by Anne Perry
It was not Harrison’s honor he didn’t trust; it was his wisdom, his ability to see evil where he had a right to expect it would not be.
CHAPTER
FOUR
It was Judith’s turn to be questioned by Jacobson. She had known it would come, and tried to prepare herself for it. He was speaking to all the women, asking them where they had been at the time of Sarah’s death and which of the men they could account for. Had anyone seemed troubled recently, or had they noticed anyone behaving peculiarly? It was the obvious thing to do, but Judith was still uncomfortable when she was ordered to enter the tent that had been hastily put up for him. Someone had found a table, two chairs, and a box for him to keep his papers in. There was a duckboard floor, but it was bitterly cold.
Judith went in and closed the flap behind her. She stood to attention, not out of any particular respect, but because it marked her as part of the army and was a tacit statement of unity with the others. He was civilian, even if he was employed by the military police for this specific crime.
“Thank you for coming, Miss Reavley,” he said without expression. He pointed to the wooden chair opposite the desk. “You may sit down.”
She considered it for a moment. It would be more comfortable, but it would also instantly put her on a physical level with him and take away any resemblance she had to a soldier.
“Thank you, but I prefer to stand,” she replied. She was also not going to call him sir. “I sit a great deal,” she added. “I drive an ambulance.”
“Yes, I know.” He indicated a piece of paper in front of him on the table. “You’ve been here a long time.”
“Since the beginning.”
“Then you will know the other people here as well as anyone can. You will have known Sarah Price.”
“Not much. I’m a driver, not a nurse,” she pointed out.
“Don’t you bring wounded men here to be treated?” he asked.
She thought he was a plain man, but in other circumstances he would not have been unpleasant. There was intelligence in his face. “Yes,” she answered. “The orderlies help me unload them off the ambulance, then I turn around to go back for more.”
He blinked. “Don’t you tend them at all on the way?”
“I can’t drive an ambulance through the mud and shellfire and tend to wounded at the same time!” she said tartly.
“Don’t you have anyone to help you?” He looked at her with intent.
“Yes, most of the time.”
“People trained to give medical help?”
“Of course. Otherwise they wouldn’t be of any use.” She was keeping her temper with difficulty. It was unfair to resent him—none of this was his fault—but he was still an outsider probing with a civilian’s lack of understanding for the terror, the grief, and the loyalties of soldiers.
“Nurses?” he questioned. “Orderlies?”
“V.A.D.’s,” she answered.
“What happens if your ambulance breaks down?”
“I mend it!” she said with her eyebrows raised.
“Yourself?”
“Of course. There’s no one else.”
“You must be extremely competent. Where do you do the regular maintenance work?”
At last she saw his point. “Usually here. But I don’t often see many nurses. None of us has a lot of time to stand around.”
“But you see a lot of orderlies, other drivers, doctors, soldiers?”
“Of course. But I have no idea who attacked Sarah Price. If I had, I would have told you.”
“Would you, Miss Reavley?”
“Of course I would!” The anger burned through now. It was a stupid question, and offensive. “No decent person would defend a man who killed one of the nurses! Or any woman, for that matter.” She stood even more stiffly. “We work together, Mr. Jacobson. We have done so in more hideous circumstances than you could imagine. You know nothing about it. I can see that in your face, even if I didn’t know. We have a kind of loyalty to one another that peacetime couldn’t create.”
The ghost of a smile crossed his face, full of regret.
“I believe that, Miss Reavley, which is why I think that one of you could well be defending a man with whom you have shared danger and pain, perhaps who has even saved your life, because you cannot believe he would do what he has. You will have different judgments of right and wrong from mine, and debts of honor I couldn’t understand.”
With amazement like a slow-burning fire inside her, she realized what he was saying. “You think I would defend the man who did this?” she said incredulously. She could feel her temper slipping out of control. “I want him found and arrested even more than you do! The worst that can happen to you is that you fail!” Her voice was shaking now, and she was gulping for air. “I could be assaulted or murdered, or both. So could my friends! Of course I want him caught…and…and got rid of…like…sewage!”
“Even if he were, for example, your friend Wil Sloan?” Jacobson asked. “A man who would never hurt you, surely?”
“That’s disgusting. Wil would never even think of doing something like that!”
“What kind of a man would, Miss Reavley? Do you know who would and who wouldn’t?”
He had caught her, this ordinary civilian who knew nothing about the reality of war. She had walked straight into his verbal trap without seeing anything of it. She hesitated, unable to frame an answer. He was right: She was trying to protect those she cared for most, because they could not be guilty, not because she feared they were. But any such reply would sound ridiculous.
“Of course I don’t,” she said at last. “All I know is who couldn’t have because they were somewhere else.” How lame that sounded.
“And was Wil Sloan somewhere else?” he asked, almost casually.
Her mind raced. How could she say anything that was of value without making him suspicious? She did not even know when the murder had happened, or if he had already spoken to Wil. The only time she and Wil had been at the Casualty Clearing Station was roughly between three o’clock and half past four. If it were not then, would Jacobson even be asking?
“Miss Reavley?” he prompted.
She tried to look innocent. She must not seem too clever, or that in itself would make him distrustful of her. “We were both in the ambulance most of the night,” she answered. “Miles away from here.”
“But not all of it,” he pointed out. “You brought the wounded back. Surely that was your entire purpose?”
“Yes, of course. We were here a couple of times, a little before midnight, and again at about three.”
“And when did you leave again?” His face was almost expressionless.
“The first time about quarter to one, the second at half past four, roughly.”
“So there were at least two and a half hours that you were both here,” he pointed out.
She wanted to say something sarcastic, referring to their whole purpose, but swallowed her temper. “Yes. We have to get the wounded off and into the Admissions tent, then clean the ambulance and refuel it.” She nearly added that it had needed maintenance, too, but since she’d mended it without Wil, it would be walking into another trap. Where had Wil been the second time? She did not know. But he could not have killed Sarah. No one who knew Wil would have had such an idea even enter their minds. He was hot-tempered on very rare occasions, but never toward women. He was generous to a fault, and idealistic; otherwise he would not even have been here. An American, he had come voluntarily in 1915, when his own country had had nothing to do with the war. Like many others, he had simply believed it was the right thing to do, and so he had done it. He was patient, funny, too honest, a little unsophisticated, and one of the kindest people she knew.
Again Jacobson prompted her, more abruptly this time. “Miss Reavley?”
She took a gamble. “I don’t know where he was at midnight,” she answered. “I was trying to think, but as far as I can remember, he went to the tent with the walking
wounded. You’ll have to ask him.”
She saw the lack of interest in his face. So Sarah had been killed between three and half past four. The cold bit inside her like ice. She took the risk, certain beyond any doubt at all that Wil would have done the same for her. “The second time I had to clean the spark plugs in the ambulance. They often get dirty and then they don’t work. It took us awhile to get the wounded in, and after that he got me some tea and a piece of bread and jam. Jam’s rationed now, so that’s not easy. Then he held the lamp for me. The engine was in a bit of a mess, and I needed two hands.”
“I see.” He was looking at her more closely, almost narrowly, as if he was trying to discern something about her. It made her uncomfortable. Did he know she was lying? Had Wil said something different?
“Ever had any trouble, Miss Reavley? Any unwanted attentions?” he asked.
“No!” she said, and knew she had answered too quickly.
His eyes widened. It was obvious that he did not believe her.
She felt her face color. “Nobody has behaved badly!” she said curtly. “I deal with wounded men on the battlefield, Mr. Jacobson. We all have one aim in common—to stop them from dying, and get them to the nearest medical help. Nobody has time or thought for much else.” It was not his fault that he knew nothing about the front, and it was unfair that she was angry with him for it, but she was. And she was frightened, and guilty for lying, even though it was necessary. Her friends were in trouble, and he was an outsider who did not understand.
“That is clearly not true, Miss Reavley,” he said steadily. “Or I would not need to be here. And while I haven’t fought on the line, I’ve seen plenty of men under pressure. Emotions are close to the surface. It results in violence sometimes, and people close to death want to touch life and all the pleasures it offers, sometimes even the source of life.” His voice dropped a little. “At those times it does not have to be someone you love; anybody will do. Please don’t tell me you are unaware of that, or that it shocks you. You have seen four years of war. You cannot be blind to the realities of men’s fears or needs, or the extremities of death.”
Her face was blazing and she knew it. He had touched a nerve in her, and without knowing why, she felt a passionate need to defend the vulnerability she had seen so often. “Of course I’m not!” She was shouting at him, although she had not meant to. She heard herself and could not stop. “We are all…” Now she did not know what to say, and he was still staring at her.
“You do not want to betray anyone whose weakness you have seen and understood,” he finished for her. “You protect one another. As well as showing loyalty, and honor to men on whose courage your life may depend, you cannot afford to antagonize them.” There was gentleness in his face, even pity. “You will have to work with them in the future, and with the other women who may love them, or hate them. But I remind you, Miss Reavley, that you will also work with the other women who may become their victims in the future. I can see that you have a very terrible conflict as to where your duty lies.”
“No, I don’t!” she said hotly. “I don’t know anything!”
He did not believe her. She could see it in his eyes, and in the slight smile touching his mouth. She must control herself or he would be even more certain that she was lying. She stood rigidly upright, her hands by her sides, touching the seam in her skirt, as a soldier would stand to attention. “If I should learn anything that would help you, Mr. Jacobson, I shall inform you of it immediately. Is that all? Because if it is, I would like to get back to my duties.”
“For the moment, Miss Reavley. But please remain here. I will wish to speak to you again.”
“Unless I am needed,” she told him. And before he could protest, she turned and marched out. There were duties to do. Nurses were always shorthanded, and the men needed more care than they could give.
It was midmorning when she found Lizzie Blaine unpacking medical supplies. She did not know the woman well; Lizzie had moved into St. Giles with her husband after Judith had already left for France. She had heard of her from Joseph, and the one or two times they had met here she had liked her instinctively. Lizzie had a penetrating honesty that made Judith comfortable, because it not only was directed at others, but was also within herself. She made no excuses and never shifted blame, and neither her friendship nor her courage was ostentatious.
“Can I help?” Judith offered.
“Please.” Lizzie pointed to an unopened box. “You’ll have to check that everything is what it says. They get put in the wrong places sometimes.” She glanced at Judith again, frowning a little. “You all right? You look a bit upset.”
“Furious!” Judith said sharply as she bent to the box. “I’ve just been talking to Jacobson, the policeman. He misunderstood everything I said, and I wound up talking too much, and now he thinks I know more than I do.”
“That’s stupid.” Lizzie turned back to the unpacking. “You’d hardly defend anyone you knew was guilty!”
“That’s not what he thinks,” Judith explained. “I suppose I could lie about a small incident that looked bad, but I hadn’t believed it really was. The man just doesn’t understand what friendship is out here, and it made me angry.”
Lizzie smiled. “And then you felt guilty for that? I know what you mean.”
“I suppose we all do.” Judith started to unpack the box, looking at each item carefully. “But things like that don’t happen out of the blue. Whoever it is must have bothered other people from time to time, even if it was only stupid remarks or being too free with his hands. Although we don’t know whether he raped her or not. We’re just thinking he did because rumor says it was that sort of killing.”
“I suppose so.” Lizzie kept her face averted. There was no emotion in her voice now.
“Everybody’s stupid sometimes,” Judith went on. “You just realize why, and if it isn’t bad, you forget about it.”
“Yes.” Lizzie’s fingers were tight on a box lid. It slipped from her grasp and scattered tablets on the bench top, half a dozen on the floor. She drew in her breath sharply, as if to swear, then bit it back.
Judith bent and picked them up. She regarded them for a moment, uncertain.
Lizzie held out her hand. “Think of the amount of dirt and mud we eat. These are too precious, even off the floor, to waste and have someone perhaps die without them.” She examined the tablets, then put them separately in a small screw of paper and wrote on it what they were.
Judith looked at her more carefully. There was something remote about her, closed off and hurt, as if she was afraid. “Do you know somebody who’s been bothered?” she asked as gently as she could.
“No,” Lizzie said quickly, without looking up from what she was doing. “I don’t know that I would recognize it if I did. Sarah used to flirt like mad, and I’ve no idea how far it went, but I’m not telling Jacobson that. There are enough people saying she deserved it.” Her face was flushed and her knuckles white where she gripped the small box she was holding. Her voice was thick with anger when she spoke again. “It’s a vicious and idiotic thing to say! What happened to her was not flirting gone too far, it was violent and brutal, a man who has no decency left in him. He has descended into something less than human. Please, let’s talk about something else. I liked Sarah, silly as she was sometimes. She was only trying to survive.”
“I’m sorry,” Judith said immediately. She had forgotten for a moment that Lizzie had probably known Sarah quite well. Friendships could grow quickly out here—bad experiences shared, an act of kindness, and bonds were forged. “I’m talking too much because he made me angry and I behaved like a fool. And I’m afraid, too.”
Lizzie looked at her with a sudden smile. “We all are,” she admitted.
That evening Judith was back in her vehicle with another V.A.D. who had not been at the Casualty Clearing Station when Sarah was killed. They were driving toward the fighting, which was moving steadily farther ahead with each new assault, stre
tching the supply lines. She thought back to her exchange with Lizzie. Lizzie was frightened, and Judith had an increasing feeling that it was something more personal that troubled her—something she guarded not only from Jacobson but even from the other women. Was she afraid for someone in particular—a man she was fond of or, worse, who had threatened her? It was a hideous thought that there was someone here who either was guilty or looked it, and somebody else was carrying the burden of that knowledge. If so, then surely their lives could be in danger, too? They were all used to death; the place was saturated with it. It did not startle or horrify anymore.
The gunfire was growing heavier in the distance, over toward Courtrai. The roads were worse here. She could see huge craters in the intermittent light of the star shells.
Perhaps they were all pretending not to know anything for precisely that reason. How could Jacobson, or anyone else, protect a witness? There was no such thing here as safety of any sort. She wished Lizzie could have trusted her. She felt an acute awareness of failure. She should have tried harder, said different, gentler things, and been far less occupied with herself.
She was one of the fortunate ones in that she could leave the field hospital, even though Jacobson had told her not to and had refused to let Wil come with her. But the fighting was still going on, and there were more casualties that had to be brought back. The war plunged inexorably toward its last days. Individual lives had never mattered in these circumstances.
She drove eastward through the darkness toward the glare and the roar of guns.
German prisoners came through that night as well, some captured, several badly injured. More came willingly, with an air of desperate bewilderment. Most were passed on immediately without coming anywhere near the Casualty Clearing Station. They had been hastily bandaged, often lame or half blind, and then made to trudge on foot through the mud toward the railhead and the journey back into France. Only the wounded who could not be moved along without jeopardizing their lives were kept here.
