An Unwilling Accomplice

by Charles Todd

  So much for that. I could only hope now that Scotland Yard’s newspaper appeal would be more successful than we’d been in finding Sergeant Wilkins.

  The next morning, I was working with Corporal Minton, whose temperature had risen alarmingly during the night. We’d given him something to bring down his fever, tried bathing him in cool water, putting cool compresses on his forehead and wrists, but nothing helped. I’d been bending over him, and as I straightened with the basin in my hands, intending to fetch more cold water, all at once he reared up from his pillows, flailing wildly as he cried out to someone. His arm caught me across the throat and I went flying, the basin as well. Twisting to keep from falling on the patient in the next bed, I hit the floor rather hard, water splashing everywhere. The tin basin went rolling across the floor. One of the Sisters who’d been working with me tried to force Corporal Minton back down against his pillows while the other bent over me to ask if I was all right. The breath had been knocked out of me, but I nodded. As I moved, a pain went shooting through my right wrist, where it had struck the iron leg of the cot.

  “Never mind me, help Sister Norton,” I gasped as an orderly, hearing the commotion, came running. It required the two Sisters and the orderly to hold down the corporal. He lay there, wild-eyed, thrashing and fighting to free himself. And then he lapsed into unconsciousness, his flushed face a rictus of pain.

  I managed to get up from the floor without using that wrist, collected the basin, and hurried out for more cold water. My hand and arm were very painful, but we worked for another hour before we were able to bring the fever down. Even so, his life was hanging in the balance. By that time my hand and forearm were red and swollen where I’d struck the bed, and heavy bruising was starting to appear.

  I went to change to a dry uniform, spent another hour working with another patient, and finally reported to Matron. I could no longer hold anything in that right hand.

  She sent me off to see Dr. Browning. He tested the wrist and smiled. “Nothing broken, I’m happy to say. But that’s a very deep bruise, Sister. I’ll tape it for you, and you’ll need a sling for a while. You’re not to lift anything heavy. No pitchers, bedpans, or making up cots for you. Give that wrist a rest, and it will be right as rain in a few days.”

  “I’m needed,” I began, but he shook his head.

  “No one is indispensable, Sister. Do as you’re told.” He sent me to soak the wrist in cold water, then bound it himself. I had no choice but to follow orders. Since it was the right wrist I couldn’t even help Matron with the records she kept so meticulously. I sat and read to patients who were recovering, and made myself useful however I could, but the wrist was still very painful after several days.

  I’d come back to my quarters one morning to find a letter waiting on my little writing table. It was from Mrs. Hennessey, and there was another letter inside.

  Diana was so pleased to see you, and tells me you’re all right, my dear. I’ve heard from Mary as well. I’ve had to have words with the butcher, for the piece of meat he gave me last week had gone off. What we’re to eat if this war doesn’t end soon, I don’t know.

  She went on giving me all the news, and then added,

  There’s a letter here for you. Nothing on the envelope to tell me who might have written it. I’ve enclosed it here, in the event it’s important.

  I finished her letter and then opened the second one. I didn’t recognize the handwriting, and it began rather formally.

  Sister Crawford,

  I think something is wrong. I received a letter from someone named Maddie in the village of Upper Dysoe in Warwickshire. From the name, I must assume it’s a woman who has written, but why should she write to me? She tells me that a man has asked repeatedly for me, but I don’t know anyone there. She implores me to come, but how did she know where to direct her letter? I can only think it must have something to do with a certain person we both remember. I’m afraid to reply, because I’ve been in enough trouble over what happened in London, and yet I can’t bring myself to turn the letter over to the Army. Please, will you tell me what to do? I can’t take this to Matron.

  It was signed Sister Hammond, and she included Maddie’s note.

  She was the Sister in Shrewsbury who had helped Sergeant Wilkins in his masquerade. I reread both messages.

  I sat there on my cot, wondering what to do.

  How had Maddie known where to direct his letter, if it hadn’t been Sergeant Wilkins who told him? And what trouble was he in?

  Was he really the Major we’d seen? Or had he been found somewhere and brought to Maddie for healing?

  I had no idea. All I could think of was to write to Simon and ask him to do something.

  But as it happened, I was in England before my letter reached Simon.

  Matron called me into her officer later in the morning to tell me that she was sending me to England with a convoy.

  It was the usual convoy of wounded, with a dozen or so men from this hospital, recovering from influenza but not yet well enough to return to duty. It was a debilitating disease, and some patients took weeks to regain their strength. I myself had experienced the exhaustion and lethargy that followed a severe case. I remembered how my father and Simon had taken turns carrying me to a chair or out to sit on the balcony of the Grand Hotel in Eastbourne to breathe the sea air.

  And Matron needed beds. Any man who could be sent to England would have to go.

  “You’ll be in charge, there will be people to help you. And I shan’t have to spare a Sister who is able-bodied. We need every pair of hands we can find.”

  “I’m so sorry—” I began, but Matron smiled, the lines of weariness in her face all too visible in the morning light.

  “You have nothing to apologize for, Sister. But I would have that wrist looked at while in London, if I were you. It has been slow to heal.”

  We reached London with our full complement of wounded and recovering victims of the influenza epidemic. The crossing had been rough, for it was that time of year, but the transport had been large enough to mitigate some of the suffering. Belowdecks we were spared the worst.

  The train to London through the dark countryside was slow, trundling along the tracks as troop trains went hurtling past, a blur of bright windows and pale faces. It was not quite dawn when we pulled into Victoria Station. Orderlies and women serving hot tea and sweet buns met us, and the task of unloading began. I could only supervise, making certain that the tags on the wounded were properly read and that the men were dispersed to the lorries that would take them to their final destination. Three, I saw, were going to the hospital outside Shrewsbury.

  I quite seriously considered asking if I could ride north with them, but after I arrived, what then? I’d have no way of getting about, much less making the journey south to Upper Dysoe. Omnibuses could never have made their way around the tight bends of that hilly countryside. What’s more, I couldn’t drive.

  I made my way through the train for a last inspection. Nothing had been left behind. My own kit was waiting for me on the platform. An orderly had already come through to collect bloodstained dressings, and three women were busy scrubbing floors in two of the carriages where wounds had bled.

  Who did I know that I could talk into taking me to Shrewsbury?

  My mother, for one. But I didn’t want to worry her by explaining why I was still searching for Sergeant Wilkins. And my father was far too imposing a figure, never mind his rank. If Sergeant Wilkins was in the Dysoes, one look at the Colonel-Sahib and he would vanish again, certain the Army had found him.

  That left Simon, and I had no idea where he might be.

  I found a cab to take me to Mrs. Hennessey’s and slipped in the door and up the stairs without waking her. I’d have given much for a cup of tea. There hadn’t been time to take one of the mugs the women volunteers were passing out.

  I changed into my nightdress, soaked my wrist for twenty minutes, then crawled into bed. A weak sun was already probing at
the windowpanes in my room. I closed my eyes to shut out the light, and that was the last I remembered for several hours.

  I woke with a start as I often did when I’d just returned to England. The different surroundings required a little getting used to, as well as the far more comfortable bed, and the quiet was almost unnerving. No guns, no men moaning in pain, no Sisters passing by in a swish of starched uniforms, low-voiced as they conferred.

  I got out of bed and went to my window, looking out at the soft rain that was beginning to fall. Drawing on my robe, I walked into the sitting room, my bare feet quickly telling me that the floor was definitely chilly. I went to the cupboard to see if any of my flatmates had left tea, a tin of milk, or any honey in the jar I’d brought back from Somerset. The packet of tea was empty, there was no milk, and only a little honey was left. With a sigh of disappointment I shut the cupboard doors and turned away.

  Movement outside the window caught my eye, and I glanced out in the hope that Mrs. Hennessey might be setting out to market. If so, I could go down in a bit and ask her to make me a cup.

  Instead I saw Simon stepping out of his motorcar and walking toward the door.

  I could hardly go down in my nightdress and robe, barefooted. I hurried back to my bedroom and threw on clothes as quickly as I could, fighting to draw on my stockings with only one good hand.

  I could hear the door knocker as I finished dressing and hastily pinned up my hair, shoving it tidily under my cap.

  I didn’t hear Mrs. Hennessey’s voice speaking to Simon, I didn’t hear the sound of his voice echoing up the stairwell as he spoke to her.

  Had she indeed gone to market? What if he believed no one was in the house, and left?

  I flung open my door, racing for the head of the stairs. “Simon? I’m coming, please wait,” I called as I went down them as fast as I dared.

  But the knocker was silent, and I knew he’d given up, was already on his way back to his motorcar.

  I threw myself at the house door, went through it into the rain, and saw him already in the motorcar and about to drive away.

  Dashing after him, calling to him, I watched him drive off. All the while praying that he’d look into the little mirror and notice me standing there waving like a madwoman. The man who brought the milk stared openly at me as he passed, and at the foot of the street, Constable Williams turned to see what all the fuss was about.

  He must have recognized me because he stepped into the street and flagged down Simon’s motorcar, pointing back toward Mrs. Hennessey’s house.

  After a moment, with the constable’s help to hold up traffic, Simon reversed, and then he was coming back up the street toward me.

  By this time I’d moved into the shelter of the doorway, shivering in the damp, chill air. My wrist was throbbing, and I tried to remember where I’d dropped my sling last night.

  Drawing up beside me, Simon put down his window and said, “Go back and fetch your coat. I’ll take you to lunch, although it’s fairly early still.”

  “I’ll settle for breakfast, if you please,” I replied, and still out of breath I went back up the stairs to retrieve my coat and sling, then close the flat door, which was standing wide.

  Coming back down again more sedately, I met Mrs. Hennessey just coming in from doing her marketing.

  “Bess, my dear,” she exclaimed, setting down her market basket and coming to give me a damp embrace. “Did you know Sergeant-Major Brandon was just outside? I told him you weren’t at home.”

  “Yes, I saw him drive up,” I replied.

  “Then hurry along. Here—take my umbrella. I didn’t carry it with me, and look what has happened.” She removed the umbrella from the stand by the door, handing it to me. “My dear, what’s happened to your arm? Are you in any pain?” Looking around for my kit, she added, “Are you off to Somerset? You’ll be needing help, surely.” She reached out to tuck a strand of hair under my cap, settling it more securely, then straightened my apron and helped me into my coat. “There, that’s much better.”

  “It’s a bruise, thankfully. Sometimes it aches, but it should be better soon. I don’t know what I’ll be doing,” I told her truthfully. “I have a little leave. It will depend on where my parents are just now. Simon will tell me, I’m sure.”

  “I’m so glad nothing is broken. Well, off with you.” She opened the door for me and I dashed out to the motorcar, tossing the umbrella into the rear seat. Waving to Simon, she watched us out of sight.

  “How did you know I’d just come in with the morning convoy?” I asked Simon.

  “I didn’t. I just got to London myself, and I stopped at the flat, on the off chance you were there.” He gestured to my sling. “What have you done?”

  “Well, I’m very glad you did stop. And it’s a bruise, it will be better soon.”

  He eyed me suspiciously. “Truthfully?”

  “Let’s have our breakfast first,” I said mildly. “Then we can talk.”

  Two hours later, I collected my kit from my room, told Mrs. Hennessey good-bye, and rejoined Simon in the motorcar.

  He was still convinced I should see a doctor, after I’d nearly dropped my teacup trying to use my left hand.

  We’d spent most of breakfast considering what we should do about Sister Hammond’s letter. Simon hadn’t received my own letter, and so my news was fresh.

  “Even if you have ten days’ leave, I don’t think there’s any point in going to Shrewsbury,” he’d said, setting down his cup. “Time is short, and therefore the best move is to go directly to Upper Dysoe and see what this man Maddie has to say.”

  “It could be a wild-goose chase.”

  “Or a trap.”

  “Hardly that. Why should anyone wish to harm Sister Hammond?”

  “Think about it. She was part of the small conspiracy that allowed Wilkins to go to London under false pretenses.”

  “But what would he gain by killing her? Now? It would only draw more attention to him if she disappeared or was found dead. There would be a renewed hue and cry for the sergeant as well.”

  “We won’t know until we speak to Maddie. It’s no use speculating.”

  He was right. But as the miles passed, I couldn’t help but do just that.

  I couldn’t have guessed the truth if it had taken a month to make the journey north.

  When we reached Maddie’s little cottage, we discovered that he wasn’t in.

  It was Simon’s suggestion that we drive on and come back later. The motorcar was quite conspicuous here in the village. A number of people had stared as we passed.

  It was still lightly raining, and so we decided that we’d wait at the ruined barn where we’d spent the night on our first visit here. This might even be the direction Maddie would come on his way back to Upper Dysoe. To our surprise, it was nothing more than a blackened pile of lumber and rubble.

  It had burned. The stone walls were scarred by fire, the roof gone, the high grasses all around little more than black stubble. The scorched trunk of the tree where the doves had roosted at the far end of the barn was wet with rain but miraculously was still standing.

  Taking out Mrs. Hennessey’s umbrella, we got out to walk over to what was left, and Simon commented, “It seems like a waste of time and labor. The barn was barely standing as it was.”

  “We saw evidence that someone had been living here, or at least using the barn in foul weather. Perhaps Miss Neville didn’t care for that.”

  “It’s possible, of course.” He put out a hand to help me over several tumbled stones, and we went a little way down the rutted lane where the sheep had disappeared. It was overrun by grass and wildflowers, and we turned back. If there had been a farmhouse here at one time, it had suffered the same fate as the barn, because we didn’t see any chimneys in the distance. The land was fit for grazing sheep and little more. We could see where they’d worn a rough track through the thicket of weeds.

  As we were coming back to the road, we heard a goat calling to
us.

  And there it was, tethered in the same place, or nearly so, where we’d collected it to return it to Windward at Mrs. Neville’s direction.

  I laughed. “Mrs. Neville won’t be best pleased.”

  “I’m damned if I’ll tie it to the motorcar again,” Simon responded.

  Passing the umbrella to Simon, I climbed up the slight incline to peer into the undergrowth and brambles that partially concealed the goat from view, and it was indeed the same animal, the markings distinctive. Its strange yellow eyes glared balefully at me, and I beat a hasty retreat.

  “I wonder if someone does this just to annoy Mrs. Neville,” I asked.

  “Very likely. Her views on Agriculture being the salvation of mankind would drive you mad in a very short time. I doubt if she’d brook much in the way of argument.”

  We went on to the motorcar and drove back the way we’d come.

  This time the door was standing open in Maddie’s cottage, and Simon rapped on the wood rather than walking straight in.

  “Who is it?” Maddie called. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

  Shortly afterward he appeared in the doorway, looking first at us in quickly concealed surprise, and then at the sling that cushioned my wrist.

  He said, “What brings you back again, Sister?”

  “I was wondering how Mr. Warren had fared. If he recovered or if infection had cost him his arm.”

  “He’s quite recovered, although the arm is a little stiff. I’ve shown him how to strengthen it with exercises, and by the time winter sets in, it should be back to normal.” As he spoke, he pulled the door wide and politely invited us in. But I could tell that he was not happy to see us. “I was about to put the kettle on. Would you care for a cup of tea?”

  We said yes, equally politely, and as Maddie swung the blackened iron kettle in over the fire in the hearth, Simon asked, “Did you ever discover who had shot the miller?”

  “I doubt it matters,” he said carefully. “Warren is happy enough with the arrangements made to see him through his recovery. I doubt he’s interested in pressing charges.”