It’s appalling to think of my men dying in France while I’m forced to pace the floor here in an effort to strengthen a leg that might as well have been amputated for all the good it is to me.”

  I read something in his face that I hadn’t seen before. Despair. And that worried me.

  “Useless?” I said sternly, in my best imitation of Matron’s brisk tone. “That’s self-pity, Captain, and I’ll not have it. Buck up, young man, and fight for what you want. If it’s so important to you.”

  In spite of his depressed spirits, he couldn’t help but smile.

  I smiled in return and added in my own voice, “I expect I simply wanted your company again.”

  After a moment, he shook his head, not in refusal this time but in surrender. “Yes, of course I’ll go with you. Do you have another wonder to show me?”

  With that he walked away, limping more lightly on his cane than he himself could see. With a pang, I recognized that he would have his wish and return to France in a matter of weeks. If he didn’t give in to his despair before then and do something rash.

  I waited until late in the evening, when I’d finished my duties, and then went to sit with Simon for a little. He was sleeping, his breathing quiet, his skin cool, without fever.

  It was impossible to think of Simon Brandon being sent behind enemy lines, knowing that if he were severely wounded, he would be killed by his own men. It took incredible courage. Still, he had a strong sense of duty, as did my father. But even my father had been angry at the waste his death would have been.

  I just didn’t know whether the spy behind the lines or one of the Morton family was the person behind my own brushes with death. But if it was the spy, then his thoroughness in eliminating anyone who could identify him was his very survival.

  And what would Simon Brandon say if he learned that I’d already encountered the very spy he himself had been sent behind the German lines to uncover?

  I said nothing to Simon about the death of Nurse Saunders. I just watched his slow improvement and encouraged him to rest as much as he could. And since he’d spoken to my father, his mind seemed to be at peace, as if duty done, he could now think about his need to recover.

  When Thursday arrived, Dr. Gaines remembered that he’d agreed to let me take his motorcar for the day. I hadn’t said anything more to Captain Barclay, but after breakfast he reported to the doctor and was sent to join me as I came down the stairs to the foyer of the house.

  It was a fine day, and we drove through the countryside of Somerset and into the Marches of Wales, the border country that had known its own struggles in the past but today was peaceful. Rolling hills and pastures, villages tucked in their lees, narrow streams and the occasional stand of trees marked the landscape. We stopped briefly to eat the picnic that the kitchen had provided, and I was reminded, painfully, of the picnic Simon had arranged as a backdrop for his encouraging me to stay in Britain and not return to France. I couldn’t help but wonder what would have changed if I’d taken his advice and never gone back to the battlefields.

  I must have sighed, for Captain Barclay, finishing his sandwich, looked across at me and asked, “There’s more on your mind than a simple outing in pretty countryside.”

  And so I told him about the Morton family. He’d known some of the story, but not about Hugh or about the other brothers who had fought for King and Country.

  “You feel the father will tell you where his son is?”

  “I don’t know whether he will or not. But you can judge, can’t you, how people mourn? Perhaps the way he says the name. Or the way he looks when he speaks of Will and his relationship with Hugh. Whatever that was. Good or not.”

  “What possible excuse can you find for prying into a family’s losses?”

  “Actually, there’s a little more to it than that.” And so I told him also about Sabrina and the life she was living now in Fowey. “She told me Will Morton’s family had asked her to come to them. Perhaps she should. But there’s no way of knowing, is there, until I’ve seen them for myself.”

  “You can’t make other people’s decisions for them.”

  “Of course I can’t. I won’t. Still, if the family really cares about Will’s son, perhaps they should go to Fowey themselves, rather than simply write a letter.” I shook my head. “Look, if Hugh isn’t a murderer, all well and good. If he is, I’m certainly not going to ask a young widow to go and stay with his family.”

  The Captain smiled grimly. “All right. God knows, if it’s Hugh Morton we’ve been dodging all along, I’d just as soon know of it. I owe him for what he did to you and to me.”

  We repacked the remnants of the picnic and drove on to the small village of Helwynn, where I’d been told the Mortons lived.

  It was picturesque in its own way, running up from a small stream to the crest of a hill, a smattering of houses and shops, a stone chapel with a short steeple, and several outlying farms that lay like patchwork across the stream.

  We stopped the motorcar in front of a small baker’s shop, and I went inside to begin my inquiries. The woman behind the counter stared at me in my uniform, and then her face seemed to freeze.

  “Can I help you, then, Sister?” she asked, her voice that of Wales, as well as her dark hair and eyes, her fine skin, and her straight back.

  “Hello,” I said with a warm smile. “I was traveling through and I remembered a family that I’d known who lived here. The Mortons. Are they still here?”

  “Those that’re left,” she said. “Seven sons Ross sent to war. It hasn’t been easy for him.”

  “No, I expect not. It’s Will I knew. Well, his wife. He was the actor, wasn’t he?”

  “He was.”

  “Could you tell me how to find his father? Ross Morton?”

  “He lives on the farm you can see across the little stone bridge. Nobody to work it for him now. Most of the fields fallow or given to cattle. There’s still money in milk and butter.”

  From the look of her wares, I found it easy to believe that.

  We were all obligated to give to the war effort in some fashion. But sometimes in the smallest villages, the food they could produce barely sufficed to feed the people living there. Although it was sometimes hard to convince the men who procured hides for shoes and meat for rations, and other goods for the Army. They had quotas, and the needs of people compared to the needs of the Army were often unimportant.

  I thanked her, bought two small buns for our tea, the Captain’s and mine, and left the shop.

  Several small boys had clustered around the motor
car, leaning in to look at it, asking questions about how it ran and where it had come from. The Captain, with that easy American way of his, was letting them persuade him to lift the bonnet and show them the motor when I came out the shop door.

  The boys stood back to stare at me, and I said, “Go on, open the bonnet.”

  Captain Barclay got out to do just that, but when they saw his limp, their questions were about the war and his wound, the motorcar forgotten.

  “My Da had his head blown off,” one told the Captain ghoulishly. “They couldn’t find it, however hard they searched. So he’s buried without it.”

  “A pity,” the Captain answered. “All right, off with you. See you mind your mothers. They have enough to worry about without your adding to it.”

  They nodded, but I doubted they’d remember the lesson half an hour on.

  I saw the small school as we went back down the hill to search for the stone bridge. It was scarcely wide enough to pass over, but we managed, and the Captain whistled. “Oh, well done,” he said, turning to me after making certain the wings were still part of the motorcar.

  A sign on the far side of the bridge read in faded green letters, PEACE AND PLENTY FARM.

  We came shortly into the muddy farmyard where half a dozen black-and-white milk cows with bursting udders had come in on their own, ready for the afternoon milking. They turned to stare at us with their large brown eyes, and then their attention was caught by the man who had just stepped out of the barn.

  “Lost, are you?” he asked, wiping his hands on a bunch of straw.

  I gave our names, then said, “I was hoping to find Ross Morton. Is this his farm?”

  He was still, like the woman in the shop, wondering if I brought bad news with me.

  I said quickly, “I’m a friend of Sabrina Morton’s. Your daughter-in-law. I thought perhaps I should stop, for her sake.”

  “Sabrina, is it?” he asked, moving away from the barn. A big man, taller even than Captain Barclay, broad of chest and shoulders, he added, “Have you seen the boy?”