by Charles Todd
“Perhaps Nurse Bailey can be thanked for helping you smuggle one of our spies safely out of France and back into England.”
“I think,” I said, considering the suggestion, “she might be happier if I had helped capture a notorious German spy.”
“God help us if that got back to the wrong ears. No, we’ll offer our sincerest gratitude to both of you for unspecified services to the Crown.”
I wanted to ask the Colonel Sahib if he thought I was safe now. But I was reluctant to broach the subject so soon. And how was I to get back to France until this whole business was settled? It was a dilemma.
As the rain turned into a downpour shortly after we’d crossed into Somerset, we stopped briefly for a late supper until it blew over.
My father had said nothing about Simon, and I had been afraid to ask, for fear he was not healing as he should. It was one of the drawbacks to being a nurse. I knew too much about wounds and a man’s chances of survival. Finally I took my courage in my hands and said, “Is Simon all right?”
“A deucedly poor patient. Your mother has had her hands full.” And that was all he would say.
The conversation turned to Major Carson, and I asked my father if he’d ever met William Morton.
“Actually I haven’t. He and Sabrina eloped, and after that her father never spoke to her again. I thought that rather harsh. It left her with nowhere to turn in the event she was ever unhappy. And so, as far as I know, she has stayed with her actor.”
“A pity.” I took a deep breath. “Julia told me that in one of his last letters, her husband was angry with someone in his company but didn’t mention a name because of the censors. But soon afterward the offending soldier was sent to another sector. Do you think that soldier could have been William Morton? It’s a pity we don’t have the journal the Major kept. It might give us some answers.”
Captain Barclay interrupted. “Who is William Morton?”
My father said, “He married the Major’s younger sister. The family didn’t approve of him. It would be interesting to see what sort of war he’s had.”
“He could have lured the Major to that false rendezvous. But why wait all these years?” I asked.
“A good point. Still, there’s no accounting for a long-harbored anger. It can spill over unexpectedly,” my father said.
“Which reminds me, Julia told me when I visited her that Sabrina didn’t come to the memorial service. That she was poor again. Her words.”
“She can’t live as she’s used to on a private soldier’s pay,” my father agreed. “There could have been an argument over settling an allowance on her.”
“But how would the Major have felt about that? I know he was closer to his other sister, but surely he didn’t carry on his father’s feeling that she made her choice and must live with it.”
“He never discussed it with me,” my father said as the chargers of food were set before us. Shortages or not, it smelled heavenly, and we set to with an appetite. “And of course by rights he shouldn’t have. It was a family matter.”
“Julia might know,” I said doubtfully, finishing the ham and turning to the last of the roasted potatoes on my plate. “But the same difficulty applies. Could you speak to the Major’s solicitors?”
“I’d rather not make it quite so official. There’s the other sister. Valerie. You could call on her. She might be able to shed some light on Sabrina’s situation and her brother’s handling of it. She lives in Gloucestershire. Not all that far away.”
“I don’t know her as well as I do Julia,” I reminded him. “I shall need a better reason than to offer my condolences at this late date.”
“Your mother will think of something.”
Captain Barclay said casually, “I shall be glad to accompany Sister Crawford, sir. If you like.”
“I can drive myself. If you remember,” I told him.
We finished our tea and then set out once more. The rain had stopped, and after a while the moon followed us up the drive to the house.
Two mornings later-still encumbered with Captain Barclay but armed with an excuse provided by my mother-we set out for Gloucestershire. Valerie and her husband lived on the outskirts of Gloucester, within sight of the castle.
She had married a man in banking who now served with the Navy.
She received me cordially, and I gave her a set of embroidered baby clothes, with a cap and a matching pram coverlet done up in lilac and palest green, for she was expecting a child in three months’ time. Julia hadn’t mentioned it, and when I said as much, Valerie said, “I expect she was wishing she also had a child on the way. But how kind of your mother to remember! I shall write to her at once, but you must tell her I shall treasure this gift.”
“I shall. Does Sabrina have any children? I don’t remember.”
“A little boy. The most adorable child. I went to see her in Oxfordshire this winter as soon as I heard the news. Our old Nanny wrote to me.”
“Did you tell Julia or the Major?”
“I wrote to Vincent. I don’t know if he ever received the letter. He didn’t answer. But they do get lost, don’t they? Letters to the Front?”
“Yes. Sadly,” I answered.
“I can’t believe he’s dead. It’s just not possible. And it makes me anxious for George now. He’s at sea, you know. We don’t hear, his mother and I, for weeks on end.”
“When they’re at sea, there’s nowhere to post a letter,” I said, and she smiled.
“I never thought of it that way.”
“Sabrina eloped, didn’t she?”
“Yes, our father had forbade her to see William again. I wished at the time that I’d had the courage to attend the ceremony, but I was rather afraid of what my father might do or say.”
“Did she ever send you any photographs? Of the happy couple?”
She frowned. “I never liked to display them. I didn’t want to annoy my father.”
“I’d like to see them. I don’t believe I’ve seen Sabrina since Vincent left Sandhurst.”
“I’m really not up to searching for them. Another time, perhaps.”
“Is he dark or fair? William? My mother thought she’d seen him in a play once. Molière? Or Sheridan, perhaps.”
“It was so hard to tell. They weren’t very good photographs, I’m afraid.” And she pointedly changed the subject, clearly not interested in her sister’s husband.
We talked about her pregnancy and her garden, and then it was time to take my leave.
When I met Captain Barclay in the pub where I’d left him, his first question was “Did you learn anything?”
“Only that she doesn’t wish to talk about her sister’s husband,” I said when we’d reached the motorcar.
“Not surprising.”
“But her sister has a child. A little boy, born sometime in the winter.”
Captain Barclay whistled softly. “This man Morton might not have fought for his wife, but he would for his child, wouldn’t he? And he’d have been furious with his brother-in-law for snubbing him. It must have seemed rather callous, I should think, to be met with a refusal to do anything for his family.”
Defending Major Carson, I said, “We don’t know that he did, do we? It’s possible that William Morton wasn’t satisfied with his offer.”
“That’s true,” Captain Barclay replied thoughtfully. “And there’s only one way to settle that-if your father is successful in discovering any provisions in the Major’s will. If he’s taken care of the wife or the child-or both-then Morton is out of the running.”
“I did ask Valerie if she had a photograph of her brother-in-law. But she’s feeling her pregnancy and wasn’t particularly interested in making the effort to find one. She didn’t seem to think any of them were very good, anyway.”
“What about the man’s old theatrical company? Did they have posters and the like? As you said in Rouen, eyes never change.”
“I don’t know if they still exist or how to contact them. Sab
rina might have something of that sort. Or a photograph of her husband in uniform. Every wife wants one. In case…”
“In case,” he agreed.
A silence fell, and I found myself thinking about Simon again, all the way home.
When I told my parents about Sabrina’s child, they were surprised. No one had mentioned the boy to them. They were of the same mind, that if Major Carson had been murdered, his brother-in-law could have the best possible motive.
My father said, “It’s not like Vincent to be as vindictive as his father was. I don’t understand it. I’ll look into the will. I can be quite frank, I think, and ask the solicitors if the boy was provided for. If not, I can suggest that Julia might care to make amends.”
“I’m not sure she will,” I said, considering my conversation with Julia. “She doesn’t seem to be as fond of Sabrina as Valerie is. I wish I’d thought to ask Valerie about the will. She must have been there for the reading.”
“Hardly something you could bring up, without a very sound reason,” my mother said. “But getting back to what happened to Vincent, it’s possible that William Morton chose to badger him after the baby was born, and he wouldn’t have cared for that. Even if he’d already included his sister in his own will, he would have resented being pressed that way. And so the two of them quarreled, and Morton went away with the worst possible view of Vincent’s intentions. Morton was worried about his family, and Vincent had more than enough on his mind, keeping his men alive. They didn’t like each other to begin with. This could only have made matters between them even more tense.”
“She has a point,” Captain Barclay put in. “With a big push coming, Morton would have been anxious to know the matter was settled. Either one-or both-could have died. One of my men asked for leave to see his widowed mother. He wanted me to sign the request before we fought. I did, but he was killed in the second wave.”
“I must go up to London tomorrow,” my father said. “I’ll see what I can discover.”
Simon hadn’t been in the house, much to my surprise. What’s more, my mother had put me off when I had asked to go and visit him in his cottage. She was also rather vague about his condition.
And so when my father took the Captain off to the clinic the next morning and my mother went to see a woman who had lost her husband at Passchendaele, I slipped out of the house and walked through the back garden and the wood to Simon’s cottage.
It was small but comfortable, and it had suited him well. Filled with well-read books and memorabilia from his years in the Army, it had a masculine air that I’d always found pleasant.
Coming up the walk, I kept an eye to the windows, expecting him to see me approaching and pretend not to be at home. My mother was right; men were often not very good at waiting to heal, impatient and eager to be about their business again. And I suspected that he probably wouldn’t be pleased to have me know he had not taken as good care of himself as he should.
I tapped at the door, waiting to be admitted. But he didn’t answer the summons or come to the door. I tapped again, in case he was sleeping, and when he still didn’t open the door to me, I was angry enough to open it myself, and standing on the threshold, I called his name.
“There’s no use in hiding,” I added. “I know you’re here.”
But my voice echoed in the cottage, and I knew it must be empty. Simon wasn’t there.
Disbelieving, I walked in and searched. The bed was made up, there were no newspapers neatly stacked by the table where he ate his meals, and when I looked in the wardrobe, I saw that his valise was gone.
Frightened, I went out of the cottage and shut the door behind me before almost running back to the house.
When my mother came in an hour later, I was waiting for her.
“Where is Simon?” I asked. “He’s not here, and he’s not in the cottage. What is it you’re keeping from me?”
She set down her basket, her expression suddenly kind, and I had the most dreadful premonition.
I wanted to cover my ears or tell her not to answer my question. But she was already saying the words, and there was no way to stop them now.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MY DEAR, HE’S been very ill-”
“I was there when he was brought in, I know how serious his wound was. I thought-I was told you were nursing him. I took that to mean that he was here, or at the cottage.”
“He did come here when he was well enough. He signed himself out of hospital and a driver brought him to Somerset. But there was infection, you see, and his arm-we thought for a time he would lose it. Dr. Gaines cleaned it as best he could, but Simon is still running a fever. He doesn’t always remember where he is.”
“Dr. Gaines? Then Simon is at the clinic.”
“Yes, but he specifically asked-I wasn’t to tell you.”
“Why did he sign himself out of hospital? He knew the risk he’d be taking.”
“There was some pressing matter he had to deal with. He came here to use your father’s telephone. He didn’t have access to one in Portsmouth. Too many ears, he said.”
I remembered his urgent need to reach England, and how I had given him morphine to keep him quiet. Biting my lip, I considered all the possible outcomes of gangrene.
“I’m going to Longleigh House.”
“Bess, is that such a good idea? Simon-”
“I’m a nurse, Mother, I am very good at what I do, as Dr. Gaines himself told me. I could be able to help. Can Father pull a few strings? I need an interim posting there while my situation is being considered. I can’t walk in and ask to be allowed to help with a single surgical case.”
“Yes, I’m sure he can see to that. If not, then I’m sure Dr. Gaines will be able to arrange it.” She started toward the telephone closet, then stopped. “If it’s any consolation, I think you’re doing the right thing. Simon made me promise, you see. And I don’t break promises to Simon Brandon lightly.” She turned on her heel and left me standing there.
Several hours and countless telephone conversations later, I was told to report to the clinic on Wednesday morning at nine. That was two days away. I didn’t know how I was to keep myself from pacing the floor into the night.
I found my mother in the kitchen, scrubbing the tabletop while our Cook stood there frowning at her, tight-lipped and clearly troubled.
I said, “We’re going to find Sabrina Morton. I don’t know how we’ll manage it, but we will.”
Her face brightened. “I believe your father left her direction on his desk. He hadn’t decided to give it to you.”
“Why not?”
“I think he was worried about this business with Major Carson. That you might discover something speaking to her that would take you back to France. Darling, Simon is fighting for his life, and that nice Captain Barclay has reinjured his leg. Your father is looking for some way to keep you safe. Until then, he wants you to stay in England.”
I remembered that arm around my neck in the darkness as I was about to wash my face. And the way the wing of that motorcar brushed against me in Rouen. But I said resolutely, “I don’t need protection. Dr. Hicks and his people were keeping an eye on me. They would again.”
“You might not be posted there next time. And your father has learned that you weren’t expected in Ypres at all. Once you left the security of Dr. Hicks’s aid station, you were vulnerable. And you said yourself that he believed the message was completely genuine. He could be wrong another time as well.”
Dr. Hicks had done his best for me, but he was overworked and exhausted like the rest of us. He couldn’t be expected to ward off every danger.
“Then let’s go speak to Sabrina. She can’t do me any harm, and we just might learn something that would put an end to this frightful business.”
And so it was that we found ourselves on the road to Cornwall. I’d thought that Sabrina lived in Oxfordshire, but my father didn’t often make mistakes, and if he said Cornwall, then Cornwall it was. Because of the distan
ce, we had planned to stay the night.
We drove through Devon, crossed the Tamar, and set out across Cornwall to the seaside village of Fowey, which actually sat above the river for which it was named. Taking a room at the Fowey Hotel, we had dinner there on the charming terrace overlooking the estuary where the river met the sea.
Afterward, as the evening was fine, we walked down toward the harbor. Unlike other harbor towns, Fowey had very little flat land along the riverbank for a settlement to grow, and so it was built upward, a maze of gardens and paths and houses and cottages cheek by jowl and leading ever downward until we reached St. Fimbarrus Church, and from there it was only a few steps to the water.
The clerk at the hotel had told us that The Mermaid Inn was along the water, and more accessible by boat than by foot. But we strolled along the river for a bit and watched the ferry plow toward Polruan across the way, and then saw the sign for The Mermaid. A narrow walkway bridged the gap from the small restaurant where we stood to the entrance to the inn, and led up steep stairs to the doorway. From there I could see just below where boats could tie up.
The inn had seen better days, thanks to the war and the fact that many of the men who brought their own boats or yachts to this place were now fighting in France.
There was a woman behind the desk who watched our approach without enthusiasm, as if she knew we weren’t looking for lodgings. I moved slightly ahead of my mother and said pleasantly, “I believe Mrs. William Morton lives here?”
“And who would be wanting her?” the woman asked, her voice neither friendly nor unwelcoming.
My mother, just behind me, answered the query. “Mrs. Crawford and her daughter, Sister Crawford. We knew her brother and her parents. Since we were in Cornwall while my daughter is on leave from her duties in France, we felt we ought to pay our respects.”
The woman regarded us for a moment, then said, “I’ll see if she wishes to receive you.”
I thought at first the woman was being rude. But she walked into the dimly lit interior of the inn where I could just see a staircase leading upward and to one side, a tiny dining room down two steps. A potted palm stood next to the entrance to the dining room, and a table with fresh flowers in a green vase added a spot of color by the side of the stairs. Nice touches, but even these couldn’t eliminate the depressing air of the inn.
