An Unmarked Grave

by Charles Todd

  “I never met your son,” I said. “But I’ve known Sabrina since she was a child.”

  He ignored me. “Will’s son ought to be brought up here, where he belongs. Not in England. I told his mother that. I offered her a home as well. My wife died in the Spanish flu, there’s no one to do for us. It would be a kindness to come and take her place.”

  I could see what he meant, that there was no one to feed the chickens or cook the meals or do the family’s washing, mending, or marketing. I couldn’t imagine Sabrina fitting into this world. I could understand why she had chosen Fowey instead.

  But I could also understand this man’s needs. He had a farm to keep going without his sons, and the house needed a woman in it.

  I said, “Are your other sons married?”

  “My namesake, Ross, had a wife. She died of childbed fever, and the babe with her. A pretty little thing, but with no strength to live.”

  “Where is Ross now?”

  “Drowned off the coast of Ireland when his ship went down. The Huns never tried to save the men. The surprise was, they didn’t machine-gun them in the water. It’s done, I’m told. Will’s dead, but you know that, if you saw Sabrina. David’s lost a leg and sits in his room, staring at nothing. The girl he was to marry didn’t want a cripple. The twins are in France somewhere, and they write when they can. But I never know from day to day if they’re alive or dead. Llewellyn’s in hospital in Suffolk and not right in his head, nor ever will be, they’re saying. Shell shock. Only Will has a son. And this farm once had seven.”

  I’d been counting with my fingers behind my back. Ross, the elder, the namesake. Will. David who lost his leg. The twins. Llewellyn in Suffolk. That made six.

  “You had seven sons?” I asked gently. “Is the last also among the dead?”

  Ross Morton shifted. “That’s Hugh,” he said. “Nine months younger than Will and a hothead into the bargain. The image of his mother’s own Da. The one who went down the mines and lived to tell about it. A fighter he was. Mary’s father. I never quite got my mind around that boy. I couldn’t see how he could be so much like his grandda, and so unlike me.”

  You could almost imagine him questioning the boy’s paternity, something he must have done a thousand times over the years. And yet somehow I had a feeling he’d never doubted his wife.

  “A changeling,” he said, finally, as if in echo of my own thoughts. “They used to talk about that. The old ones. I never put much stock in it, until Hugh. And then I knew it could be true enough. I just don’t know how he got to be in the Morton cradle.”

  “But you said-Hugh’s alive still? Along with David and the twins and Llewellyn?”

  Morton took a deep breath. “They tell me he’s missing. There was the telegram saying at first that he was dead. And then a letter from his commanding officer to say he was among the missing after a push that was repelled. I don’t understand why they couldn’t find him. Do you?” He swung around to stare at Captain Barclay, as if he were to blame for the confusion. “Hugh wouldn’t be easy to kill. And he wouldn’t care to be penned up behind a fence in a prison camp. It would drive him mad. He was always a roamer, Hugh was, and I can’t see the Army changing that. Why haven’t they found my son?”

  I could hear again the little boy telling us that his father had lost his head and had been buried without it.

  The Captain was saying, “It’s not so easy. There’s shelling before an assault, and then there’s the attack across No Man’s Land. Men die, they’re shot, they’re blown apart, they’re wounded and fall into a shell hole where the body may not be found for days. No certainty, you see. The sergeant calls the roll and no one answers. And no one saw him fall. If he hasn’t already been taken behind the lines to be treated for wounds, they can only wait and see if he turns up. He could even be a prisoner. If he is, word comes back after a time, and his status is changed. I’m sorry. But that’s how it is.”

  “A damned poor way to run a war, if you don’t know where your own men are,” Morton said contemptuously. “While families sit and wait for news, and none comes. At least not any good news.”

  He turned back to me. “Do you think Sabrina might want to come and bring up the boy here? For Will’s sake?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, wishing fervently that I hadn’t raised false hopes with my invented reason for coming here. “Perhaps if you write to her again?”

  “I wrote once. I’m not likely to write again.” I could hear the stiff-necked pride in his voice. He’d offered his home and all he had to Will’s widow. There was nothing more to say.

  He couldn’t understand as I could that Sabrina had been brought up in a very different world. She would break here, on this farm, cooking and cleaning and washing for the men of the house. With no hope of escape, no chance for a life of her own. And yet I could see that a boy could run wild here when not at his lessons or doing the everyday tasks assigned to him, and grow up as his uncles did. Compared to that narrow little hotel in Fowey where no one came on holiday now because of the war, with the danger of drowning not far from the door, it offered much.

  I said, “I think perhaps your son’s death is still a shock to her. To Sabrina.”

  “She has a son to care for,” he said stubbornly. “My grandson. He may be too young to know or care now, but one day he’ll want to see where his father came from, and it’s likely there’ll be none of us left to tell him. If this war goes on for much longer and they’re all dead, I won’t see any reason to stay.”

  He nodded toward his cows. “I have them to milk and feed. I don’t have time to give over to wishful thinking. I’ll bid you good day, Sister. Captain.”

  And he walked past us, calling to his cows. They formed a line as tidy as any drawn with a rule, and followed him into the barn.

  Captain Barclay nodded to me and I turned the motorcar to drive away.

  As I did so, I happened to see, in an upper window of the farmhouse, the thin, drawn face of the son who’d lost his leg.

  I’d seen too many like him to have high hopes for his survival. If there was no gun in the house, there was always the shallow stream or any of a number of ways to end the pain.

  I was torn between wishing Hugh Morton was not a murderer and would come home to his father, and thinking that if Hugh took after his mother, as Will did, then he too had those pale, pale eyes.

  Captain Barclay said as we once more drove over the narrow little bridge, “Hugh’s alive. His father doesn’t want to hope. And there’ve been no letters. But he believes Hugh is too much like his grandfather to have been killed so easily by the Germans.”

  And I had, reluctantly, to agree with him.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THAT EVENING, AFTER the motorcar had been returned to its proper place and I’d thanked Dr. Gaines for the use of it, I went up to my room and began a letter home to my mother.

  It was very simple, my letter.

  I told her that Simon was steadily improving and that meanwhile I’d enjoyed a picnic with Captain Barclay.

  I never mentioned going to Wales. I wrote that it was sad to hear that Will’s brother was missing and that there was still no news of him all these weeks since it was reported.

  It would suffice to inform my father of what I had discovered.

  After I’d set my letter in the basket for the morning post, I went back to my room and sat by the window, looking out into the night. There were three people dead. All I could be certain of was that the same man had killed all three. He’d nearly succeeded in killing me as well.

  What’s more, I’d rashly promised Mrs. Wilson that I’d try to take away the stigma of her husband’s suicide. I still felt strongly about that. It was cruel that a woman and her daughter had to live with a lie. But I’d made little enough progress.

  Still, I’d learned how Major Carson must have been surprised and killed. And Private Wilson as well.

  When I’d felt that arm around my throat, it was frightening, and I’d fo
ught desperately to live. I expect that, even caught by surprise, Major Carson and Private Wilson must have fought too. Both were tall men, but slender in build. And their attacker? Remembering the size of the elder Ross Morton, the width of his shoulders, and the power in his body even in middle age, I realized that if Hugh was anything like his father, I’d been unbelievably lucky to have survived. But then whoever it was had needed to kill me as silently as possible, and that bucket, rolling and clanging across the muddy ground, had put paid to that.

  I shivered. If my booted foot hadn’t found it and given it a hard kick, I could very well be dead now, not sitting in Somerset watching the moon rise.

  Would Hugh come to England looking to finish what he’d begun?

  I couldn’t really answer that. But I realized with a sudden sinking feeling in my stomach that my arrival at the Morton farm might have changed the future. Assuming that Hugh was still alive and learned that I’d been there, asking questions.

  Was Sabrina safe? I’d used her name.

  On the whole, I thought she would be.

  But he might well be goaded into searching for me because he suspected why I had been there.

  If, of course, the killer was German, what happened in Wales would have no bearing on my life or anyone else’s.

  I’d have to go back to France. Simon couldn’t accompany me, and Captain Barclay wasn’t fit to be released for duty either.

  Then I’d have to go alone. There must be some way to do it safely.

  I’d need a reason to travel. I couldn’t hope to search properly if I was sent to one station and one station only. What’s more, I could be found all too easily.

  With a sigh, I came to a conclusion and went quietly down the stairs to retrieve my letter.

  Upstairs again, I opened it and added a second sheet, outlining the conclusions I’d drawn while sitting at my window.

  I didn’t think the Colonel Sahib would be happy with this addendum, but I had a feeling he’d see the reasoning behind it and agree, however reluctantly.

  I tiptoed down to the foyer again to leave the resealed envelope in the basket, and I was just on the point of going back up the stairs when a movement in the dimly lit passage to my left caught my eye.

  For the past half hour I’d been dealing with murder and murderers. I froze, waiting to see who was there, but no one came forward, not Matron, not the night duty orderly, not one of the sisters on evening watch.

  As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I could see a shadow at the end of the passage, where someone had halted and was waiting for me to go on about my own business.

  I debated shouting for help. But I’d feel silly if it was only one of the officers who found it hard to sleep and who sometimes walked off whatever nightmares kept him awake. But that was generally in the small hours, two or three in the morning.

  I moved forward as silently as I could, keeping to the wall as much as possible. I’d exchanged my boots for slippers, as I often did off duty, embroidered silk ones from Benares in India. Halfway to the arch where I’d seen the shadow, I listened and could actually hear someone breathing.

  Flattening myself closer to the wall, I went on, cutting the distance in half again and finally, holding my own breath, I was there.

  Movement again on the far side of the arch, someone turning and softly heading back the way he’d come. Even listening as hard as I was, I almost didn’t catch it.

  Softly-someone in bare feet. I was sure of it.

  I was through the arch in a burst of speed, and just in time I saw whoever it was disappearing through a door into the room where ambulatory officers gathered to play cards or chess or read.

  I was fast on his heels, opening the door he’d left ajar so as not to make a sound closing it.

  The room was dark, but because the night was warm the windows at the far end stood open, giving onto one of the gardens. I saw the silhouette just ahead of me spin to face me as I said, “Who’s there?” At the same time I drew matches out of my pocket and struck one. It flared and I found myself staring at Simon Brandon’s pain-lined face.

  “What in heaven’s name are you doing?” I demanded, anger replacing the fear that had driven me to follow the shadow this far.

  “Bess,” he said in some relief. “I thought it might be Matron at the stairs.”

  “And so it should have been,” I said. “You should be in your bed, recovering-”

  “I can’t,” he said. “If I lie on that cot for another day, I shan’t be able to walk at all.”

  “And whose fault is that?” I demanded.

  “Yes, I know. Duty, and all that. The last two nights, I’d slip out and walk for a while. They won’t allow me to try during the day, but it doesn’t damage my shoulder, after all. It just brings back the strength in my limbs.”

  I knew he was right, but yet I couldn’t get over my anger. It was a measure of my earlier fright.

  He smiled. “Dodging you used up more energy than I realized. Will you give me a shoulder back to the ward?”

  I took a deep breath. “Sit down, Simon. Please. We’ll walk back in a few minutes. Rest.”

  He sank down in one of the chairs, and although he tried not to let me see what a relief it was, I could read him as well as he could read me.

  After a while, he said, “Why were you following me?”

  “I thought-I don’t know what I thought. That someone was sleepwalking or had come in through the windows-” I stopped, not wanting to go down that road.

  “Does France still worry you?”

  “A little,” I admitted. “But it will pass.”

  “True enough.” He leaned his head back against the chair, then said, “Did I babble when I was unconscious? Did anyone comment on anything?”

  “You were in the Northwest Frontier. Not in France. And so you were speaking Urdu most of the time. I don’t think anyone else here understands one word in ten of the language.”

  “Thank you. I knew something I shouldn’t like to have gossiped about here or anywhere else.”

  “The staff doesn’t know how you came to be in this clinic. They don’t even know your rank. It’s just assumed that you’re an officer like the rest of the patients. Dr. Gaines has listed you as a special case because of your shoulder. He sometimes takes on very difficult cases, that isn’t a matter for comment. And he needed to keep you under his eye.”

  “Is Barclay here? Has he said anything to anyone?”

  “You can trust him to be discreet. I expect one of the reasons you’re kept isolated at the far end of the surgical ward is to prevent other patients from talking to you and asking more questions than you’d care to answer.”

  “I’m grateful,” he said. These were questions he would never have asked my father. But he felt he could ask me, and I was glad I could put his mind at ease.

  “You frightened us, Sergeant-Major,” I said lightly. He understood.

  “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention. There are some matters more important than one’s life.”

  I wanted to tell him that there was nothing I could think of more important than his. And I was still refusing to accept that he had been given orders that could well have meant his death. I had been born and brought up in an Army household, I understood duty and sacrifice as well as any man in the Army or any woman married to a soldier. Waste I could not endure. This wasn’t something I could talk about even with my mother. Melinda Crawford, a distant cousin, would understand. She had seen a very different war in the Great Indian Mutiny. She had lost a beloved husband to war. I felt like putting through a telephone call to her and telling her the whole story. But I couldn’t. The telephones were not safe for confessions of that sort.

  I said, “Are you ready to return to your cot?”

  “Yes, I think I am.” He got unsteadily to his feet, and I gave him my arm. After the first several steps he’d regained his strength, and it was an uneventful return to the ward.

  To our relief, the sister on night duty was
about to collect the medicine tray, and we waited in a doorway until she had gone. Simon walked the last distance to his cot himself without my assistance, and I’d just seen him safely under the sheet when Sister Roberts returned to the ward.

  Peering down the length of it, she said, “Sister Crawford?”

  I replied, “Indeed. I was passing on my way to my quarters and I thought I heard someone ask for water.”

  “Who was it?”

  I was already halfway up the ward. “I expect he was calling out in his sleep.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, that must be the surgical case from this afternoon,” she answered, coming to look down on the sleeping man. “He’s not allowed anything to drink yet. I’ll just find a cloth and dip it in cool water. That should help.”

  I knew better than to offer to do it for her. I wished her good night and went on to my room.

  It had been a long day, and to my surprise I slept well. It would be at least two days, possibly three, before I had an answer to my letter.

  My father was difficult to convince.

  He said, as we walked under the trees, “Have you mentioned this to Brandon?”

  “I thought it best not to.”

  “Yes, quite right. Your mother is against it, of course, but she left the matter to my own good judgment. I’m not sure that I don’t agree with her.”

  “We’ll never know, will we, if we don’t go looking for this man. And there are several points in favor of returning this way.” I’d given the matter a good deal of thought while waiting for my father’s opinion. “I’ll be far less vulnerable than I was before. I’ll be under orders that can’t be meddled with. My schedule will be random, not rigid or predictable. And I’ll be on special assignment where any attack on me would draw instant attention. He’d be foolish even to try-whatever he’s up to, he’s not likely to risk everything on one attempt to silence me. On the other hand, there are only so many places a deserter-or a spy-can hide. There are patrols in towns like Calais or Rouen. Captain Barclay ran into one. The main supply routes and roads for columns moving up are too busy. He must stay on the fringes of military movement.”