A Casualty of War: A Bess Crawford Mystery (Bess Crawford Mysteries)

by Charles Todd

  He’d managed to travel nearly two hundred miles.

  Simon spoke. “It isn’t safe to be talking out here.”

  But we couldn’t take him into the pub. If anyone saw us, there would be no end of questions.

  I said, “Can you walk as far as the church? There’s something you should see.”

  “Yes.” The single word was abrupt, denying his exhaustion.

  Simon killed his torch, but not before I’d found the blanket again and put it over my arm.

  He set out toward the south door. But the Captain was moving on will alone now. I could tell. I’d seen too many officers and men who swore they were well enough to return to the Front, when the truth was, they were close to dropping where they stood.

  Halfway there, the Captain stumbled over a footstone, and Simon stepped forward to offer him an arm. At first I thought he would refuse, but with a curt nod, he took it. Once we’d reached the safety of the deeper shadows in the porch, the next problem was the door. Careful as we were, the scraping sound echoed as we eased it open. I prayed that Mr. Caldwell and his wife were heavy sleepers. We left it ajar and stepped into the nave.

  Moonlight from the windows gave it an eerie feeling. A gray and grayer palette that was ghostly, the darkness soaring overhead, silent and mysterious, the wooden ceiling pitch-black.

  I paused, then started down the aisle, my footsteps echoing in the stillness, the sound hollow and without reality. The two men followed.

  When I came to the memorial to James Travis, I stopped to one side of it and pointed. Simon, moving away from the Captain, carefully shielded the torch light so that it shone on the brass but not toward the windows.

  Captain Travis frowned, glanced at me, and then turned to look.

  I watched his face as he read each line, the truth dawning on him slowly and crushingly. He’d done his best to accept the fact that James was dead, but there must have been a corner of his mind where he still believed what had seemed to be the evidence of his own eyes. Here was final, undeniable proof.

  He read the lines again, as if doubting what he’d seen. And then he looked at me.

  “They must be right.” He drew in a breath. “I must be mad.”

  And he started slowly toward the church door.

  I caught him up, took his arm, led him to one of the pews.

  “You saw something. Someone,” I amended. “Whoever it was, he reminded you of your family. That doesn’t mean you weren’t shot by a British officer. It just means that the resemblance was all you had to go on in trying to identify him.”

  Standing behind him, Simon shook his head slightly. I knew what he was trying to tell me. Don’t give this man false hope . . .

  Was I? I looked up at Simon, then back at Captain Travis.

  I’d somehow misled him once before, drawing his attention to the man he’d met so briefly in a railway station in Paris. Was I doing the same thing again? Trying to offer him the consolation of an officer he’d never be able to put a name to, when I should be trying to convince him it was all the creation of an exhausted mind on the verge of breaking? Add to that the head wound, and it was understandable that he couldn’t really be certain what had happened to him.

  What should I do? What could I do?

  He said nothing for a while, staring toward the altar but not seeing it. His gaze was inward, reliving the heat of battle, the shock and realization that he’d been wounded, the face yards from him, the rifle raised.

  Even in this gray light, I saw him wince, as if he felt the bullet striking home.

  “I didn’t imagine it,” he said, his voice low, talking to himself and not to us. “I can’t have done. Withering machine gun fire caught us charging across open ground. It was a trap, and I shouted to my men, calling them back, urging them toward the nearest shelter, which was what was left of a barn. I saw Willard fall, he reached out to me, and I turned back for him. Other companies were mixed with ours, heading for the wall and a ditch in front of it. I dragged Sergeant Willard with me, still looking over my shoulder to see if any of my men were behind me. To this point my men gave the same account of the action. I asked them afterward. Just then I saw a Lieutenant I didn’t know, but he was one of ours. He was firing his revolver. And then the machine gun stopped firing. I expect they were conserving ammunition. That’s when he dropped his revolver and picked up an abandoned rifle. I remember the revolver swinging from his lanyard as he brought the rifle up. My first thought was that he was firing at the machine gun nest, that he’d seen a head come up, but he turned, looked directly at me, and fired. I saw him smile just as I felt the bullet strike, but I thought it had caught my cap, and I swore at him as I nearly lost my grip on Willard. Then I was going down, and my last coherent thought was, What the hell is my great-uncle doing in France? They told me afterward that Willard and I went headfirst into the ditch, and my men came out and pulled us to safety.”

  His voice trailed off.

  We said nothing for several minutes. Then Simon asked, “If he had his revolver in his hand, why did he use a rifle?”

  “I’ve thought about that. Gone over and over it. Two possibilities. The chamber was empty, or I was just out of revolver range and he wanted to make sure of his shot. We’d been firing steadily, trying to force the Germans to keep their heads down and give us time to get our men back. He could easily have run out, and there was no time to reload.”

  “What did he do next?” It was Simon who asked.

  “I don’t know. My knees were buckling, everything was going black, and then I came to as one of my men was trying to clean the wound and bandage it. I remember asking how many made it back, and he answered me, but I was already losing consciousness again. The next thing I remember was seeing someone wearing a veil bending over me. But of course it wasn’t a veil, I was just going in and out of consciousness and couldn’t see clearly.”

  “When you went back to your sector, did you look for this man?”

  “Yes, of course I did,” he said, irritated by the question. “But no one knew who I was talking about. I was searching for a Lieutenant Travis.” He gestured tiredly in the direction of the plaque. “I know now why no one knew who he was. How could they have known? His regiment wasn’t in that sector—and he was already dead.”

  His hand was shaking. “No wonder they stared at me. I thought someone was covering for him. That they knew, but didn’t want to tell me. Afraid of what I might do if I found him. Why else would they have been so unhelpful?” He shook his head. “It didn’t make sense, and I felt betrayed and angry. I went to the next sector, when we were drawn back for two days. They swore they’d never heard of James Travis. Of course they hadn’t. How could they have?”

  “It never occurred to you that you might be wrong?” Simon asked.

  “All the facts I had pointed to James. God forgive me, I didn’t want to be pawned off with lies when I knew what I’d seen. I even asked if he’d been wounded, if that was why he wasn’t there. And then I saw him again. And I knew that I’d been right and everyone else had been wrong. It was a bitter realization. Bitter. It was worse in hospital, when they refused to listen to me. I remembered then how much I’d liked James Travis when I saw him in Paris, and it occurred to me that everyone else liked him too, those who knew him far better than I did, and they didn’t want to believe he was a murderer. I thought that it must be James who had run mad, not me, and because he was who he was, it was being covered up.”

  “In the beginning, did you never ask yourself why he should want to kill you?” I asked.

  “More than once. God knows. The only thing I could think about was the quarrel between our great-grandfathers. That he’d remembered it after we’d met. But that was generations ago, hardly a reason to kill me. I’d never been to England until the war. And he hadn’t been angry in Paris. But perhaps he hadn’t been told everything about the strained relations between our families. That’s why I hadn’t traveled to Suffolk while I was in London. I wasn’t sure
what sort of welcome I’d have.”

  Above our heads the church clock struck the hour, and we all jumped.

  “We can’t worry about that tonight,” I said, trying to think what to do with Captain Travis. “But we can’t take you to the inn. Everyone in this village knows the Travis family—there would be talk, and someone might be worried enough to contact the hospital. And they would come for you—they’re searching the south of England for you now.” I looked across at Simon. “What should we do?”

  “We’ve already told The George that we’re leaving in the morning. If we go before the sun is up, we can stop here at the church and take the Captain with us.”

  He was suddenly wary. “Where will you take me?”

  “I don’t know,” I told him truthfully. “They’ve already come to my home in Somerset looking for you. Somewhere we can talk and make plans. You’ll have to trust us. But it means you must spend the night in here.”

  It was cold in the nave. In spite of the sun during the day, the interior would never be really warm. And the benches were hard. Not the best place for a weary, footsore man.

  “Leave me the blanket you have there. I’ve got this one. I’ll use one of the kneeling cushions for a pillow.”

  I was torn. If we left him—would he still be here in the morning?

  The Captain must have sensed my hesitation.

  “I’ve nowhere else to go,” he said, his voice despondent. “Except home. To Barbados. If I don’t straighten this out soon, I won’t be allowed to leave England.”

  I almost told him then that he was the heir to James Travis. But a little voice in my head kept me from doing it. He doesn’t need to know that. Not yet.

  I heeded the warning. Instead, I said, “Then we’ll come for you. And I’ll ask the kitchen to put up sandwiches and a thermos of tea, for the journey.”

  “Bless you. I don’t remember when I last ate. I’d run out of funds.”

  Simon spoke then. “The village has a constable. I expect he’s already made his rounds. There’s no reason for him to come into the church, even if he hasn’t. But be aware of that. Sir.”

  The Captain nodded. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced, Sergeant-Major. But thank you.”

  “Brandon. Sir.”

  I could think of no reason for staying here. My feet were cold through my boots, and my hands were chilled as well, even shoved into my coat pockets.

  “You’ll be all right?”

  “Not to worry. I’ve slept rougher than this, in France.”

  We left then, inching the porch door shut behind us so that the sound wouldn’t attract any notice.

  We made our way across the dark churchyard to the darker lane. Simon took my arm to guide me through the maze of gravestones, and from there to the street. When we were well out of hearing from the church or the houses overlooking the lane, I said, “How did you know where to find me?”

  “I wasn’t asleep. I heard you pause outside my door, and I expected you to knock. When you didn’t, I listened, and heard the outer door close. And so I came after you. What in the name of God took you out into the night like that?”

  I told him what I’d seen from my window. “I thought it was Mr. Spencer, and I couldn’t fathom why he was leaving the surgery in such a stealthy fashion. I wanted to know what he was doing.”

  He said, exasperated, “You could have got yourself into trouble.”

  “I think I have,” I said slowly. “Do you believe him, Simon?”

  He said nothing until we had nearly reached the door of The George. “The account he gave was consistent enough. I’ll reserve judgment until I hear more.”

  “But what are we to do with him?”

  He grinned at me, his smile white in the moonlight. “I was wondering when you were going to face that.” The smile went away. “He can’t stay here. If word reached Mrs. Travis, you’re right, she would contact the clinic straightaway. We can’t take him to Mrs. Hennessey’s, she’d never allow him up the stairs. And if we go to Somerset, we’ll involve your parents. There’s my cottage, but your mother will expect you to spend most of your time at the house.”

  “We might not have to cross that bridge,” I said. “He might have already left St. Mary’s, as soon as our backs were turned.”

  We stood there in silence.

  “If he’s not there,” Simon replied finally, “then you’re well out of it. It means he’s probably mad.”

  We let ourselves in the door and made our way up the stairs to our rooms. I went inside mine, shut the door, and crossed to the window without lighting a lamp.

  But there was no one out there on the green or moving along the High.

  I undressed and crawled into bed, thinking that if I were Captain Travis, I’d wait until I was absolutely certain that the two of us were in bed and hopefully even asleep before leaving the church.

  But that meant I didn’t trust the Captain. Or really believe him.

  The fact was, I wanted to believe him. I wanted him to be well. But my time was running out here in England, and I wasn’t sure I could rely on Simon to see this through if I went back to France. He too was still at the beck and call of the Army, and that would have to come first.

  Well, there was always my mother, as a last resort.

  With a sigh I rolled over, watching the moonlight cross my ceiling until I fell asleep.

  It was still dark outside my window when I woke to Simon’s tap at my door, and the soft “Bess? Are you awake?”

  I realized that the moon had set and we must be close to dawn.

  The church—and Captain Travis.

  “Yes, thank you, Simon. I’ll be right down.”

  I dressed quickly, for the room was very cold, put my hair up in my cap, and set my kit by the door, where Simon could find it and bring it down.

  In the dining room, a sleepy woman brought us our breakfast and agreed that it was indeed possible to order sandwiches and tea for our journey. “And we have nice apples, as well as eggs for the sandwiches, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t a bit of roast chicken left over from the party last night.”

  We told her that that would be lovely. She yawned as she turned away and disappeared through the kitchen door. Simon went up to fetch our things and take them out to the motorcar. I heard voices in Reception and realized that someone must have spoken to him, and he was settling our account.

  They would be glad to see the back of us, I thought as he came through to the dining room just as our breakfast platters were being brought from the kitchen.

  We ate quickly, then paid for the sandwiches and tea that the woman brought out to us. “Where is Betty?” I asked as we rose to leave.

  “She’s coming in for lunch. No need for her, with only the two of you staying over.”

  We were just going out to the motorcar when I looked up to see a woman coming toward us from the High.

  She had a scarf over her head, and I thought at first it must be Betty, confused about her schedule. And then I realized that it wasn’t.

  She stopped just short of the motorcar. I could only see part of her face, fair and strong-featured, her hair a butter yellow.

  “Sister Crawford?”

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “You don’t know me. My name is Lucy Fredericks. I live in one of the cottages at The Hall.”

  But I did know her—of her—though we’d never met.

  “Did Mrs. Travis send you?”

  She shook her head. “She doesn’t know I’ve come. It’s something else.” She hesitated. “The man who attacked that Mr. Spencer, the one being kept in Dr. Harrison’s surgery. I know who he is.”

  Frowning, I said, “But you should tell the Constable. He’s the proper person to deal with this.” I wasn’t sure I quite believed her. And all we needed now was five more minutes, and we’d be out of Sinclair and safe.

  “I can’t go to him,” she said. “I saw this in a dream. I thought someone ought to know.”

>   “In a dream?” Simon had come around from turning the crank. “Are you sure?”

  “They always come true,” she said, looking up at him. “I don’t know why.”

  “I’d heard,” I said, “that you use the cards.”

  She smiled, shaking her head. “I tell people that. They’d laugh if I told them I’d dreamed what I was telling them.”

  “Who did you see in your dream?”

  “It looked like James Travis. I know that sounds odd. He’s dead. But it did, it looked very like him, the way I remember him from before the war. I thought someone ought to know. I couldn’t speak of this to Mrs. Travis. It would upset her terribly.”

  That was an understatement.

  “How did you know we were leaving early?” I asked. “Did you dream that as well?”

  She smiled. “No. I came early hoping to catch you at breakfast. I have to hurry back to cook my father’s.” And without warning, she turned and walked away, her head down, her pace brisk.

  I said to Simon, keeping my voice low, “What did you make of that?”

  “I don’t know,” he said grimly, “but if Captain Travis is still at the church, we should get him out of here as fast as possible.”

  We hurried to get into the car, and without turning on our headlamps, we set out for the church.

  “How much does Captain Travis resemble James? Do you know?”

  “I saw his photograph,” I answered. “That is, James’s. At The Hall. There’s a resemblance. Not strong, mind you, but it’s there. Mostly around the eyes, I think. And possibly the chin. If Mrs. Travis hadn’t had such strong objections to him as heir, she might have drawn some comfort from that resemblance.”

  He didn’t answer, but I knew what he was thinking. How long had Captain Travis been in Sinclair? Had he been hiding here when Mr. Spencer was attacked?