A Casualty of War

by Charles Todd

  “Yes,” he said quietly, offering no other information. Simon’s war had been no less dangerous but far more complicated than that of Lieutenant Travis.

  “Then you’ll understand what courage he displayed. And he was a reluctant soldier, you know. He didn’t really want to go to war. But he was among the first to enlist. Duty and all that. His father had served in the Boer War, and his grandfather was in the Crimea. The Travises always served their country in its hour of need.”

  She turned back to me. “There’s a memorial to him in the nave. He’s buried in France, of course.”

  “Did he have brothers? Was he married?” I asked, since she was happy to talk to us.

  “Sadly, no to both questions. His sister died in childhood, and he was the last of the direct line.” She shifted the greenery. “He was to marry the nicest young woman from Long Melford. We all liked her. He said the war would be over by Christmas, and she was to plan for a Christmas wedding. But of course it wasn’t, far from it, and she saw him only once after that, when he was wounded the first time.”

  “You mentioned a house. Who lives there now?”

  “At present, only his mother. She’s not well—I think James’s death took the life out of her. He was her earth and sun and sky.” Something in the way she spoke of Mrs. Travis’s loss made me wonder if she’d lost someone she loved too.

  “Did he have cousins who were close?”

  “Sadly, no. Well, if I can help you any further, I’ll be in the church. Do feel free to come and find me.”

  I thanked her, and she walked on. She went in the porch on our side of the church, and I heard the great wooden door scrape across the floor as it opened and then closed behind her.

  “There seems to be little doubt that he’s dead. James Travis.”

  Simon, still looking toward the church, said, “No. They wouldn’t have made a mistake about that. There would have been too many men who witnessed what happened.”

  I moved on through the gravestones, looking at them so that I wouldn’t have to look at Simon. Here was a newer one, dated 1915, with the name Hugh Travis. The size of the stone and the dates indicated he might have been James’s father or uncle.

  “Then Captain Travis couldn’t have been shot by his cousin James.”

  “No,” Simon said again. “It’s not likely.” He followed me among the stones. “What will you do now?”

  I looked up at the fine slate roof of the church. “I hate the thought of going back and telling him that it couldn’t have happened the way he claims it did. That James couldn’t possibly have shot him. Either time. You didn’t see him, Simon. It was rather awful.”

  “I understand. Do you want to go inside the church and look at the memorial to James?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet. Perhaps later on in the afternoon.”

  There was no point in continuing to stroll through the gravestones. Not now. I walked on, to the lane that passed in front of the church and what appeared to be alms cottages close by the churchyard. The broad stretch of the green lay on the other side of the lane.

  Several large trees grew there, standing well spaced across the greensward and spreading beautifully. Specimens, really. One was a maple, another an oak, I thought. The leaves had gone with the autumn, and the branches were like arms reaching into the watery sky.

  “They must be beautiful in the summer,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  The green sloped down to the main road, the High, and we followed the lane to where it ended there.

  I stood at the corner of the green, looking at the monument to the Great War that had been erected there. It was only in wood, and not weathered, the names apparently added as these men were reported dead, for there was no particular order, officers and other ranks given by the date of their deaths. Tall and slender, it rose above what looked liked the remains of pansies, planted there when it was dedicated and already touched by frost.

  Pansies. For remembrance.

  I took a deep breath.

  Simon, beside me, asked quietly, “Are you in love with Captain Travis, Bess?”

  Surprised, I turned to look at him. He was quite serious.

  “I don’t think so,” I said slowly. Behind us, the church bells marked the hour. “It’s mostly pity I feel. I met him when he was very different, and in a hurry to rejoin his men. We talked about our families, and the war. He was interesting, he had a fine sense of humor—we joked about camels—and I enjoyed that. Well, most of the men I saw were wounded, and they were in pain, their worlds shrunk to a single question, whether they were to live or die. Or they were doctors as tired and worried as I was. And there was Barbados. I knew so little about the island, except where to find it on a map. He had photographs of his home. In a way it was like talking to someone before the war. I expect that’s why I tried to do something about his—his certainty that someone had tried to kill him.”

  Simon said nothing.

  “I was being sent to a forward aid station, to replace a nurse who had tried to kill herself. Everyone was upset, unsettled by what had happened. It was my duty to do what I could to help them put it behind them. And so that short time in the canteen was in a way my escape from what was to come.”

  I had turned back to look at the memorial, and he came up behind me to put a hand on my shoulder. I could feel its warmth through my coat, and it was comforting.

  “There’s a shop just there that serves tea,” he said after a moment. “I think we could both use a cup against the cold.”

  I looked across the road and saw it, very upright with long windows on the ground floor and shorter ones on the floor above. It was quiet and interesting and just what I needed.

  And so we crossed the road after waiting for a farm cart to lumber by. I could see villagers near the other shops, doing their marketing, but we had this little island of peace to ourselves.

  Simon opened the door for me, and above his head a bell tinkled musically. The shop was empty.

  A woman stepped into the room and smiled. She had dark hair and a round face, with a round figure to match. “Choose any table you like. Tea, is it?”

  “Yes, please,” I said.

  “I’ll just put the kettle on,” she replied. “It won’t be a moment.”

  It was the oddest tearoom I’d ever been in. Many such establishments sold tea in bulk and teapots and cozies and the like. Instead, here there were other treasures. Among them were a tray of pins, most of them to decorate a woman’s hat or to wear in her lapel, a sizable bronze elephant, a wooden model of an English tank, a set of silver goblets, and half a dozen quite pretty pictures of the seaside. A jar below them held a collection of thimbles, and there was a stack of crockery next to it, all in a pattern that looked very much like Spode.

  I smiled and went to look at the various items on display while Simon took one of the small tables.

  The woman came back, carrying a black lacquer tray with a white teapot, cups and saucers, a jug of milk, and a small jar of honey. Seeing me looking at her wares, she set the tray down in front of Simon, then said to me, “I’m like a magpie. Wherever I go, I find something to buy, and then I have no idea what to do with it. And so I put it out here, and hope that someone else will like it.”

  “And do they?” I asked as I came back to join Simon.

  “Oh, yes. But then I find more. My husband says I should close the tea shop and simply sell my treasures. There are days when I agree with him. It’s been difficult these past four years, with hardly anything to use for baking. Sugar was the first to go, then flour was in short supply. I ran out of sultanas and spices, but I was all right with eggs, because we kept hens. And I love to bake. Cakes and tarts and biscuits and breads. Oh well, the war is finished. In time, we’ll have everything we need.”

  I hoped she was right, but my father had said that even with the war at sea ended, ships that had been converted to carry men and equipment must be retooled. It would be a while before the merchant fleet recover
ed.

  We drank our tea, and I spotted the sweetest little owl, porcelain and quite nicely done. I bought it for Mrs. Hennessey, to set in the glass cabinet where she kept her favorite things.

  We were just finishing when the shop owner asked, “What brings you to Sinclair? We don’t see that many strangers.”

  “I’d heard about it from friends, and I thought it might be interesting to see. Can you tell me where to find the Travis manor house? We met the Vicar’s wife in the churchyard, and she told us about it.”

  “It’s not open,” she warned us. “Mrs. Travis has become quite the recluse. But you can see it from the road. It’s not very old, of course. I’m sure Mrs. Caldwell told you that.”

  “Yes, she was giving us a little local history, including that of the Travis family.”

  “So sad about James Travis. My daughter thought she was in love with him, when she was fifteen. That was before she met Archie, of course. She would race to the window to see James pass by. He cut quite a handsome figure on horseback, but the girls went mad when they saw him in uniform. As you’d expect.” She smiled. “As a lad he’d come here to buy gypsy tarts for his mother. Such a nice little boy, well mannered and thoughtful.”

  It was Simon who asked the question.

  “I understand he was an only child. How is the estate left, now that he’s dead? Do you know?”

  “It’s rather a muddle. As you’d expect, James was his father’s heir, but Mr. Travis insisted on leaving lifetime rights in The Hall to his wife, with an income to keep the house up. Of course, at her death, it would revert to James. There has been a great deal of speculation about James’s will. And, I’m told, more than a little controversy. One rumor has it that the heir is serving in France. If that’s true, he should be coming home now the war’s finished. Another story making the rounds is that the heir is from an island somewhere in the Caribbean Sea, and he can’t get to England because of the war. Miss Fredericks overheard Mrs. Travis swear that she’ll burn down the house before he sets foot in it. There’s said to be bad blood between this branch of the Travis family and the one out there.”

  “Is there indeed?” I asked, surprised.

  “Oh, yes. The story my grandmother told me was that a younger son ran off with his brother’s intended wife.”

  I stared at her. “Is this true?”

  “I’m sure it must be,” she said, nodding, her blue eyes quite serious. “To make matters worse, the younger brother went into trade. My grandmother said the elder brother forbade anyone to mention his brother’s name in his presence ever again.”

  Simon commented, “He must have recovered enough to marry and continue the line.”

  “I expect he married a cousin. I doubt it was a love match, under the circumstances, but they had three sons and a daughter.”

  I tried not to smile. “Then I’m surprised that there aren’t other heirs.”

  She shook her head. “The daughter died of the sweating sickness, and two of the boys were lost at sea before they were twenty. You can see the brass plaques in the church.”

  “But if Mrs. Travis refuses to accept this man, what becomes of the estate? Can she leave it elsewhere?”

  “She says she will.”

  “But to whom?” Simon asked.

  “Now that’s a very good question. Nobody in Sinclair knows.”

  “I’m surprised,” I said, “that the legal issues haven’t been settled long ago. Whether Mrs. Travis agrees or not. A will must be probated, regardless of what the heirs might wish.”

  “Her solicitor is terrified of her.” She grinned. “Everyone knows that.”

  The bell over the door announced a new customer, a slim woman with a little girl by the hand. “Good morning, Mrs. Horner,” the woman said in greeting, and the shop’s owner excused herself to speak to her.

  Simon left the amount we owed on the table, and we thanked Mrs. Horner as we stepped out the door.

  “What do you make of that?” Simon asked.

  “I shouldn’t think that could be anyone else but Captain Travis. Still, he never said anything about inheriting the estate here. He’s never been to Sinclair. On the contrary, he seemed to be quite content to return to Barbados and take up his life again.”

  “Mrs. Travis may still have the solicitor too terrified to defy her.”

  “No wonder she’s become a recluse,” I said. “She must feel besieged.”

  “It’s not our problem,” Simon replied. “But I wonder if she’s aware—or if the solicitor knows—that the possible Travis heir is now in hospital and considered to be a dangerous madman.”

  “Oh, great heavens,” I said. “That might well be the case. The solicitor would make it his business to know. But that still doesn’t explain why Captain Travis wasn’t notified that he’s the heir. Legally, whether Mrs. Travis allowed it or not, the solicitor would be required to carry out his responsibility to the estate.” Another possibility occurred to me. “Do you suppose this heir in the Caribbean was someone else, and we’ve jumped to conclusions?”

  “It could be that the heir serving in France and the heir in the islands are one and the same, but the gossips haven’t realized that yet. I wonder when Lieutenant Travis’s father died,” Simon said thoughtfully as we walked back toward The George.

  “I think I saw his grave in the churchyard—the large stone. If that was the right Travis, he died in 1915. His name was Hugh.”

  “Which means James would have been notified that he was the heir while he was still in France. And he’d have to make out a new will.”

  “I’m sure he must have done. It must be a sizable estate, not something left to chance. His family solicitor would have insisted on that.” We had nearly reached The George, but we stood there in the road, talking, unwilling to discuss this inside. The wind whipped around my feet and tugged at my cap. I shivered.

  “Yes. The question is, why did James choose his cousin in Barbados? If that’s what he did. I expect the solicitor initially tried to find the heir in the islands, but the Captain was in France by that time. It might have taken a while to track the man down.”

  “We can’t very well walk into the solicitor’s chambers and ask him what he’s done and what he hasn’t. But I can tell you that when I first met the Captain, he said nothing about any change in his circumstances. I’ll wager you he hadn’t been told.”

  Simon looked back the way we’d come, toward the tea shop. “Did you see anything there among those items on display that you might want to consider as a gift for your mother?”

  I blinked.

  He laughed. “Any excuse to go back there this afternoon and resume our chat with Mrs. Horner.”

  “There was a lovely little rose pin. Yes. I think Mother might like that.”

  “Now let’s get in out of this wind.” And he went to open the door to The George.

  Chapter 9

  But the tea shop was closed when we returned.

  Surprised, I said, “The notice in the window gives the hours as ten through five.” Cupping my hand around my eyes, I peered through the glass. “It’s tidy. Just as it was when we were there. I can’t imagine she was taken ill.”

  Stepping back, I looked toward the empty green and then toward the row of shops across from The George, where one or two people were still on the street.

  “The woman who came in had a child with her. Perhaps she was a friend and they went upstairs to visit.”

  I shook my head. “No, look, there she is, just going into the general store.”

  He followed my gaze. “You’re right.”

  “Well. So much for Mrs. Horner. What shall we do now?”

  “Have a look inside the church?”

  A very good idea. We crossed the street, walked up the lane that ran between the houses and the green, and came to the churchyard. By the gate let into the flint and stone wall, we stopped to look at the notice board. It informed us that this was the Church of St. Mary the Virgin, and the Vicar was one M
ichael Caldwell. Below, the hours of services were indicated.

  Tonight was Evensong.

  The Vicar’s wife had entered the church through the porch door, and we did the same, finding that it was unlocked.

  It was quite lovely inside, open and airy. The ceiling soared above us, brightly lit by the tall clerestory. The slender columns were in clusters, and the west window above the altar was enormous. Above it arched a splendid barrel ceiling in wood.

  I could see the greenery that Mrs. Caldwell had placed in tall vases by the altar. They were tastefully arranged, with branches trailing around them as if they were still living and spreading on their own.

  A very ornate baptismal font stood in one corner.

  In the stone floor of the nave, memorial brasses marked the resting place of generations of Travis men and sometimes their wives. Simon and I walked down them and looked at the dates. Here were Captain Travis’s English ancestors, going back centuries. There were none of the tall standing Tudor tombs of the medieval period with their painted figures, but you couldn’t come into this church without learning, very quickly, the name of the village’s most prominent family.

  Simon touched my arm and pointed.

  On the wall of the aisle was a large brass plaque, the memorial to James Clifton Alan Talbot Travis, with his dates, his rank and regiment, and the battle in which he’d died.

  One didn’t put up such memorials unless the person was dead . . .

  He had been only twenty-nine.

  There would be no tomb in the stone floor for Lieutenant Travis.

  The war had taken most of England’s youth and buried them in foreign soil.

  Just beyond, farther down the nave wall, I saw the plaques to the two Travis brothers who had been lost at sea. No tomb in the floor either, for Andrew and Richard.