by Charles Todd
But there were his parents as well. It was a measure of how upset my mother was, to say such a thing.
We drove in silence for some time, then she said, “Mr. Gates’s uncle. Lieutenant Wade. This Captain Bingham you spoke to in France. Mr. Hughes. Four people who had an excellent reason to commit murder. But why wait so many years?”
“Because,” I suggested, “the Caswells stopped taking in children.”
“Yes, that’s likely. But something must have triggered the murders.”
“There was Wade’s little sister, who was thought to have died of typhoid because the Caswells didn’t summon the doctor,” I reminded her. “And then Alice Standish dying in England of what was said to be the same disease. Lieutenant Wade spent that long voyage home listening to a woman mourning her child. It must have revived memories he’d tried to push away, like Mr. Hughes. Perhaps he stopped by to confront them, and then things got out of hand. He’d have had his service revolver with him. It would be easy to kill three unsuspecting people.”
“It’s such a coincidence that Lieutenant Wade was traveling down to Portsmouth that same day. Who could have known he was there, or remembered him as a child even if he did come to Petersfield? But I can see that he found himself drawn to go back. Perhaps their intransigence, no sign of regret or remorse, angered him so much he had killed them before he came to his senses.”
My mother took a deep breath. “I’m beginning to think we’ll never know the answer, Bess. And that leaves the question of what to do about Thomas Wade.”
“Yes, I know. I wish I’d never confided in the Colonel Sahib. I’ve just reminded him of what happened. And put him on the spot, now that he knows where Lieutenant Wade is.”
“I don’t think he’s ever really forgot that night when Lieutenant Wade failed to come back from his patrol.”
We drove the rest of the way busy with our thoughts. Rain caught up with us before we reached Somerset, and I was forced to concentrate on the road as the heavy squalls reduced visibility to the point that once I had to pull over under a tree until the worst had passed.
Simon was at the house when we returned. He’d brought some papers for the Colonel Sahib and was waiting for him.
Surprised to see me, he said, “You’ve been back to Petersfield, I take it.”
“Yes, and we’ve learned a little more. I don’t know if it’s useful information or not,” I added.
“Richard won’t be back for a few days, Simon. Leave the papers in his study, if you will, and then stay for dinner. We could both use some cheering up.”
It was Simon who drove me back to London and to the station when my leave was over.
My mother and I had asked him about his visit to Midhurst. But he had met a small, graying man who had introduced himself as Mr. Hughes. Was this the cousin Hughes had mentioned?
“He was hardly one of the Caswell children, and he could tell me very little about The Willows, just what was in the brochures that had been made up for prospective clients. What’s more, he seemed uninterested in its past. I asked if he had a family, and he told me there was a son who died before he was two and a daughter who presently lives in Derbyshire. He himself had spent most of his life in London. At that point I thanked him for his help and left. He said nothing about taking his cousin’s place.”
He had never seen or heard of the man we’d spoken with.
We left home a little ahead of time because I wanted very much to see if I could find anything more about Hazel Sheridan.
That took us to Somerset House.
And there she was, the only child of the sister of a very wealthy merchant who had made his fortune in India but who had no one to leave it to but his niece.
She had married well, to a Sir Henry Campbell. They had a single son.
As we waited for the train to pull in, Simon commented, “I think your mother is persuaded that it was Lieutenant Wade after all. I think before she went to Petersfield, she had her doubts.”
“It appears that way,” I agreed. “But I’m glad I have delved into the Caswells and the children in their keeping. For one thing it has taught me how lucky I was that my parents kept me in India with them despite the risks. For another, I can better understand Lieutenant Wade. I couldn’t fathom how the man I knew there in Peshawar could have killed anyone.”
“It still doesn’t explain why he killed his parents.”
“Yes, there’s that. Perhaps he blamed them for not taking him and his sister away from The Willows. For not seeing or believing the torment they endured. I don’t think my mother would have been so easily deceived.”
“Perhaps she would have been if you were too frightened to tell her what was happening to you.”
“There’s that.”
“I don’t think I’d have been misled,” he said after a moment. “I knew you too well.”
Before I could say anything more, the train came roaring into the station, wreathed with smoke and preventing any conversation at all.
Simon took my arm and helped me into the carriage, setting my kit on the rack. Shutting the door, he stood by the window for a moment, waiting for the bustle to die down.
“We have it on good authority,” he said in a voice pitched for me to hear and no one else, “that Lieutenant Wade has tried to escape. Whether he succeeded or not, I don’t know.”
Astonished, I stared at him. “But why would he do that? He’d be safe in German hands until the end of the war.” And why had Simon waited until now to tell me this piece of news?
“He was always a complicated man, Bess. Most of us are.”
And the train was moving, leaving him standing there watching me out of sight.
Chapter Eighteen
The influenza epidemic hadn’t abated. Nor had the killing in the trenches.
I was sent back to the same hospital where I’d worked before with the influenza patients. There were new doctors, new nurses, but Matron was still there. She greeted me warmly, and gave me news of those who had been here earlier. Of those who had fallen ill, three had died, but the rest were even now convalescing. And then I was back in the wards, tending the ill and dying.
I lost track of time. I ate when I was hungry and slept when I could. The days and nights were a blur. And then Matron came for me at dawn one morning as I was bathing a patient.
“You are being relieved,” she said, “although I’m not sure how much relief there will be. You’re needed again at one of the forward aid stations. The staff has fallen ill and the new nursing Sisters have just finished their training. An experienced nurse is badly needed. I have recommended you. You’re steady and reliable, as well as accustomed to dealing with both wounded and influenza patients.”
She helped me put fresh sheets on the bed and settle the patient again. “He’s passed the crisis,” I told her. “I’ll place him on the list for broth tonight.”
“Yes, that’s good news.”
I gathered up the basin and cloths while Matron collected the soiled sheets.
We walked together up the aisle between the cots. She said, “I lost my brother today. He was killed in the fighting. I’m glad he didn’t suffer.” She gestured around us at the men coughing or lying silent in the last throes of the illness.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, knowing how inadequate that was.
“Thank you, Sister.” She took a deep breath. “Go on and change. An ambulance will be here within the hour. I’ll add the Sergeant’s name to the broth list for you. Good luck, my dear.”
And she walked away with the soiled linens and the basin, leaving me to make my preparations. The first thing I did was to have a cup of tea and a little food. It didn’t take long to pack, and so I changed my uniform, bathed my face and hands, and was standing by the receiving area when my driver came up.
He looked tired, like the rest of us. I had known him
for some time but hadn’t seen him in months. So many people we knew disappeared. Wounded, killed, taken ill and invalided home.
“Hello, Teddy. How are you?”
“Well enough. It’s rough going today, Sister.”
I could hear the guns even now. “Yes, I expect it will be.” I climbed in beside him, and only then did I notice the filthy bandage around his forearm.
“What happened?” I asked, catching his hand before he could drive on.
“It’s not much,” he said, shrugging it off as so many soldiers did.
“Serious enough to be bandaged once, and not seen to since,” I said. “Come inside and I’ll clean it for you.”
“No need to make a fuss, Sister,” he argued, taking his hand back. “It’s healing well enough.”
But when I touched it, he winced. I opened my door and got out.
“We’re not moving a mile until I’ve had a look at that arm.”
Frustrated, saying something under his breath that I couldn’t catch, he got out of the ambulance. “But you’ll see to it here, Sister, if you would. I won’t go in there.” He nodded toward the hospital.
I had forgot about Teddy’s reputation.
He was a conscientious objector. He had chosen not to fight but volunteered as a driver instead. Nor was he the first who had done that. It was by no means a safe alternative. Teddy had been wounded twice, and his ambulance had been strafed at least once and hit by shell fragments several times. He was a tall, rather attractive man but kept to himself to avoid comments about his views on war.
I hurried back inside and asked one of the Sisters for a tray. Cutting off the bandage, I saw that the wound in his forearm was rather deep and needed cleaning and stitches to close it properly.
“It’s not going to heal like this,” I said, and set to work. A quarter of an hour later, it was finished, the wound cleaned, stitched, and bandaged again. He really should have seen a doctor, but I knew I couldn’t persuade him to do that.
He watched me work with stoic patience and said only, “You’d make a fine seamstress.”
It made me laugh. Returning the tray to the hospital, I got into the ambulance and we set out for the aid station. It was in chaos when I got there, and I had no time to think. This was when training took over and experience was my guide. The Sisters here were willing and had worked with the wounded in clinics before being sent to France. But they had not dealt with battlefield conditions, where nothing was tidy and men were bleeding, not neatly bandaged. What’s more, the sheer numbers of men coming in was overwhelming, with no system to follow for assessing their needs.
It took me the better part of the day to straighten out the tangle, and I had just stopped for my first break when the doctor arrived. I hadn’t worked with him before, although I knew his reputation as a martinet. His name was Cunningham, and I thought he must be somewhere in his forties, for his fair hair was graying at the temples and deep lines were etched around his eyes and on either side of his mouth.
He made a brief tour, raised his eyebrows at the sight of me standing to one side with cup in hand, and said, “Are you enjoying your tea, Sister? I see others hard at work.”
“Indeed, Dr. Cunningham, I am,” I answered briskly. “Everything is running smoothly, and I’ve stopped to observe and look for room for improvement.”
To my surprise he grinned. “You’re not to talk back to doctors, you know.”
“My apologies, sir, but you did ask.”
The grin broadened. Then he asked, “You’re the Sister that Matron sent up?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“She told me you would have everything shipshape, Crawford, and by God she was right. Show me to my first patient.”
Dr. Cunningham worked steadily until almost first light, and we sent a long line of ambulances back to hospitals in the rear. The shelling, which had been intense, had long since stopped, and the attack that followed was ferocious but blessedly brief. The endless stream of wounded had come down to a trickle, and I longed for my bed as I stood there in the cool dawn air and stretched my back.
Someone came up behind me. It was Dr. Cunningham with two cups of tea in his hands.
“Here. You’ve earned it. You didn’t get any dinner, did you?”
I took the cup he was holding out and realized with the first sip how thirsty I was. “Nor did you.”
“Never mind, the human body can go longer without food than without water. Although I understand one of the ambulance drivers brought up something hot as well as a letter for you.” He reached into his pocket, balancing his cup in the other hand, and pulled out a much-traveled envelope. “He says to tell you that the forearm is no longer hurting as much.”
That must have been Teddy. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Matron hadn’t given my letter to him, knowing I’d receive it faster than if it was left to the post to find me.
I took it eagerly, recognizing Simon’s handwriting, but this was neither the time nor the place to read it. I shoved it into my pocket, and drank some of the tea.
“Simon Brandon. I know that name,” Dr. Cunningham said, frowning. “Now from where? That’s the question.”
I said nothing. For one thing, I was surprised that he’d looked at the sender’s name. Perhaps it was only idle curiosity. Perhaps his remark was no more than an attempt to discover if Simon was a member of my family—a cousin, perhaps—or my sweetheart. But it troubled me all the same.
“Well, doesn’t matter, does it?” he said after a moment. “Go and eat something, Sister Crawford. I can’t have you falling down in a faint over my patients.”
I did as I was told, and as soon as I’d finished, I felt such a lethargy that I could hardly keep my eyes from drifting shut. I opened Simon’s letter and lit a shielded candle, trying to concentrate on black lines that seemed determined to run together.
Your parents are well, as am I. Your father is in Cornwall, I think, and your mother has gone to visit Melinda in his absence. I have no recent news about Thomas and take that to mean he has either been recaptured or killed. I did discover one bit of information. Your mother wrote to the little girl you were concerned about. She denies that she was ever at The Willows. Did Hughes lie? She’s often in the newspapers; he could easily have come up with that name in an effort to be rid of you.
I had to admit that this was entirely possible.
And yet I had been there when Mr. Hughes gave us the name. It was my feeling that he’d been too distraught to lie.
But then I’d been willing to believe him, all too keen on finding the children in that photograph. To tell the truth, I thought wryly, it hadn’t occurred to me that when pressed, he might resort to a falsehood.
Or was he afraid that what the last remaining children might tell us would make it clear that he and not Lieutenant Wade had killed the Caswells?
I realized too that he had been in England from the start, unable to serve because of his bad foot and already in contact with Mr. Gates. He could have set the fire that killed the Gesslers and changed the photograph in Miss Gooding’s frame. Of course Captain Bingham had been in England as well. But surely Miss Gooding would have said something about the man in uniform who had come to her house. On the other hand, she hadn’t mentioned a limp . . . Wouldn’t she remember the boy whose foot she’d tended?
I went back to the letter.
There was very little more to it.
I hope you are well and safe. I don’t know which will happen first, the end of the war or the end of armies as we know them, from this epidemic. That will leave only the rats, and they have no loyalties to either side.
It was signed simply, Yours, Simon.
He sounded rather gloomy, as if he knew more than anyone here how the Army was faring. We saw only our small corner of it, and heard the gossip that ran like wildfire up and down the lines. Fres
h troops, soldiers returning to the line, wounded, visiting staff officers, all brought with them new rumors.
Dr. Cunningham asked the next morning if my letter had brought good news from home, and I told him it had assured me that my family was well.
He nodded. “I was on compassionate leave, although my mother pulled through. Quite possibly because I was there.” He finished his work on a leg wound and then said, “I still haven’t placed Simon Brandon. But I shall. I never forget a name.”
I smiled. “Shall I ask him next time I write whether he remembers you?”
Dr. Cunningham shook his head. “No, better to let sleeping dogs lie, until I’ve worked it out. We might well be lifelong enemies.”
He smiled when he said it, but I noticed that the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
The next letter was from my mother.
She wrote in haste, because my father had offered to put it in the pouch with dispatches so that she could write more freely.
After the news from home, she continued,
I spent the weekend with Melinda. She had asked me to come because she’s had a letter from Mr. Kipling, in regard to that small matter in India that you wished him to look into. His contact has found it rather difficult to get to the bottom of what happened that night. Understandably the local people aren’t eager to be drawn into what they feel is strictly an English matter. But the contact also feels that there’s more to it than just ordinary reluctance to be involved. He went as far as to read newspaper accounts of the two deaths, to see what was being said at the time. One account indicates that when the MFP took over the inquiry, the only interest in our friend was as a witness, to discover if he had heard or seen anything that might help in the investigation. It wasn’t until news caught up with them in Lahore that our friend was being sought in Britain for three other events that they concluded he must be responsible for the two in Agra as well. One of those two MFP has died, and so far it’s not been possible to trace the other one. If this is true, it changes our perception, doesn’t it? Mr. Kipling’s contact is going to continue pursuing the matter, which is very kind of him. Mr. Kipling has told Melinda that his contact also has more curiosity than a cat and nearly as many lives. He won’t easily be deterred.
