‘The rest is simple. I needed a new job and a new life, and I found both here at Sunset Ridge.’ He walked towards her.
Lily moved away, her hands clanging the keys of the piano as she backed into it. ‘I want you to leave. I have already advertised for a new manager.’ He was close enough for his breath to waft across her skin.
‘Why do I have to leave?’ His voice was low. ‘I was falsely accused of forcing myself on a woman, when in fact the attraction was quite mutual. I’ve spent two years on the run because of it.’ His fingers traced the length of her arm. ‘I’ve done a good job here for you, Mrs Harrow.’
‘Go,’ she pleaded. His eyes were a cool grey with flecks of blue. How could she have entertained even the slightest thought regarding this man?
‘You’re a spirited woman, Mrs Harrow. I can be discreet, at least until your husband is mentally beyond caring.’
When he leaned towards Lily, her scream was loud and shrill. In the distance, yells and the sound of hasty footsteps were heard in response. A door slammed. Lily pushed against the strength of the man and slapped at the hard, determined face. Behind them the music room door was flung open and G.W. charged towards them. The man known as Nathanial Taylor was jolted sideways. With a mighty roar, her husband lifted the mahogany walking stick and brought it down hard upon him. Again and again he bashed the manager like a madman.
It was Cook who stopped the thrashing. The woman yelled until G.W.’s arm stilled and the bloody walking stick lay next to the senseless body, next to the bloodied face.
‘My Lily, my darling Lily.’ G.W.’s arms encircled her.
Burying her face in his shoulder, Lily wept.
The maid was sent to find a mirror and on her return Cook placed the glass above the manager’s mouth, waiting for the mist of condensation that would prove he lived. Cook inspected the result and turned to the Harrows, who were consoling each other.
‘Is he alive?’ G.W. asked.
‘Mr Harrow,’ Cook swallowed noisily, ‘you’ve done murder.’
Flanders, Belgium
September 1917
The soldier was ensnared in the barbed wire. Roland flattened his body on the ground as rifle-fire struck the earth only feet away. He tugged relentlessly at the young soldier, yet something held him fast. Whimpering, Roland continued to pull at the weight, straining against the pain until finally the wire gave way and Roland fell back, losing his grip on the man’s shoulder. He sniffed cautiously at his leg, licking at the bloody wound, and then turned his attention back to his task.
Snuffling at the inert body, Roland opened his jaw and clamped it hard near the collar bone. His hind legs gained purchase in the dirt and very slowly he began to drag the man towards safety. Their progress was laborious. There were bodies to detour and the pitted ground yawned at him, revealing cavernous holes. At the edge of a crater he dragged the soldier to the lip and over the edge, watching him tumble down the walls. Roland whined at the tangle of arms and legs, at the sound of men groaning, then he put his head down and raced back towards his master.
Captain Harrison was attending to a neck wound when he felt the dog’s wet nose on his cheek. They were in the reserve trench behind the front-line from where the Australians had attacked. Only God knew if the brass’s objectives had been reached; even if they had, once again it came at too great a cost. Captain Harrison called for stretcher-bearers and then patted Roland. The dog panted heavily. The sides of his muzzle were torn and bleeding and there was a great ragged tear down his flank and barbed wire caught around a front leg.
‘Roland, what have you done?’ Captain Harrison called for wire snippers, and one of the walking wounded came to assist.
‘It looks like he’s been out past the barbed wire to the other side.’ Roland sat patiently as the Australian soldier carefully cut the wire from around his hairy leg and then pulled the embedded spikes clear of his flesh. ‘Jeez, Captain, I think I got it all but I really can’t be sure; it’s too dark.’
Captain Harrison examined the cut on Roland’s flank. ‘You silly mutt. You’re not meant to go into no-man’s land – we promised Francois.’ He wound a length of bandage around the damaged leg as Roland licked the captain’s hand. ‘I suppose you’ve got wounded out there?’ The dog barked. Captain Harrison scratched his head. Not once since their temporary partnership began had he let Roland near no-man’s land. It was dangerous enough working in the forward positions. ‘Can you round up a few men for a rescue party?’ he asked the soldier.
‘There are men out looking already, sir. We haven’t any officers left and we’re missing a whole platoon, including the captain.’
Roland nudged Captain Harrison in the leg and then limped away, urging him to follow.
‘Best you wait here, Captain,’ the soldier suggested. ‘Fritz has something on the boil.’
Captain Harrison hesitated. While his responsibilities did not include risking his life out in no-man’s land, neither did they allow him to shirk his duty if he knew wounded men were in need of his care. The dog placed his paw on the captain’s boot. If the stories about this great ungainly dog were true, Roland would lead them to the wounded, and it appeared that that was what they were both here for. ‘Well, we better be quick, then.’
With his injury Roland couldn’t clamber up the trench wall, so the captain helped him up the ladder and out of the trench and together they walked carefully to the front-line. The diggers were talking in muted voices, sentries had been posted, and although it was quiet these men stood with their rifles at the ready. Sliding down into the trench, Captain Harrison held out his arms for Roland. The dog slithered down the wall into his arms and the man nearly buckled under the weight.
‘You’re a bit far from the casualty clearing station, aren’t you, mate?’ an Australian sentry whispered.
The captain peered over the trench wall. ‘They afford me a bit of flexibility. Any sign of the rescue party?’
‘Nothing. They could be pinned down. The worst of it is that the wounded have been out there in the sun all day and half of the night. Fritz hasn’t been very cooperative today,’ the sentry explained, petting Roland. ‘We saw your dog out there. One of the men reckoned they saw him dragging a body across the battlefield, but we figured he had the willies.’
Captain Harrison crouched on the ground and examined Roland’s leg. ‘Do you think you can take me out there, Roland? Just one more time?’
Roland placed a paw on the captain’s boot.
‘Good boy.’
‘But, sir, you can’t go out there,’ the digger complained, ‘not with a dog. Fritz might be quiet at the moment but they’ve re-taken their trenches.’
Roland stood up on his hind legs and rested his paws on the earthen trench wall.
‘Will you cover us, Private? Cover me and my dog?’
The sentry scratched at cheek stubble. ‘That dog isn’t –’
Captain Harrison nodded. ‘Yes, it is. It’s the French war dog, Roland.’
The sentry appeared mesmerised. Reaching out a hand, he tentatively patted Roland between the ears. ‘Is it true what they say about him?’
The captain looked at the dog by his side and then out across no-man’s land. ‘I hope so. So what do you say, Private?’
‘I reckon we can give you a hand.’ Introducing himself as Walker, the sentry ordered the resting men to stand-to. Within seconds thirty rifles were positioned over the sandbags.
Captain Harrison lifted Roland over the top of the trench as a rush of nerves cramped his stomach. He’d never been out in no-man’s land. He climbed up the ladder. The private followed, rifle at the ready.
Roland sniffed the wind and then limped out across no-man’s land. Once out in the open they kept low to the ground. Although the occasional burst of rifle-fire echoed over the damaged land it was eerily quiet. The squeak of leather and the gentle whack
of the medical kit slapping his back sounded inordinately loud to the captain, as did the private keeping pace beside him. The man’s breath came in ragged gasps that told of damaged lungs. The ground rose and fell in a patchwork of lumps and holes and they stumbled frequently under the cover of a cloudy night. When a flare went up they fell to the ground and waited, Roland crouched beside them, the men’s breath catching in their throats until the land became dark again.
Roland veered left and then straightened, heading deeper into no-man’s land. For a moment Captain Harrison believed that the dog intended to continue towards the barbed wire but instead the animal veered left again and stopped at the edge of a shell crater. The captain and private crawled on their stomachs to the edge and looked inside as a flare went up. In the ghoulish green light they made out the bodies of at least twenty Australian soldiers. They lay scattered like rag dolls, their arms and legs intertwined.
The private’s eyes rounded like organ stops. ‘Christ Almighty,’ he whispered, looking at the men in the hole. ‘How the hell did they all get in there?’ Very slowly he turned to the mongrel dog at his side.
Captain Harrison thought of all the stories he’d heard regarding the dog and he swallowed noisily as he patted Roland and then skidded down into the pit. Most of the men appeared to be alive. ‘They’re nearly all here,’ the private muttered, joining him. ‘Look, there are two of the Harrow boys and . . . Jeez, I thought they’d all bought it for sure. The last time I saw them they were making a run for it. Fritz had them cornered in one of their machine-gun nests and they let off a whizz-bang directly overhead.’
The captain looked up to where Roland crouched at the rim of the crater. The dog had breached the wire somehow, managing to rescue these men from the German lines. ‘I need you to go back and form another rescue party,’ he told the private. ‘Then get back out here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
As the private climbed from the crater Captain Harrison began to examine the wounded, doing what he could to ease their suffering. Some would not make it; others had a chance. Above, Roland gave a soft whine, his flinty-eyed stare penetrating the dark. Then he disappeared. A few minutes later a series of blasts echoed across the battlefield.
Banyan, south-west Queensland, Australia
September 1917
Wallace ‘Snob’ Evans did not consider himself to be a mercenary man. The altercation with Luther Harrow the previous year may have turned him sour against the world for a short time, but since then, under his father’s guidance, he had prospered despite inclination. The compensation due him for the loss suffered to his finger allowed certain renovations to be done to the family home and in return his father supported him when he decided to go into business. It wasn’t a hard decision when it came to choosing a career. With the opportunity to fight for his country denied by his maiming, Snob understood that he was one of the fortunate few to be granted a reprieve from the carnage. Business suited him, especially the type that required little manual labour.
There were negative aspects to his choice of profession. However, he was adamant when he purchased a quarter-share in the funeral home that the ancient undertaker, Mr Mortimer, would not take advantage of him. He was prepared to receive and discharge bodies from the home and handle all necessary arrangements with relatives, especially when it came to the sale of caskets and linings and the choice of stationery for funeral cards. The addition of a biblical verse was an added service that he saw to personally and was proving to be popular. Other than that, Snob drew the line at going to the cemetery. The place gave him the creeps.
This afternoon he was awaiting the arrival of the constabulary. He knew through experience they would probably be delayed, which meant an internment tomorrow and a smelly one at that for the gravediggers. He could, of course, have called in Mr Mortimer; after all, the deceased he was waiting on had been murdered – despite Constable Roberts’ report – and the old undertaker was particularly fond of the more gruesome type of injuries. Today, however, Snob wanted to witness what the Harrows had done this time.
Initially Snob had not been inclined to accept the man into the funeral home. There were two vital criteria that every prospective client must meet before entry was granted through the rear of his establishment. First, the person in question was required to be confirmed dead by the doctor – Snob refused to entertain another deceased person miraculously awaking as the body was being washed down – and second, they had to be moneyed. There were no free rides in this world, whether it be to heaven or hell.
This case, however, deserved attention. With the incident having occurred two days ago the village was agape at the news. It appeared that the manager of Sunset Ridge had attacked Mrs Harrow in her own home, the music room to be precise, which instantly awoke suspicion as to how the man managed to be in the homestead. Furthermore, with reports of G.W. Harrow having suffered a turn the previous year and the doctor confirming the man’s invalid status, the locals were astonished to discover that old G.W. had killed the manager in defence of his wife. It also appeared that Mr Nathanial Taylor, who wasn’t really Mr Nathanial Taylor, may or may not have killed another Sunset Ridge employee last year and assumed his identity. The whole event was far better than any work of fiction and would make Snob Evans quite the man of the hour for many weeks to come.
Snob opened the rear door to the funeral home as the dray halted in a squeal of gravel. He stood back as two men carried the cloth-covered body inside and arranged it on the table.
‘He’s all yours now, Mr Evans.’ Constable Roberts gave a nod towards the victim and handed Snob a copy of the death certificate. ‘All signed and sealed, and Mrs Harrow said that they would pay for a coffin.’
‘So, we have no name?’ Snob queried, checking the details of the death certificate. He could sense the constable’s discomfort. Mr Mortimer kept his rooms spotlessly clean yet there was always the faint sickly whiff of embalming fluid and his tools of trade for embalming, cleaning and suturing injuries sat next to the row of compounds that restored a more human appearance to the recently dead.
‘No, only the good word of the Harrows.’
‘Such as it is,’ Snob replied. ‘And the rumours of the murdered employee last year?’
‘If there is another body out there, no one would ever find it.’
‘And the verdict. Murder?’ he asked hopefully.
The constable pressed his shoulders back. ‘Self-defence. Mr Harrow was protecting his wife and his own person.’
Snob thanked the police constable and closed the door behind the men. Typical, he thought, lifting the cloth covering the body. The Harrows were beyond reproach once again. The deceased’s face was badly disfigured. Snob gave a grunt of distaste and gave the man’s pockets a cursory search, knowing that the constable would have pocketed anything valuable. The man’s coat appeared new and unstained, however, and Snob struggled to remove it from the stiffened corpse. A few days in the sun’s heat and the stink would be out of the material and it would fetch a pretty penny on the second-hand rack at the general store. Unlike Mr Mortimer, Snob drew the line at the extraction of gold fillings.
Snob was readying to close up and go in search of a village child to track down one of the gravediggers when he noticed the man’s boots. They were past their prime and the soles were holey. But his attention was caught by what appeared to be a piece of paper sticking out a scant inch from the side of a boot. With difficulty he tugged one boot free and then the other. Deciding against placing his hand inside, he took scissors and cut down the leather sides. There was paper at the bottom of each one. Wadding, no doubt, yet when he pulled the stuffing free and unfolded it he found himself looking at what appeared to be sketches. Those packed in the middle were the most recognisable, while the ones that lay closest to either the man’s foot or the leather sole were ruined. Snob flattened two of the works on the counter between the dead man’s feet and, noticing the in
itials written in charcoal, gave a satisfied grin.
It really was turning out to be an extraordinary week in the district, reflected Snob. First Mr Jackson was found near beaten to death outside the blacksmith’s, and now there had been murder at Sunset Ridge. Snob unlocked the cupboard that was home to his personal effects while at work and sat the sketches inside along with two silver fob watches, a locket and a pearl brooch. Although it would be some time before the items could be sold without arousing suspicion, he was content knowing that his nest egg was growing each year.
Temporary field hospital, France
October 1917
Sister Valois closed the soldier’s eyes and covered his face with the sheet. It was raining again, raining so hard that the battle known as Passchendaele was becoming a byword for horror. There were stories of maps rotting as they were held, of boots being sucked off by the ooze that infected every wound, and both men and animals sinking into the mud never to be seen again. With a sigh she called for an orderly to remove the body. The bombardier was a non-commissioned officer and was one of four soldiers to die under her care in the past seven hours. Today she had played myriad roles, from mother and lover to the delirious, to inadequate nurse and confessor, the weather having cancelled the priest’s visit.
She thought wistfully of Captain Harrison. In spite of the handful of moments they had spent together and the single chaste kiss he had given her at their last parting, she hoped for more and yet doubted his interest. The American was a kind man and generous of spirit, so it was possible he simply felt friendship for her, yet in the minutes before sleep overtook her at night intuition told her that theirs was a relationship that had every possibility of extending beyond a shared profession and a dog named Roland.
The wind changed direction and a spray of cool air and rain splattered the rich parquet flooring of the dining room. She tugged at the heavy window, careful not to slip on the floor. For a moment Sister Valois pressed her brow against the cold glass. Outside, the hospital grounds were empty, the sky a roll of grey cloud. A burial party crossed the patchy grass, their shovels slung across shoulders, faces downcast. The field hospital was full to capacity, food was short thanks to the boggy roads, and winter was coming again. How would they survive, she wondered, as two orderlies stretchered out the dead soldier. On passing she tucked the dead man’s hand under the sheet before reminding the orderlies not to tarry.
Sunset Ridge Page 41
