by Anne Perry
No, there would not have been peace. America would not have given in. It might have been crushed, with the combined weight of Europe against it, but not without fearful cost. The bloodshed would have been terrible, perhaps eventually even as all-consuming as it was now, just in a different place; the same protagonists, only on different sides. And the shame of England would have been irredeemable.
Now it was almost over. Matthew was locked up in a shed behind the front line in Belgium, and Jacobson thought he had murdered a woman. Or perhaps he knew perfectly well that he had not, but it suited the Peacemaker to have a final revenge?
If Joseph could not prove him innocent, Matthew would be tried and shot—or, more ignominiously, hanged. Or possibly the men who had cared for Sarah, had worked with her, and were sickened by the brutality of her death might come and drag him out and “accidentally” shoot him. Of course that was illegal, but what was the nicety of the law in the face of the carnage these men had seen in the last few years? Bodies of friends they had loved had been torn to pieces beside them, shattered to bloody pulp. Death was an everyday occurrence. If some of them could not bear that their brave, funny, kind friends were slaughtered while a bestial murderer was taken home to England without a scratch on him—well, that was not hard to understand.
He paced back and forth, four steps, turn, four steps. He must not panic, must not lose control. Come on, Joseph! Do something!
Judith woke alone in an old bunker and immediately felt almost suffocated by desperation. It was impossible that Matthew could have killed Sarah Price, and yet Jacobson had arrested him, probably so pressed by those senior to him to find a solution that he was grasping at one too easily. Whatever the reason, Matthew was locked in one of the few actual buildings still standing, and Jacobson and Hampton were busy collecting more evidence to close the case. There were days, at the very most, to prove Matthew innocent, possibly only hours.
Nobody else wanted to disturb the conclusion. The fear was melting away, suspicions dying, and the end of the war resuming its place as the most important subject.
Judith was close to panic. Apart from Joseph, the only person to whom she could turn for help was Lizzie Blaine. She both liked and trusted her, and, at the moment even more importantly than that, knew that Lizzie had the intelligence to weigh and measure answers and reason through the tangle of facts toward some truth.
She shivered and pulled her cape closer around her.
Thank goodness at least casualties were low for an hour or two. Joseph had gone forward into no-man’s-land. He’d had no choice, and even if he had been able to stay here, they had run out of ideas about who else to question or even what to ask.
It was midmorning, and for once cold and dry. She was so tired her whole body ached, but there was no time to sleep. Two or three hours’ worth would have to do.
She stood up slowly. She was stiff; her muscles ached. She had slept clenched up with fear and cold. Climbing up the steps and emerging into what was left of the old trench, the wind struck her. Lizzie was in another bunker about twenty yards along. It was better than sleeping in the open, and there was no room in the tents.
Judith hated waking her, but she could not afford to waste any more time, and there was no one else to turn to. At the second bunker she went down the steps; they were wet and slippery, surfaced with a thin layer of clay from disuse. She pulled the remnants of the sacking curtain open. There was silence inside, and not even a candle burning. It was a respite she knew Lizzie needed, but desperation won. She went in, allowing the daylight to fall through the narrow opening.
Lizzie was curled over on the bunk, her dark hair spread out on the hard pillow and the blanket drawn up around her. She looked as if she had gone to sleep cold, and Judith felt a deeper, sharper stab of guilt.
“Lizzie,” she said quietly. When the woman did not stir, she touched her on the shoulder, gradually tightening her grip until Lizzie sat up, pushing her hair out of her eyes and answering in a level voice.
“Sorry,” Judith said, and she meant it. “I can’t afford to wait. Jacobson’s looking for final evidence to send Matthew to trial. He doesn’t seem to have any doubt. Apparently Matthew said he saw someone who looked like Punch Fuller fighting with somebody, but it was a couple of miles from where Punch says he was. I have to get to the bottom of it, and I need help. There’s no one else I can trust, or who is willing to think Matthew could be innocent. Everyone else just wants it to be over.”
Lizzie rubbed her eyes and drew the blanket around her shoulders. She was so tired that waking up fully took several moments. “Was Punch Fuller injured?” she asked. “I don’t remember that. Badly?”
“No, he brought in a young soldier, about fifteen or sixteen, who was injured. Carried him.” Judith spoke the next words with difficulty. “But he wouldn’t pass anywhere near where Matthew was. That’s at least a couple of miles from the way he’d come from the line to the clearing station.” It sounded even worse aloud.
Lizzie was properly awake now. “Then there must be some other explanation,” she said. “Assuming Matthew wouldn’t lie, then perhaps he was mistaken—and since he doesn’t know the men here, that has to be possible. Alternatively, maybe for some reason or other Punch Fuller is lying.”
“Why would he?” Judith said miserably. “He brought in a wounded man, or boy in this case. What is there to lie about?”
“I don’t know.” Lizzie moved the blanket aside and climbed out of the bunk, shivering. She started to put on her outer clothes again and reach for the brush to untangle her hair and pin it up. “We can start by asking Cavan, and then see the boy. I can get to see him, even if you can’t.” She gave a very brief smile, then turned her attention back to her hair.
Judith felt a sense of gratitude that was almost like a physical warmth. All she could say was a simple “Thank you.” She would have to find some way of telling Lizzie how much it meant later on.
“Hodges,” Cavan answered. They were standing in the Pre-operation tent. He had just come on duty after a brief rest. In busy times the surgeons in casualty clearing stations worked eight hours on and four hours off. That way several of them could keep two or three operating tables working all the time. Cavan was freshly shaved and looked better than Judith had seen him for a few days. “He’ll be all right. It was actually not nearly as bad as it looked. I think he was shocked more than anything.”
“Punch Fuller brought him in?” Judith asked.
“Yes. He was in a pretty bad state.” Cavan’s face twisted with pity. “Poor little devil’s only fifteen. Had his birthday a week ago. His best friend was just ripped to pieces by a shell. Couldn’t find enough of him to bury.” He said the words clearly, but his shoulders were tight, and the muscles of his neck stood out like cords. “Hodges was barely hurt, only a cut on his thigh,” he went on. “Flesh wound, painful, but it’ll heal.”
Judith was just about to ask if she could speak to the boy, then caution stopped her. Cavan had to know Matthew was her brother, and that she would do anything she could to free him. She should be more oblique, possibly even leave it to Lizzie. “When was that?” she asked instead.
She saw the instant flash of understanding and sorrow in Cavan’s face. “It won’t help, Judith. Fuller got here just after four, and I know that time’s right.”
“Are you absolutely certain?” She was aware that it was futile even as she said it, but it was fear that drove her rather than reason. “How can you be? You were very busy. Do you watch the clock? It wasn’t change of shift.”
“No, of course I don’t watch the clock. It wasn’t change of my shift, but it was of the guards on the German prisoners, and they’re pretty regular. It was just as Benbow and Eames came off and Turner and Culshaw went on.”
“You saw all of them?”
He hesitated. “Actually I saw Eames over by the Resuscitation tent, and he made some remark about it being change of duty. I went back in a moment later and Punch Fuller arrived wit
h Hodges. I know what your brother said, but Fuller couldn’t have passed that way from the lines carrying a wounded man. I’m sorry.”
Judith wanted to argue, at least offer some other reasonable explanation, but she could not think of one. In the end, she turned away without saying anything at all.
Punch Fuller had gone back up to the front, and she had to wait an hour before Benbow and Eames were on duty again. Every minute dragged by as she grew more and more frightened. She filled the time with petty errands, never sitting still. The wind blew up harder from the east, carrying rain with it, and the gray sky leached all color from the earth. There was nothing in sight except mud and withered tree stumps, the ungainly angles of tents and the irregular pools in old craters, pockmarked by the wind.
Finally the hour was over and she saw them coming on duty, changing places with Culshaw and Turner. As soon as the patrol was handed over, she went first to Eames. She had tried to work out some clever way of introducing the subject, but he would know why she was asking, whatever she said. Perhaps complete honesty was best. It would at least save time and the wasted energy of trying to lie.
They were standing in the lee of the Treatment tents, the wind rattling in the canvas. A nurse walked past them twenty feet away, her feet slithering in the mud.
“Do you remember coming off duty the night Sarah Price was killed?” Judith asked Eames after reminding him who she was.
He looked uncomfortable, but that was probably out of pity because he could not help. “Yes. I didn’t see anything, Miss Reavley, least nothing that would be any ’elp. That policeman, Jacobson, already asked me.”
“It’s times I’m really looking for,” she replied. “When you saw Captain Cavan as you were coming off duty, was that four o’clock exactly?”
“Well, I…I’m not sure, not for certain.” His obvious discomfort increased.
“Don’t you go off duty at four o’clock?”
“Yes, but there was a bit of a scuffle earlier, an’ I waited to see what it was. There was a woman yelling an’ I thought one of the nurses might be in trouble, so I went to see. Think that was when I saw Captain Cavan. I don’t know what time that was, closer than fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“Was it Miss Price yelling?” she asked immediately.
He shook his head. “No, it definitely weren’t, because I saw ’er comin’ away from the ’ut the Germans are in as I got back. She was fine, laughin’ and actin’ happy.”
She was puzzled. “Then who was it?”
“Miss Robinson. She just tripped on a broken board.”
“Was it long before you changed duty?”
“About…I don’t know…awhile.” Now he was so awkward, she was certain he was not being honest. She was not sure why. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and turned his collar up against the wind. “But Miss Price was fine,” he said earnestly. “So it doesn’t matter, does it!”
“No, I suppose not,” she conceded, and to his clear relief, she went to find Benbow.
He looked less nervous, standing to attention in the open as she asked him the same questions.
“Yes, I heard the woman shouting out,” he agreed, looking at her gravely. “Eames went to see what it was. It did sound like someone hurt, but it turned out to be Miss Robinson, just because she slipped.”
“You didn’t go?” She was not sure why she was asking. It seemed pointless, but she wanted to sound thorough.
He shook his head slightly. “Didn’t make any difference. Sarah Price went into the Germans’ hut after that to see to them.” His face was bleak, as if he was thinking of what had happened to her, and the anger at it was bright in his eyes.
“But she came out all right.” That was a statement. Judith already knew the answer.
“Yes. One of the Germans came out, too,” Benbow added. His expression flickered. She could not read it.
“But you watched him, of course?”
“Of course.”
She could not think of anything else to ask, and finally turned to leave.
“That was the last time I saw her,” Benbow added. “With the German. They were still there when I went off duty. She went back inside with him.” He tried hard to keep the contempt out of his eyes and his voice, but it was too deep within him, and she could not help recognizing it.
“At about quarter past four?” she asked aloud.
He blinked, knowing what she had read in him, daring her to make an issue of it. “Yes.”
She swallowed hard. She understood, and part of her agreed. Pity for any wounded man, British or German, was one thing. To flirt as if nothing stood between you, no years of slaughter, was different. Respect, yes, even honor—but not laughter and teasing, as if the dead did not matter.
She thanked him and left without meeting his eyes again.
She found Lizzie coming out of one of the Treatment tents. Her face was pale, and there was an urgency about her that made it plain that she had learned something.
“What is it?” Judith demanded. Then she realized that Lizzie was suffering some acute distress, struggling within herself to make a decision. “What is it?” she repeated more gently. “At least tell me!”
Lizzie took her arm, steering her away from the half-open flap and out into the wind. She walked some distance until they were clearly alone before she spoke.
“I know what happened, but I don’t know what to do about it,” she said almost under her breath, even though there was no one within fifty feet of them.
“Does it clear Matthew?” That was the only thing Judith cared about.
“Yes…”
“Then we’ll tell Jacobson, and—”
“No,” Lizzie cut across her. “And Punch Fuller isn’t likely to ever change his story.”
“Yes, he will! Joseph—”
“Be quiet and listen,” Lizzie said firmly. There was a charge of emotion in her voice so intense, Judith stopped.
“Hodges’s friend was blown to bits beside him,” Lizzie went on. “He was only fourteen; Hodges is just fifteen. He was sort of an older brother to him. It must have been a howitzer.” She gulped and swallowed. “Or something like that. Hodges lost control and ran in blind horror and panic. He went all the way from where they were, very near the front line, back to where Matthew saw Punch Fuller catch up with him. Punch knifed him himself, to make him a genuine injury, and then carried him into the Casualty Clearing Station as if he’d come from the front line.”
Judith nodded. She understood profoundly.
“He’ll stick to that story to save the boy’s life,” Lizzie went on quietly. “If the truth gets out he’ll be shot as a coward. He’s only a child, for heaven’s sake. The other boy was his best friend, and he feels responsible, and guilty as hell for surviving, and now for running, too. He knows Punch saved his life, and he’ll die rather than betray him as well. And he does look on himself as a traitor. He’s terrified and so ashamed he’s not sure if he even wants to survive.”
Judith was numb. “How do you know all this?” she said hoarsely. “If Punch wouldn’t tell you, and Hodges wouldn’t betray him…?”
“Some I guessed,” Lizzie answered with a sigh. Her face was very white. “His wound is superficial. And it’s obviously a bayonet. A German soldier would have stabbed him in the chest or the stomach, not the leg where it really does little harm. It’s not self-inflicted, but it’s not battle-inflicted, either. I worked it out, and then I asked him. I didn’t let him lie, and I think in a way he didn’t want to. His mother’s probably not much older than I am. He shouldn’t even be here!” There was a sudden fury in her voice so violent that her body was trembling. “If you tell that story they’ll court-martial him, then shoot him. And if you don’t, they’ll hang Matthew, I know that!”
Judith drew in her breath and let it out again. “We have to do something. Perhaps Joseph can—”
“They won’t believe him,” Lizzie said reasonably. “He’s Matthew’s brother. They won
’t believe you, either. But if I go to Jacobson, he might believe me. I can’t make Punch Fuller say anything, but if Jacobson wants to catch whoever really did it, he’ll let Matthew go. This could prove it wasn’t him.”
Judith nodded. It was a risk, appalling, cruel, inescapable, but to do nothing was worse.
Jacobson agreed. Lizzie’s story corresponded exactly to what Matthew had described, and he understood enough of the terror and the grief to see how it could have happened. Such things must have occurred many times before. He did not explain, he simply let Matthew go. He questioned Eames, Benbow, Cavan, and several others again. What little evidence he had pointed toward Schenckendorff. He had no choice but to arrest the man.
Joseph, Judith, and Matthew sat huddled together in Joseph’s bunker. Outside, the rain fell steadily, dripping down the steps. The star shells were too far away to light the sky, and the flash of muzzles was invisible beyond the slight rise in the land.
“There’s no point in going to London without Schenckendorff,” Judith said quietly.
“There’s no point in going at all until we can tell the prime minister who the Peacemaker is!” Matthew answered bitterly.
“I could tell him,” Judith said.
Joseph stared at her, his face incredulous in the yellow candlelight. “How do you know? And without Schenckendorff, why on earth would anyone believe you?”
“I would go to him with Father’s copy of the treaty, which has the kaiser’s signature on it, and put it in front of him,” she answered. “Then I would tell him that the Englishman who had planned it, with his German cousin, was Dermot Sandwell. Colonel Schenckendorff couldn’t come himself because he died after being injured coming through the lines.”
