by Charles Todd
“We hope your wounds are healing well? Are you in any pain?”
“They are healing, Your Majesty, and the pain is bearable. I look forward to rejoining my regiment as soon as possible.”
The King nodded. “Your country is grateful for your courage and your fortitude. The Queen and I have visited so many hospitals, and we know the cost of this war. We wish you well, Sergeant. And a speedy recovery.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
The King turned to me. I wasn’t expecting to be noticed.
“Sister Crawford. Remember me to your father. I have known the Colonel for some time, and he has served his country well in this war.”
“Thank you, Sir. I shall be happy to tell him.”
The King nodded, and I moved the wheeled chair back to its original place as the next recipient was summoned to be decorated.
Sergeant Wilkins cast me an interested glance, then turned back to the ceremony. Some twenty minutes later, the audience was over. The King was escorted from the room, and then the men turned to meet their families and be congratulated, touched tearfully by wives and mothers, hands heartily shaken by their proud fathers.
There was no family to congratulate Sergeant Wilkins, and so I said the words for them.
He seemed surprised, then thanked me. I thought he was tiring, sitting for so long in his chair, cushions notwithstanding, and as I began to push him toward the tall double doors, they opened as if at a signal, and someone was there to see to it that we were guided to the portico and our motorcar summoned from the queue.
It was not until he was settled in the rear seat and we were moving sedately toward the opening Palace gates that Sergeant Wilkins said, “I didn’t know your father was a Colonel.”
“He’s retired from active service,” I said evasively.
“But he’s in uniform, he still serves his country. According to the King.” He turned to look at me as we passed through the gates.
Everyone was in uniform. Even the wounded had special ones to wear while recuperating to show the world they had done their duty.
Still, even though my father—and Simon—had left the regiment, because of their vast experience both of them had been recalled to duty in 1914, ostensibly to help in the training of badly needed new recruits with no military experience. Of course it went far beyond that, although not even my mother knew precisely what either of them did. More than once I’d encountered Simon in France, when he was on some mission or other.
“Yes, he was very happy when the Army found a use for him, although I daresay he’d have been much happier if they’d sent him back to the regiment,” I answered lightly. “I think he misses that.”
Whatever my father—and Simon—were doing to help King and Country, it was kept quiet. They appeared and disappeared without warning, and I knew it was not something to be talked about.
But Sergeant Wilkins didn’t say anything more.
We drove in silence to The Monarch Hotel, and there he was lifted once more into his chair and I wheeled him across Reception to the lift. Several people noticed us and there was a smattering of applause as we passed, an account of our afternoon having made the rounds.
The sergeant nodded his thanks, but I thought he would have preferred not to be such a center of attention. I’d found this to be true of many decorated men. They had done what they had done for their comrades, not for public acclaim.
The lift doors closed on us and he sighed with relief. “That was unexpected.”
“I’m sure the hotel was pleased to have you staying here.”
“I’m no hero,” he said sharply. “What I did had to be done. And there was an end to it.”
I didn’t answer him. The lift doors opened, and we moved down the passage to his room.
When I got him there, he said, “Don’t fuss. Please.”
“Your bandages are fresh. There’s a list of medications on the table. I’ll see what you ought to be taking just now.”
“Sister Crawford.”
I turned toward him.
“Please. I have a few friends who would like to step in tonight. Nothing more than a brief word. If I take my powders now, and rest awhile, will you allow me to speak to them? I’m returning to hospital tomorrow, early. It will be my only chance.”
“There’s your dinner,” I pointed out.
“I’m not hungry. I ate a very good breakfast and had an excellent lunch. Thompson saw to that. I’d rather just—these men were—I haven’t seen them since I was wounded and left France.” His voice cracked. “They recovered faster than I did, and they’re sailing themselves in a matter of days. Surely you understand?”
I wasn’t happy about this. Still, his wounds had healed well enough for him to make the journey to London. And there had been no one at the ceremony from his family. Perhaps seeing men he’d served with would be just the thing. Sometimes healing the body also meant healing the mind. Something was troubling him. It was in his eyes, in the lines about his mouth. And not just the grim lines of pain.
“There will be no drinking, no carousing.”
He smiled wryly. “I give you my word. Besides . . .” He shrugged. “It’s not a time for that, is it?”
With reluctance, I let him have his way. “I’ll come back at nine o’clock, shall I, to see if you need anything. And to give you your last powder. I’ll expect your friends to be gone by that time. You’ve a long day ahead of you tomorrow, traveling.”
“Better still, leave the next powder by my cup. I’ll take it after my friends go. You can trust me to do it right. God knows, I’ve been taking them long enough.”
I had the briefest frisson of fear. He wasn’t planning on doing himself harm, was he? The powders could kill, in the wrong amount.
As if he understood what I was thinking, he added, “I have every reason to live, Sister. I just have to heal first.”
It was against the rules to let him take his own powders. And I said as much.
“There’s your duty. I understand. All right, come in at nine o’clock if you must. I don’t mind.” There was resignation in his voice.
He’d been cooped up in hospital for months. And sometimes a little relaxation of the rules could give a patient a fresh start, renewing his belief in his recovery and his eventual return to duty. It was what so many of them wanted.
I warned, “If you’re foolish tonight, you could set back your recovery by weeks. Months even. You’ve come too far to take that risk.”
He said, his voice level and yet forceful, “A medal doesn’t buy me a place on a transport ship. Only the doctor can do that.”
It was reassuring. I took a deep breath. I was responsible for his welfare—but I was not his jailer.
I put the powder by his cup. Then I got him into bed, gave him his afternoon medicines, and handed him the book he’d been reading. “I’ll leave the lamp on beside your bed. When the last friend says good night, he can see to it for you, if you like. If he’s sober enough to find the door in the dark.”
Sergeant Wilkins laughed. “They’re not much for drinking. My friends. We’ve been through too much. Besides, it doesn’t help. Terry will probably be the last to leave. And he can find his way anywhere in the dark.”
“Good enough,” I replied, and then, with one last glance around, I started for the door.
“Could you move the water jug closer to hand? Several of those powders leave me thirsty.”
I moved the jug to where he could easily reach it, and he lifted his good hand in a friendly wave, settling back against his pillows as I walked to the door.
I closed it behind me, and went on down the passage to my own room.
Simon was waiting there for me.
“Did it go well? The ceremony?”
“Very well.” I told him what had transpired, and then added what the King had had to say about the Colonel Sahib.
Simon smiled. “He’ll be pleased. Shall I tell him, or will you?”
“I don’t think I’l
l see him before I sail. I leave very early Thursday morning.”
“And what about your patient? Are you having his dinner sent up to him?”
I explained what we, Sergeant Wilkins and I, had decided.
“A little unusual, isn’t it?”
“Very. On the other hand, his injuries aren’t critical just now, or the Palace would have waited to summon him for the ceremony. This is just that slow, wearing time when there appears to be no progress. And then suddenly your exercises begin, and you wish yourself back in this limbo.”
“As I know very well,” Simon replied wryly. He’d been severely wounded not all that long ago. “If you have no other plans, I’ll take you to dinner.”
“I’d rather stay close to the hotel,” I said. “There’s a dining room downstairs.”
Simon rose from his chair. “Then I’ll give you a little time to rest, and return around six. A little early perhaps, but if you’re to look in on the sergeant later this evening, we shan’t have to dash upstairs at the last minute.”
I was grateful for his understanding.
He left, and kicking off my shoes, removing my apron and cap, I sat down in the chair that Simon had just vacated and sighed.
This brief interlude had brought me a little more time in England, but by Thursday I’d be eager to return to my duties in France. It was where my years of training and experience counted in the endless struggle to save lives. It had been difficult, exhausting, and stressful work often enough, and all of us in Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service had had bad dreams from time to time, dreams we tried not to remember in the light of morning. But knowing we’d made a difference kept us going.
I must have drifted into a light sleep. And then my internal clock woke me at a little before five thirty. I was dressed and ready when Simon knocked on my door just at six.
He smiled and said, “I expected to find you asleep.”
I returned the smile. “After visiting Buckingham Palace? How could I sleep?” I replied, stepping out into the passage. It was quiet. I glanced down toward the sergeant’s door, but all was quiet in that direction as well. If his friends were coming, they’d been thoughtful enough to give him time to rest before descending on him. That was reassuring.
We went down to the hotel’s dining room, where Simon had already booked a table, and it was a pleasant dinner. I wished my mother could have been there—she would have enjoyed the outing—but Simon and I were always comfortable together.
We were still sitting there, talking over our after-dinner cup of tea, when Simon glanced at his watch and said, “It’s nearly nine o’clock. Go on up and look in on your patient. I’ll see to the account and then escort you safely to your room.”
I did just that, taking the lift and walking down to Sergeant Wilkins’s door. It was quiet, and I knocked softly.
There was no answer. And I couldn’t see a light under the door. His friends had come and gone, he was asleep.
I tried the door, found it locked. Frowning, I tried it again. This time it opened, as if it had been jammed, and I stepped into the doorway, listening.
I could just see the outline of Sergeant Wilkins’s body under the coverlet, but his breathing was so quiet and deep that I could hardly be sure I heard it.
Had he taken his powder, as he’d promised? After his friends had left?
On the floor next to the table by the bed, a crumpled bit of white paper lay, as if he’d accidently brushed it off as he put down his cup. Yes, all was well.
I listened a few seconds longer, then, satisfied, I closed the door again quite gently and walked on toward my own room. Simon was just stepping out of the lift.
“All well?”
“Yes, he’s asleep. I didn’t disturb him. He’s taken his evening powder, as he’d promised he would.”
“Good. All right, go inside and lock your door. I’ll come by tomorrow after you’ve seen the patient off to Shrewsbury. I’ll even take you to lunch.”
“Done. Thank you for dinner,” I said, and went into my room. I’d brought a book with me from Somerset and tried to read for a while, but I was in bed by ten thirty. The deep fatigue of France hadn’t quite left me, or perhaps it was the excitement of the ceremony at the Palace. At any rate, I was asleep before the hands on my little clock reached eleven.
CHAPTER THREE
WHEN I OPENED my eyes, I met my first bad news of the day. The sunny weather had broken, and rain was coming down hard, barely letting in the early morning light.
Oh, dear, I thought, wishing I could turn over and sleep for another hour. But I had duties to perform. I threw back the coverlet, and got out of bed.
By eight o’clock, I had gone down to my breakfast. Simon and I had arranged last night for tea and toast to be taken up to Sergeant Wilkins at seven thirty, just as the orderly, Thompson, had done for the previous morning.
It was there, in the hotel dining room, that I received my second bit of bad news.
The desk clerk walked in, looked around, found my table, and came over to me with an envelope in his hands.
“A messenger brought this just now, Sister Crawford. For you.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking it from him, smiling. But the smile quickly faded as I opened the envelope, drew out the single sheet, and read it.
Simon’s handwriting.
My dear girl, I’m deserting you after all. The call was waiting for me when I arrived at my club. I’ll be away for several days. Safe journey back to France. And I promise that lunch on your next leave.
It wasn’t signed.
Disappointed, I sat there staring at the lines on the page. I had looked forward to spending the afternoon with Simon. Now as soon as my patient was on his way back to Shrewsbury, I would be returning to Mrs. Hennessey to spend my last evening alone. Or not alone—Mrs. Hennessey would be sure to come upstairs and ask me to dine with her, happy to have me there to join her.
With a sigh, I put the letter away and finished my breakfast. It was time now to wake up the good sergeant and have him freshly bandaged, dressed, and ready for his escort back to Shrewsbury. I didn’t envy him the journey in this rain.
I went into my own room, picked up my kit, and walked down the passage to Sergeant Wilkins’s door.
I tapped first, then reached for the knob and turned it, expecting to find my patient resting again after his light breakfast.
“Good morning,” I said cheerfully and crossed the room to the windows to open the curtains and let in the watery morning light. “Although it’s actually quite dreary, I’m sorry to say. Did you enjoy seeing your—”
I broke off as I turned around. In the dim light from the windows, such as it was, I could see the mound in the bed more clearly. Sergeant Wilkins hadn’t stirred.
My first thought was that he’d taken a fall in the night and injured himself. Or had he drunk too much on top of his evening powder? He lay too still for normal sleep, and that meant something was wrong.
“Sergeant Wilkins?” I crossed the room and put out a hand to touch the shoulder of the sleeping man.
And instead of flesh and bone, my fingers touched something—soft.
Without really thinking, I flipped back the covers.
And there in the place of Sergeant Wilkins lay a mass of crumpled bandaging, splints, and extra pillows that had been used to give his wounded leg the support it needed.
I stared at the shocking tangle.
Where was Sergeant Wilkins? And what had happened here?
He’d been asleep when I looked in last night. I was certain of it.
But was I?
The room was dark, the man’s breathing had sounded relaxed, as if he were sleeping quietly. There had been no sign of his friends, nor of any party.
Had they left, against all rules, and gone out drinking? Had he collapsed somewhere and his friends had been too frightened to summon me? Or had they simply taken him to the nearest casualty ward?
I searched the room.
There was only the wardrobe and the bed where he could hide. And the sergeant was in neither. Nor was he under the bed. Ridiculous to look, but then his friends could have put him up to tricking the Sister who expected to find him rested and sober this morning. I’d had to deal with the high spirits of healthy soldiers and wounded ones alike for a very long time. Someone might have thought it quite funny to hide him.
What was more worrying now was that the sergeant’s belongings and his kit had disappeared as well. But the invalid chair was still behind the door.
Turning, I spotted the key to the room lying on the desk by the window. I caught it up, put it in the lock as soon as I’d closed the door, and turned it.
No one could come in—or get out.
I took my kit back to my room, then went down on the lift. I crossed to Reception to ask them to let me telephone the London hospitals until I located my missing patient. If he came wandering in, drunk and disorderly, I’d have him taken up by the Military Foot Police. He had been invited to London to appear before the King, not carouse. Wherever he was, I was angry with him now—and more than a little worried.
The man in uniform ahead of me in the queue had just finished his business with the clerk behind the desk. I was about to take my turn when what the clerk was saying to him as he passed him a key stopped me in my tracks.
He’d just been given the spare key to room 212. Sergeant Wilkins’s room.
And in the same instant, I realized that this man was an orderly. My heart sank.
“Are you from Shrewsbury?” I asked.
He turned, his lined face tired from traveling all night on the train.
“Yes, Sister?”
“Have you come down from Shrewsbury to fetch Sergeant Wilkins?” I asked him again.
“Sergeant Wilkins? Yes, Sister. Are you Sister Crawford?” He yawned prodigiously, then said, “Sorry, Sister. It was a troop train, and no one slept all the way to London.”
I could sympathize. But there was no time. I had to think quickly.
“Have you had breakfast?” I asked hastily, before he could turn toward the lift. “If not, I suggest you go through to the dining room and have something. Before you—er—before we disturb the sergeant.”
