by Charles Todd
“He’s carried out his duties in exemplary fashion,” my father answered. “But I think he’s taken to drinking in the evening. Look in on him from time to time, if you will. I’m afraid my visit might seem too . . . official. Perhaps you can persuade him that Mary’s better off where she is for the time being.”
“I’ll do my best,” the Lieutenant promised, and then was gone.
Mother, watching him walk across the parade ground, said, “That was a good idea, Richard. They’re of an age, those two. They may do more for each other than you can do.”
But we all knew that his wife’s absence would be devastating for Lieutenant Standish. The question was, would his promising career begin to suffer?
A fortnight passed, and it seemed that my father’s suggestion had worked. Lieutenant Standish stopped his drinking and took a renewed strength from the hope that Lieutenant Wade had given him, that his wife intended to return. A kind white lie. What’s more, Mary Standish had sent back with Lieutenant Wade two photographs. One the Middletons had taken at Christmas of a smiling, happy Alice opening the gifts that her parents had sent to England for her, and another of Rosemary learning to play lawn tennis with the children of the neighborhood. Lieutenant Standish showed both photographs to my mother and me, and I could see how much the children had grown.
“It was thoughtful of Mary. I’ve decided to put in for leave as soon as possible. I think if I go to England, Mary will come back with me. Wade seems to think it’s likely.”
“A very good idea,” my mother answered encouragingly. “Do speak to the Colonel about it.” But we all knew it would be six months before he could go.
A week later, Lieutenant Wade took a company out on patrol, and they were late getting back. Hiding his anxiety, my father went to the lines just after dusk, to look over the new horses that had come in, and then went to confer with Simon on problems arising from a village that had been friendly until now.
My father and Simon had just returned to the house when we heard horses approaching. The Colonel Sahib, lifting his head to listen as he was pouring Simon a whisky, said, “Ah, that must be Wade at last.” Then he put down the decanter and turned to Simon, who was also listening. “The numbers are wrong. Wade’s run into trouble somewhere.”
He and Simon raced out, crossing to the barracks. And then not fifteen minutes later my father was back. His face was grim. At his heels were two men in the uniform of the Military Foot Police.
They went directly to the Colonel Sahib’s study, and there they stayed for three quarters of an hour. After they’d gone, my father came out onto the veranda where my mother and I were sitting.
“I think it might be best if you both went inside. There’s likely to be some unpleasantness as soon as Wade’s patrol rides in.”
We didn’t question him. We went to the sitting room, where my mother picked up her book and began to read while I played the piano.
Whatever had happened, it was a serious matter, and we both knew it. Young as I was, I’d lived with this regiment all my life, and I understood how it worked as well as the men who fought for it. As time went on I found myself listening for loud arguments, noisy chases across the parade ground, some indication that whoever the police were after had been caught.
It was two hours later when the Colonel Sahib came back again. He hadn’t lost the grimness around his mouth.
“What’s happened, Richard?” my mother asked, reading his expression from years of experience. “Something has.”
He cast a glance at me—I was still sitting at the piano—then quietly answered my mother. “It apparently concerns Lieutenant Wade. But he hasn’t come back from patrol. When he does, the MFP from Agra want to speak to him.”
“Has there been fighting?” my mother asked anxiously. “On the Frontier?”
“No. The patrol ran into a raiding party but it retreated as soon as it saw our men. No,” he said again, as if distracted. “It has to do with matters in Agra.”
My mother opened her mouth to ask a question, thought better of it, and said, “I’m sure it will work out.”
My father sat down, pretending to read the newspaper. About forty-five minutes later Simon Brandon came to the door. His face was as grim as my father’s had been.
“He’s taken a fresh horse and disappeared,” Simon reported. “I’ve sent out scouts, but in the dark they haven’t a chance of finding his tracks.”
I knew better than to ask who it was they were talking about. If the Colonel wanted us to know, he’d tell us later.
My father said, “Keep me informed.”
Simon saluted and was gone.
After several minutes of staring at the Gazette, my father came to a decision and tossed the newspaper to one side. Going to the window, staring out into the night, he said, “It will be all over the cantonment by morning. You might as well know the facts. Lieutenant Wade’s parents were found murdered in Agra.”
Shocked, my mother exclaimed, “How perfectly awful. Who could have done such a thing? Was it political, Richard?”
“The police have been trying to find the killer. The evidence, it seems, is now pointing strongly at Wade himself. Because of something that happened elsewhere, Agra has turned the matter over to the Army.”
“Are they very sure?” my mother asked. “Our Lieutenant Wade? I find that hard to believe.”
“Nevertheless. His parents’ bodies were discovered the morning Wade left to rejoin the regiment. He’d stopped over to visit them, you remember, on his way back from England. The staff thought it odd that his parents weren’t up to see him off at dawn. And they didn’t come down later for their breakfast. Finally, the housekeeper went to their room and found they’d been shot. The sound had apparently been lost in a noisy marriage procession that had passed the house the night before. At first the local police wished to be sure the murders had nothing to do with Wade’s military career—we all make enemies from time to time. And so they traced Wade’s movements from the day his ship docked in Bombay. In Agra, they spoke to the servants and to the neighbors, even interviewed the staff at the railway office, in the event someone there had been out for revenge after being disciplined. It was at that stage when the police got word of trouble of some sort in England, Scotland Yard wanting information about Wade—”
My mother interrupted. “Scotland Yard? Surely nothing to do with Mary Standish, I hope.”
“No, not at all. The Military Foot Police were sent here to question Wade, but when they reached Lahore, there was another matter requiring their attention before they could travel on.”
The journey from Delhi or even Agra was long and arduous. Even so, the MFP had made good time.
My father turned to face us. “I find this as hard to believe as you do. But after my conversation with the MFP, I’m forced to change my mind.”
“But you said—Wade didn’t come back? Or he left as soon as he spotted the police? How could he have known—?” my mother asked.
“As far as we can discover, he rode in with his men, and at the lines he saw horses he didn’t recognize. He asked one of the grooms about them and was told they were MFP and had come from Agra. Wade’s Sergeant, Beckles, saw Wade starting in the direction of HQ, as he should have done to make his report. He stopped, came back to the lines, and said his compass was no longer in his pocket. He was fairly sure where he’d lost it. Beckles offered to send some men back to search, but Wade told him they were tired, he’d deal with it himself. He asked for a fresh horse and told Beckles he should be back in half an hour at the most. No one questioned his actions. They had no reason to. And so he rode off into the darkness and that was that. The police have gone after him, but they don’t know the country. If they find him, it will be a miracle. I’ve sent some of my own men out to search for Wade, with Simon in charge. They might have better luck.”
It was all but an admissio
n of guilt, I thought. Disappearing like that.
We sat there in silence, digesting the awful news. I had known Lieutenant Wade, I’d ridden with him any number of times. He’d taken me to the spice bazaar in Peshawar, and even to call on the Maharani. The thought that he could be a murderer had never crossed my mind. As for killing his parents—just considering it was appalling.
I looked across at my own mother and father, and I found it impossible to believe that anyone I knew could walk into his family’s house, kill his parents, then calmly get up the next morning and start back toward the regiment here along the Frontier. Yes, he’d had days on the road to put what he’d done behind him. But still . . .
How do you ever recover from the shock of murdering your father? Your mother?
It was unconscionable. What in heaven’s name could they have done to make their son do something so unspeakable?
It took me several days to get over my shock. I didn’t speak of it to my mother. I knew she too was trying to cope with the news.
Lieutenant Standish, remembering that this was the man who’d escorted his wife all the way to England, was beside himself when he was told. He refused to believe it. I heard him, his voice raised in anger, arguing with my father in the Colonel Sahib’s study.
None of us could have guessed. Least of all, Mary Standish. The letter Lieutenant Wade had brought back to Lieutenant Standish had given such a glowing account of his care for her comfort and safety. Hardly what one would expect of a man about to commit murder. All the same, my father sent a query to London to be certain that Mary Standish, her daughter Rosemary, and the Middletons were safe.
It was a nine days’ wonder. Lieutenant Wade had vanished. We heard speculation that he’d died in the desert. That he’d been seen crossing the Khyber Pass. That he’d been spotted in Lahore, and even in Jaipur. And then the first reliable report came in.
The Military Foot Police were told during one of their search sweeps that Lieutenant Wade’s body lay deep in the Pass, where he’d tried to reach Afghanistan. It was impossible to verify that or to bring his body back.
I knew my father had sent word out to posts in the Punjab and in Rajasthan offering a reward for information about the Lieutenant. He would have to find fresh horses and provisions somewhere. The ports had also been ordered to stop him if he came through looking for passage. And so it made sense that Lieutenant Wade had tried the only way open to him. It had been a terrible risk.
He’d lost. He’d died. That was the end of the matter.
I asked my father, several months after word of his body had reached the cantonment, if he believed the report. If he was satisfied that Lieutenant Wade was dead.
“He has to be,” he said slowly. “He hasn’t tried to leave the country by ship. North, into Nepal or Tibet, holds nothing for him. He’d have to go west. Through Afghanistan into Persia. A long perilous journey, but it could be done, if he was determined enough. There have been no reports of him in any other part of this country. We made certain that every local police station had a description. What’s more, he hasn’t shown up in England, either. We even sent word to Australia.”
But I could hear the tiny echo of doubt in my father’s voice. He’d trained Lieutenant Wade. He and Simon Brandon. He knew how good the man was.
He also knew how difficult the terrain was, how fearsome the Frontier tribes were. Yes, Wade had had the courage to try. And yes, he’d very likely died in the attempt.
It was what the Army had been forced to accept, and we could do no less. As the Lieutenant had no family other than his parents, there was no one to notify.
The years passed, and there was no further news of Lieutenant Wade. Indeed, officially he’d been declared dead, and the Army doesn’t do that lightly.
It was ten years later, in France, in the middle of a war, that I heard Lieutenant Wade’s name spoken again.
It was like a visitation from the past, and not a welcome one.
This man had not only killed, he had left a stain of dishonor on the Regimental Lists.
And what touched the regiment touched my family.
Chapter One
England, Summer 1918
The afternoon sun was warm on my face as I stepped out the door of Rudyard Kipling’s house in East Sussex. Simon Brandon, his expression unreadable, followed me, pulling the door shut behind him.
I wasn’t sure why he wasn’t his usual steady self.
As we turned to walk together around the house, toward the back lawns and the stream and water meadows beyond, I said, referring to our host, “He’s still grieving. Poor man.”
As soon as war broke out in 1914, Rudyard Kipling had urged his only son to join the Army. Jack had been killed at Loos barely a year later. His body had never been recovered. He’d been eighteen, still a boy.
“I remember Jack,” I went on. “Once or twice he visited Melinda when I was there.”
“You can’t find a house in England that isn’t grieving. We’ve lost a generation, Bess. The best we have.”
I knew that all too well. I’d watched so many men die.
“Mr. Kipling is going to be on the Graves Commission. It’s fitting, don’t you think?”
“He’ll know what words to put on the monuments,” Simon answered. “That will matter.”
Melinda Crawford had asked Simon to drive her down to Bateman’s to call on Mr. Kipling. Worried about him, she made a point of regular visits. But this time her driver was suffering from a bout of malaria. Just home from France on a brief leave, I’d decided to come with them. I hadn’t been to Kent in some time—it was where Melinda lived—and on the long drive down to East Sussex we’d enjoyed each other’s company.
As we rounded the house and walked on to the gardens Simon commented, as if it had been on his mind most of the day, “She’s talking about returning to India.” I didn’t need to ask who she was. “Once the war is over. She wants me to take her there.”
Surprised, I stopped, staring down at the reflection of the summer sky in the quiet surface of the pools. “Is that a good idea? It’s such a long journey at her age.”
Simon was looking back at the house. “I don’t know.” I’d always had a feeling that Simon didn’t want to return there. If anyone could persuade him, it was Melinda.
Her father, like mine, had been an officer in the Army, and she had grown up in India, just as I had, although of course decades apart. Indeed she had been something of a heroine as a child during the Great Indian Mutiny of 1857, for she and her mother had been caught in the dreadful Siege of Lucknow. She had married another officer stationed out there and later lost him to cholera. Afterward, alone but for her Indian servants, she’d traveled the world while she grieved.
I turned to look too, thinking as I had on other visits how really beautiful the Kipling house was. Someone moved past one of the upstairs windows, and I waved.
Mr. Kipling had told Melinda that it was love at first sight when he came to Bateman’s. Born in India of British parents, he’d finally settled in England. The house couldn’t be more different from those in Bombay or Delhi or even Simla. Like Melinda Crawford, he’d put down roots in this cooler climate, but a part of his heart was still in the East. It showed most clearly in his writing.
“Perhaps she wants to visit her husband’s grave again,” I suggested as we walked on. “Surely most of the people she knew are long since dead as well.”
“It’s possible.”
I watched fluffy summer clouds drifting across the pool, almost as real as the ones in the sky above us. Then we walked on in a companionable silence, taking the path through the copse that led toward the high grass of the meadow. The hem of my skirt caught on the dry stalk of a spring wildflower, and Simon bent to set it free.
“Do you want to go back?” I asked him, curious. “To India, I mean.”
“I don�
�t know,” he said again.
We paused on the bridge over the stream, looking down at the slow-moving water below. The sound of it passing over the stones in the streambed was a soothing murmur. But I could sense the tension in the man beside me.
I didn’t press. Whatever Simon had left behind in India, he had never spoken to me about it. I wondered sometimes if my mother knew. Simon was devoted to her, and I’d always had a feeling that something had happened to him in India before my father’s regiment had been sent home from that last posting. It would explain why he was in her debt.
At the time, I’d been considered too young to be included in family secrets, but had Melinda known? Was that why she wished to return to India? For Simon’s sake—as well as her own?
Changing the subject, I said lightly, “I haven’t had a chance to ask. Are you well enough to return to duty?”
Neither my mother nor I knew what services my father, the Colonel Sahib, and Simon Brandon performed for the Army. Experienced men, both of them, they would disappear for a day or a week without explanation. It often had to do with training and sometimes went well beyond training. I was certain that Simon had gone behind enemy lines more than once, but I’d said nothing to anyone about that.
Simon smiled. “I’ve been told I’m sound as a bell.”
I was glad for his sake, but I was also worried. The war was certain to end before very long—the arrival of the American forces under General Pershing was helping turn the tide at last—but until it did, Simon would be in the thick of things if he could. Perhaps he wouldn’t be as lucky the next time the Germans shot at him. I shivered at the thought.
We’d left the house for a stroll after our lunch with Mr. Kipling, to give Melinda time alone with her old friend. Among the books in Mr. Kipling’s study were many of his treasures from India, small pieces in ivory or wood or silver, and when we’d left them, they were reminiscing about their experiences out there. A safe subject, when the war was too painful to speak of.
