An Unmarked Grave

by Charles Todd

  I was two beds from the end of the room when I heard a rapid-fire outburst of familiar words.

  Sister Randolph was in the middle of a description about the man in front of us, and I lost track for a moment. She had to repeat her comment, and I nodded. Finally we had come to Simon’s cot. He was still speaking rapidly, urgently, as if something mattered intensely in his drug-clouded mind.

  “We can’t understand him half the time,” Sister Randolph was saying. “It’s some foreign tongue, I’m told. One of our convalescents was in India for a number of years with his regiment. He didn’t know enough of the language to translate, but he said he thought it was Hindu.”

  “Hindi,” I said automatically. “Hindi is the language. Hinduism the religion. A Hindu is the man or the woman.” But it wasn’t Hindi that Simon was speaking just now, it was Urdu, the Muslim equivalent.

  I went to his bedside. Someone had shaved him this morning, but his face was flushed with fever, his hair long and soaked with perspiration. But mercifully I could see both arms under the bedclothes. There had been no amputation.

  “I was in India,” I said. “Let me sit with him a bit, and see if I can decipher what he’s saying.”

  “Please do!” Sister Randolph said gratefully. “It’s very worrying not to know what’s on his mind. I can tell that something is, and it may be hindering his recovery.” She referred to her chart. “His name is Brandon. We don’t know much else about him. Regiment, that sort of thing. Dr. Gaines admitted him as an emergency patient.”

  “What’s his status?”

  “If the fever breaks, Dr. Gaines expects he’ll keep his arm. If it doesn’t, well, there will have to be steps taken.” She lifted the sheet, and I could see how swollen and inflamed Simon’s shoulder and arm were. “We’ve kept the wound clean, we’ve fed him to keep up his strength, but it’s a matter of time. I’ve grown rather fond of him, and I would hate to see him back in surgery. But I’m afraid…” She let her voice dwindle, as if not wishing to speak the words. “Such a strong, handsome man. A pity, isn’t it? War and all this pain and suffering.”

  “Yes.”

  I brought a chair over and sat down. Simon was restless, and he still spoke in staccato sentences. I listened for a while, accustoming my ears to the sound of his voice and words I hadn’t spoken except to my family for some years. But it came back to me surprisingly quickly.

  Simon was on patrol. That much I gathered from the names he mentioned. They had been ambushed in the hills above the Khyber Pass, and he was trying to keep his men alive until a rescue column arrived. He’d sent a heliograph message to a watcher some distance away on the Indian side of the border and it was a matter of time before help got to them.

  I heard Simon say, “Keep your head down, man!” And then he swore. “They’ve got a sniper up there somewhere. I saw the muzzle flash. He’s damned good with that rifle. It must be British, not native, to be that accurate.” And then someone must have said something to him, for he replied, “I told the Colonel Sahib that I suspected one of those damned traveling musicians might be a spy, but we couldn’t prove it.”

  The switch to English was so unexpected that at first I couldn’t follow it.

  And then he was incoherent once more, encouraging his men, keeping them alive, and finally going out himself to hunt down the unknown rifleman. I remembered that engagement, long past, but when my father and a detachment of lancers went in search of the men who were pinned down, my mother had sat on the veranda all evening, waiting for news.

  She had said nothing when the bloody remnants of the column came back, but I heard my father issue the order for the man who played the tambourine to be found and brought to him. I was never told what had happened to the spy. It had been regimental business only, and not for my ears or even my mother’s.

  Glancing at my watch after sitting beside Simon for several minutes, I saw that I had to report for duty, and I slipped away, brushing his face with my fingertips as I did, feeling the dry heat of high fever on his skin.

  I told Sister Randolph as I left that the patient was reliving old engagements, a result of his fever, I thought, and nothing that would hamper his recovery. She smiled and thanked me again.

  “It’s such a relief to hear that. Perhaps since you understand what he’s saying, you could visit him from time to time, in case anything changes.”

  I promised I would, grateful to her for giving me a reason to sit with him.

  For the next two days I spent as much time with Simon as I could, but there seemed to be no change in his condition, and I found myself waking up in the night with a start, thinking that he had died. But he hadn’t, he held on, as he so often did against impossible odds.

  And on the third morning, when I hurriedly downed my breakfast and ran up the back steps to spend a moment with him, I found him awake.

  Dark eyes under dark brows stared back at me, but I didn’t think he knew me because he hadn’t fully returned to awareness. I reached down and touch his face again. This time the skin was oily with the sweat of breaking fever, but cool. Blessedly cool. I was on the point of going to find Sister Randolph and asking her to bathe him-in fact, I had turned away to do just that-when his hand locked on my wrist and spun me around.

  “Bess?” His voice was hoarse from fever and the constant barrage of words that had come bubbling up from the depths of illness. “Is that you, Bess?”

  I looked down. He was staring at me, frowning, as if he couldn’t quite believe the evidence of his eyes. Then he blinked and said, “Am I still in France?”

  “No-I mean, it’s been a while. You’ve been very ill. Your shoulder-you nearly lost your arm.”

  Frowning, he said, “Did I tell-did anyone tell the Colonel what happened there in France?”

  “That you were wounded?” I sat on the edge of his cot. “Yes, of course. You even left the hospital, but then the fever overtook you and the Colonel Sahib brought you here.”

  “Dear God-”

  He released my wrist and wiped a hand across his eyes. “Bess. Get word to your father. I’ve got to see him.”

  “Simon, it can wait.”

  His mouth was tight as he said, “Don’t argue.” His eyes closed and he grimaced. “Do it.”

  I’d been trained all my life to respond to that tone of voice. One obeyed instantly, doing as one was told, without question. In India, safe as we’d believed we were, danger was everywhere, and the memory of the bloody 1857 Mutiny, when the Indian Army turned on its English officers and their families, and massacred all they could lay hands on-soldiers, women, children-was always present. Hesitation or delay could mean the difference between living and dying.

  Only this time I was ordered to reach my father at once-and only then could I see to it that Dr. Gaines was alerted about the change in his patient’s condition.

  I did as I was told, urgently begging use of the clinic’s telephone, putting through a call to my mother and seeing to it that word was passed to my father. Then I went in search of the doctor. I found him watching Captain Barclay walk up and down the passage.

  Captain Barclay smiled as he made his turn at the end of the passage and started back toward us.

  “Look for yourselves. That knee is as good as ever it was.” He saw me and his smile broadened. “Sister Crawford? What do you think?”

  But Dr. Gaines was still watching the way he moved. “You’ve most certainly improved,” he began.

  “Then send me back to France. For God’s sake, I’m needed there.”

  It was a familiar cry. But Dr. Gaines paid no heed. He was still staring at the knee. Aware of my presence, he said, “Sister?”

  “The patient in the surgical ward is awake, sir. Brandon.”

  “Ah, yes. Tell Sister Randolph I’ll be right there. All right, Captain, I’d like you to take the butcher’s paper out from around that limb and then walk up and down again.”

  I turned away, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Captain Barclay�
�s fair skin flame with embarrassment. It was an old trick, the butcher’s stiff paper giving a little stability to a weak knee for a short distance. Only, if you listened closely, you could hear the layers rustle.

  I went back to the library, where Sister Randolph was bathing Simon’s face and making him more comfortable before an orderly arrived to shave him again.

  “I’ve spoken to my mother,” I said quickly in Hindi, and he nodded. I hurried back to my own duties.

  I didn’t know where my father was or how soon he could be reached. I had done as I was asked, and a little later I saw Dr. Gaines coming from the library ward, his face thoughtful.

  As it happened my father arrived much sooner than he could possibly have in answer to my summons. I thought perhaps Dr. Gaines had sent for him as well. There were no doubt standing orders in regard to the patient Brandon that I knew nothing about.

  It was not an hour before the evening meal when the Colonel Sahib came striding into the clinic, tall, handsome, that air of command swirling in his wake.

  I saw orderlies salute him and nurses smile at him. I was at the top of the stairs and heard him ask for Matron.

  Five minutes later I was summoned to her office.

  To my surprise, she wasn’t there, but I thought perhaps my father was trying to downplay any military reason for his presence in a clinic. I said, “You’ve come to see Simon. I’ll take you to him. He’s been impossible to deal with, waiting for you to come.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Simon? I’ve been very worried about him. The reports from Dr. Gaines have not been good. Is he awake? I’ll speak to him shortly. The fact is, I’ve come to see you.”

  That surprised me even more. “Indeed?”

  “That nurse at the Base Hospital in Rouen. The one we were to distract with words of praise for doing her duty, after she’d given you so much trouble.”

  “Nurse Bailey? Was she difficult to appease?” My heart sank as I had visions of having to explain France to my superiors in the nursing service.

  “I sent one of my men there to speak to her, and he reported that she had left the hospital to attend a funeral. That of Nurse Saunders. Didn’t you tell me she’d seen and spoken to your erstwhile driver? She was found dead the morning after your departure.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I STOOD THERE with my mouth open, so completely taken aback that I couldn’t think what to say.

  The fact was, I’d nearly forgot about the nurse who had tried to stop me from leaving France. My father had told me he would deal with the matter, and in our household, that was that. I could put it out of my mind. I most certainly hadn’t given a thought to Nurse Saunders, whom I hadn’t met, but who had seen a killer face-to-face and never realized she was in any danger. It hadn’t even occurred to me to warn her.

  The note she had left for Nurse Bailey-and of course for me-had simply stated that my driver had come. But if questioned, she would have known what sort of uniform he was wearing, what rank he held, what he looked like. More to the point, she could corroborate any description that Matron-or I-could give.

  “She’s dead?” I repeated slowly. “What happened?”

  “She was lying at the side of the street after a convoy of lorries had passed on their way to the Front. It was just after dusk. A horse had been startled, broke away from its owner, and charged madly down the hill toward the port as they were driving through. When she was found it appeared that the horse had knocked her down. She’d left the Base Hospital and walked to a nearby shop where they sold small gifts for newborns. Apparently her sister had just given birth to her first child. At any rate, her skull had the clear imprint of a horse’s hoof around the ear. Her clothing was stained as if she’d rolled after being struck. No one saw the accident. It was too dark.”

  “Dear God,” I said blankly. My father had had time to absorb the news. I could only think about that poor unsuspecting woman walking out of the Base Hospital on such a happy errand, and instead walking straight into a vicious killer. In the darkness, with the horse running amok, he could have struck her down with impunity, and who would see it happen? Every eye would have been on that horse. “I’m sorry-”

  “My friend looked into the matter, Bess,” my father said, interrupting me. “I don’t think it was the accident it appeared to be. Of course there was the wound on her face, the imprint of a horse’s shoe. And a horse had in fact run loose. But my friend was told by one of the orderlies at the Base Hospital that the surgeon who examined the body was surprised that the blow hadn’t gone deeper. Deep enough to kill, yes, but there was also the weight of the animal behind it, you see, and her skull wasn’t crushed. They decided it was a glancing blow, but the surgeon-from somewhere in Minnesota, I believe-wasn’t buying it. Then a cast shoe was found just beyond where the body lay, and our friend from Minnesota was finally satisfied.”

  I thought about that. “There are hundreds of horses coming through Rouen. And dozens of horse-drawn carts. A shoe could easily have been come by in the town.”

  “Quite. However, the French police ruled the death an accident, and the Base Hospital didn’t dispute it. They could think of no possible reason why Nurse Saunders should be murdered.”

  “Very likely she was,” I agreed. “She’d seen his face clearly. Whoever it was, pretending to be my driver. She could have helped us show that my driver was the same man as the Colonel Prescott who spoke to Matron about Sister Burrows. I thought that once I was out of France it would be over. That there was no need to kill anyone else. Should someone speak to the French police? And what about Matron? Is she in any danger? Is there any way we can warn her?”

  “No one in Rouen has connected Nurse Saunders to you in any way. And it’s best for now to leave it like that. As for Matron, I think she’s safe enough. For one thing, she’s always surrounded by staff and patients. For another, you told me that she herself was rather suspicious of this Colonel, and if he sensed that at all, he’ll stay clear of her for fear of making matters worse. Besides, it’s entirely possible that he doesn’t know you’ve spoken to her. On the other hand, if he saw Nurse Saunders on the street and discovered that you’d been sent home in disgrace, he could very well have considered that any investigation into your behavior in Rouen would lead to a counterfeit driver with counterfeit orders. And only Nurse Saunders had seen this man.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it from that direction.” I took a deep breath. “We only learned of Nurse Saunders’s death because you took the trouble to allay any suspicions Nurse Bailey might have harbored. We wouldn’t have known otherwise. It’s rather frightening to think that a woman I’ve never met was killed because of me.” I shivered at the thought. “But who is this man?” I asked. “He couldn’t be William Morton. William Morton died two weeks before Captain Carson. Didn’t he?”

  “Yes, I’ve looked into that. There’s no doubt of it. But he had brothers, and one could have taken it into his head to exact a little revenge. I don’t want you to return to France for the time being. Not until we’ve located all six of them.”

  “Revenge is one thing. Indiscriminate killing is another. Vincent Carson is dead. Why isn’t it finished?”

  “That’s why I’ve been as careful as may be about any inquiries. I don’t want to start a witch hunt until we have a better idea of what’s going on. The Army is like Scotland Yard in one sense-any investigation is by its very nature official. And we’ve too little information, much less proof, to take that step.”

  “I understand,” I said reluctantly. Still, the sooner we could get to the bottom of this affair, the sooner I could return to France.

  “One more thing. I’ve spoke to the Carsons’ solicitors. There were no provisions in Vincent’s will for his sister or her offspring. But then the will was drawn up just before he left for France in the autumn of 1914. He’d have had no reason to add such a bequest at that stage. Morton hadn’t enlisted, the war was expected to end by Christmas, Sabrina was still in disgrace. There was a le
tter from Vincent to the solicitors after her child was born, indicating an intention on his part to provide for her straightaway. His solicitors drew up a proposal and sent it to France for his approval, but he never returned it. No one seems to know if the proposal was found with his personal effects. According to the solicitors, Julia was unaware of it, and so it was assumed that he must have changed his mind.”

  “How sad.” I couldn’t help but wish that Julia had been sent her husband’s journal. There could be an entry in it that would make all the difference.

  I’ve approved the proposal regarding Sabrina, but I haven’t sent it to London. I want to tell Julia and Valerie first, but there’s been no time to write…

  But the entry could also have read, I had every intention of helping Sabrina, but Morton was at me again yesterday, wanting a sizable settlement instead. It has shown me how right my father was to have nothing to do with that match…

  “Yes, very sad. All right, take me to Simon, if you will.” He put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “It will be over shortly, my dear. Meanwhile, best to keep you safe.”

  I led him from Matron’s office to the surgical ward and presented Sister Randolph, who was on duty. He asked about her patients, and she gave him a brief report on their conditions. He thanked her, walked slowly down the row of cots, nodding to the men who were awake and pausing finally where Simon lay waiting. I heard the Colonel Sahib clear his throat, then say, “Well, Brandon, you’ve decided to live, have you?”

  The officer lying next to Simon was awake as well, and he shifted his head toward the two men, curious and unabashedly listening. Men of my father’s rank were not often visitors here, nor did they know many of the patients by name.

  I turned away as Simon lifted his left hand to take my father’s.

  And then behind me I heard Simon’s voice begin speaking in Hindi, clearly, concisely, a soldier reporting to an officer. I couldn’t help but overhear some of it, but Sister Randolph was saying at my side, “Oh, how nice, he’s found someone who understands the same language.”