Tales: Short Stories Featuring Ian Rutledge and Bess Crawford

by Charles Todd

  “Did you examine these wounds?”

  “There was no time. The Sisters will sort them out.”

  “Who were these wounded men?”

  “Privates Jones and Lloyd.” Marsh frowned. “Look, Rutledge, what’s this about? What have you got against those two? They didn’t shoot themselves in the foot, you know. They had a legitimate reason for stopping by the base hospital.”

  He had his answer.

  The base hospital for this sector was where Private Williams was being treated. And if Jones and Lloyd intended to finish what they’d begun, this was very likely their last chance.

  The Germans attacked five minutes later, and a vicious defense was all that kept the British line from folding. Rutledge, encouraging his own men, held his sector, and managed to rally men down the line as the Germans breached the barbed wire, firing down into the trenches and tossing grenades as soon as they’d come within range. When the British machine gun, which had jammed, had been cleared and opened up again, it turned the tide, and the German advance became a shambling retreat.

  Relieved to find they had fewer dead than he’d expected, Corporal MacLeod, set about collecting the wounded.

  He pointed to Rutledge’s roughly bandaged arm. “Ye’ll need that attended to as well.”

  “I can’t leave. Not until I’ve been relieved.”

  “Aye, and ye’ll be down with the gangrene, wait and see.”

  Later, when the relief column came down the line, Rutledge went back to the nearest aid station to look in on his wounded men.

  The doctor insisted on treating him as well. Examining Rutledge’s arm, the doctor looked up. “You’re lucky that shot didn’t sever the artery. You’re out of the line for three days.”

  His men were in rotation, in the reserve trenches where they could lick their wounds and rest. They were safe enough. It was his chance. “I’d like to visit a soldier sent back to the base hospital. Can you arrange it?”

  “You should be resting. Still—if you’ll ask one of the Sisters to see to clean bandages tomorrow, and you don’t exert yourself unduly and start with a fever, I see no harm in it.”

  “I give you my word.”

  There was room in one of the ambulances heading south with the next contingent of wounded. Rutledge took a seat next to the driver. The man smelled of wine, and glad to have an audience, he launched into a long monologue, never pausing as he rambled from one thought to the next. He was from Leeds, he said, a baker before the war, and he hated France.

  Rutledge, left to his own thoughts, wondered if he was making too much of the danger to Williams. Now that he was on his way to the base hospital, nursing his aching arm as the ambulance bounced and slid through the ruts, he told himself that the orderlies and Sisters were the only protection Williams needed. Killing someone in full view of so many witnesses was different from shooting someone in the back. What’s more, Williams wouldn’t be leaving the hospital anytime soon. He wasn’t likely to encounter either Jones or Lloyd even when he did, for they would be reassigned elsewhere.

  Then why, Rutledge asked himself, did he feel such a sense of urgency?

  Just then the driver said something that brought his mind sharply back to the rambling soliloquy.

  “I’m sorry—what was it you were saying?”

  But the driver took exception to Rutledge’s sudden interest. He retorted gruffly, “I shouldn’t have told you—”

  “But you did. You said you were given a choice between prison and enlisting. Since your lungs weren’t good enough, you had no choice but to drive an ambulance.”

  “What if I did?” he asked sullenly.

  “Before that. Why was it you were brought up on charges?”

  “I told you.”

  “Tell me again. Or I’ll report you for drinking and ignoring your patients back there.”

  “All right, then, you needn’t cut up stiff over it. I tried to kill a man. But he lived.”

  “Who was the man?”

  “He was a trades union man. He caught my brother when he tried to cross the strike line and go back to work. Fred needed the pay, he couldn’t afford to be out on strike.”

  “Where was this strike?”

  Goaded the man said, “What are you, a copper? Why does it matter?”

  “Was it in England—or was it a colliery in Wales?”

  “Of course it wasn’t Wales, it was in Lancashire. The trades union men beat him nearly senseless. And the doctors said they couldn’t do anything for him. He died the next morning. He was a good man, and he left a wife and three little ’uns. Tell me that’s fair?”

  “It isn’t fair. But neither is attempted murder. Were they brought up on charges? The men who did this to your brother?”

  “There was no one who could identify them. No one saw anything,” the driver said bitterly and turned his attention to what passed for the road. They traveled in silence for the rest of the journey.

  Rutledge found Williams sitting on the side of his cot this time, trying to manage to spoon up the dinner he’d been brought.

  Taking the chair from the next bed and sitting down, Rutledge greeted him and then said, “Are you a trades union man?”

  Williams stopped, the spoon half way to his mouth. “Am I what?”

  Rutledge repeated the question.

  Shaking his head vehemently, Williams said, “No, by God, I’m not. Sir.”

  “I suspect Jones and his friends think you are.”

  Williams stared at him. “I’ll be damned. But why?”

  “I don’t know. It could be the reason they’ve tried to kill you. There’s bad blood on both sides of that fight. Men have been murdered. And Williams is a common-enough name in Wales and in England. You could have lied about your background at the slate mines.”

  “I haven’t. But there’s no way to prove it, short of sending to the manager of the mine.”

  “The coal miners have been moved back from the Front. Griffiths has brought in some of his clay kickers, men building the Manchester sewers. More to the point, at least two of the coal miners were on their way here, to the base hospital. Lloyd and Jones. It may be a coincidence, and it may not. Watch yourself. You’re in no condition to do battle with anyone.”

  “There’s truth to that, God knows.” Williams realized he was still holding his spoon in midair, and he set it down carefully. “I don’t like this.”

  “Then tell me what you saw that night, when you were shot. Let me charge whoever did this.” Rutledge gestured to the bound shoulder.

  “My word against theirs? No, it won’t save me. Can I be moved to another hospital?”

  “By the time the paperwork is completed, it could be too late. I’ll see if I can persuade Matron to put you on the next convoy to England.”

  But Matron shook her head after Rutledge had made his request. “We have far more serious cases than this one. Private Williams is healing well. I can’t justify sending him back.”

  “His life could be in danger, if he stays here.”

  “Surely you exaggerate, Lieutenant. We’ve had no trouble at this hospital. The men who are here need care, and there’s no time for or thought of private quarrels.” She looked at a list. “What’s more, I don’t even have a record of the two men you’ve mentioned. Private Aaron Lloyd, Private Taffy Jones. It could be that you are entirely mistaken.”

  But she didn’t know Private Lloyd or his half-brother. It was worrying that they hadn’t been treated yet—where were they? And Williams’ willingness to believe in the danger facing him was further proof that he wasn’t satisfied that the two Welshmen had finished with him.

  Rutledge went to have a final word with Williams. “Matron won’t consider England. Still, I’ve warned the Sister in charge of this ward that you have enemies. It’s the best I can do. I’ve also asked one of the orderlies to watch for Lloyd and Jones, and report to Matron. It’s possible they won’t turn up here, that they’re waiting for you come to them. I wouldn’t go w
alking far, if Sister asks you to start exercising your legs again.”

  “I’m grateful, sir. Truly I am.”

  Rutledge stayed at the base hospital another day, walking through the wards, speaking to the patients, keeping an eye open for Private Jones and Private Lloyd. On the third day, his ambulance was set to leave for the Front and he had no choice but to be aboard, if he was to rejoin his company.

  He spoke to Williams a last time, and five minutes later he was settling himself in the uncomfortable seat beside a different driver when he heard a commotion in the ward he’d just left.

  “Wait for me,” he ordered the man as he got out and sprinted back the way he’d come.

  He found a Sister bleeding from a blow to the face, and down the ward, where Williams had been lying just minutes before, he could see an overturned chair and bedclothes dragged out into the aisle. Men were sitting up in their cots, shouting to Rutledge, pointing back the way he’d just come.

  He bent over the Sister, asking her, “What happened here?”

  “Two men—they took away Private Williams. I couldn’t see their faces. They were wearing hospital masks. I don’t know where they’ve taken him.”

  He shouted for help, but didn’t stay to explain to the staff rushing to the Sister’s aid, his mind already busy with the problem of where the three men might be. Had his own presence at the hospital precipitated this attack? Or the fact that he was seen to be leaving?

  And then he heard one of the ambulances roaring into life, men shouting, and someone firing a shot.

  He raced toward the line of ambulances he’d just left, saw his driver lying on the ground, dazedly trying to raise himself on his elbow. An orderly was already kneeling beside him. Rutledge ran on to the second ambulance in the line and called to the driver, “We’ve got to stop them.”

  But the driver leapt out of his door, shaking his head. “They’ve got a weapon.”

  Rutledge took his place behind the wheel, gunned the motor, and pulled out of line, turning in the direction of the fleeing ambulance heading fast toward the main road to Calais.

  The ground was wet from recent rains, and he could feel his tires slipping and sliding in the viscous mud. Holding grimly to the wheel, he drove as fast as he dared, and then, when he saw he was making no headway, faster than was safe.

  He was gaining, even as the ambulance bucketed across what passed for a road, narrowly missing a column of men marching toward the Front. He could hear the big guns behind him, opening up for another punishing marathon of shelling. And then the ambulance ahead of him skidded wildly, spun around, and missed a yawning ditch by inches. The driver got control again, but it had given Rutledge his chance. Praying that the tires would hold, he rammed his foot down on the accelerator and came up even with the fleeing vehicle.

  Someone swung open one of the rear doors, and Rutledge could see Private Lloyd kneeling there. Behind him lay Williams. Lloyd was raising a revolver, pointing it toward Rutledge. But Williams somehow managed to use the rigid brace on his shoulder to spoil the man’s aim just as he fired. Furious, the man backhanded him, sending Williams hard against the metal side of the ambulance, just as Rutledge sped past, cut in front of the vehicle, and forced it into the low wall that was all that was left of what had been the approach to a French barn.

  The ambulance hit the wall at speed and came to a jarring stop, throwing Private Jones, the driver, into the wheel and then the windscreen. By the time Rutledge had braked and got out, he could see blood running down Jones’s face. But it was the man with that revolver who was his main target.

  He ran to the back of the ambulance and flung open both doors. Williams and Lloyd lay on the floor in a jumble of legs and arms.

  Rutledge could hear another vehicle coming after him, but there was no time to wait. He climbed into the ambulance and pulled the unconscious Williams out, setting him against the stone wall. And then he went back for the armed man.

  But Private Aaron Lloyd had broken his neck in the crash, his head striking the metal rim of the upper berths that held stretchers in place. He lay where he’d fallen, the revolver still clutched in his hand.

  Leaving him, Rutledge went to look at the driver. Jones was badly hurt but alive, his nose and cheekbones broken by the impact with the windscreen.

  “What the hell were you trying to do?” Rutledge demanded, pulling him from behind the wheel and leaning him against a wing. “Was it worth it, this abduction? Your half-brother is dead!”

  “Williams ran off with my wife,” Jones tried to answer, his voice muffled by his bleeding nose. “Then he left her in Manchester to die penniless and alone.”

  “Was he a trades union man? This Williams?”

  “Aaron thought it likely. He came to the village where Sarah was staying with her sister. There was trouble with the colliery owner, and the man had to get out. When he left, Sarah went with him.” He closed his eyes. “Williams was the right man. I swear he was. My brother told me. He recognized the bastard.”

  “Williams is a slate man. From North Wales. He had nothing to do with your wife.” Rutledge was watching the approaching ambulance come to rescue them. “Your brother lied to you.”

  “Aaron never lies. Williams is from Manchester.”

  “Then why didn’t Lloyd try to stop Sarah—or call you to come to Manchester to fetch her back? Where was he all this time, watching and doing nothing, letting her die alone?”

  Jones stared at him through bloodshot eyes. “He said he tried. He said he even followed them to Manchester, but Sarah wouldn’t listen.”

  “Apparently Aaron was a great one for saying. Where was he?”

  “He was ill, bad lungs. He was sent away to recover. Away from the coal dust.” After a moment he added unwillingly, “To the same village. That’s how he knew.”

  “And he didn’t warn you? He didn’t summon you to come and put a stop to whatever Williams was up to?”

  The man’s gaze went to the open doors at the rear of the ambulance. He couldn’t see his brother’s body from where he lay. He made to get up, and Rutledge shoved him back down. “He said—” Taffy Jones began again.

  “Why weren’t you holding the revolver on Williams? Why was it Aaron? She was your wife. You should have shot him.”

  “He said I had no stomach for what had to be done. It’s one thing to be killing Germans. The blood’s up. I’d failed twice, when it came down to it. He said he’d see to it. Are you certain he’s dead? I don’t believe you.”

  “Don’t you understand, you fool? I’d wager it was Aaron who ran off with your wife. Abandoned her when he had finished with her. And she was too shamed to come home again. Why else would he have been in the back of the ambulance, with the weapon? He didn’t want you to confront Williams. To listen to him. Why was he so insistent that Williams had to die? She was your wife, not his.”

  Jones roused himself, putting a hand up to his nose and eyes. As if to fend off what Rutledge was saying.

  “He wouldn’t do such a thing. You’re lying.”

  “He tried to persuade you to kill an innocent man. For all I know, it was Aaron who shot Williams in the back—for you. Your revenge.”

  In spite of the bloody mask that was Jones’ face, Rutledge could read his eyes. “It’s true, then. Bloody cowards, both of you,” he said in disgust.

  “He told me he was a better shot. Doing it in cold blood.”

  The other ambulance had caught up with them. An orderly jumped out and ran to Jones, then peered into the back of the stolen vehicle. Another came to kneel beside Williams, still lying against the wall but just regaining consciousness.

  A third was demanding to know what had happened.

  As Rutledge got to his feet, Jones tried to shake his head but was in too much pain. “I won’t believe you. Not until I’ve spoken to Aaron.”

  “Believe what?” the orderly demanded. “Sir, we need to get these men to hospital. And what am I to do about that ambulance?”

&nb
sp; Rutledge moved back. “I’ll explain later. Just now I want this man to be held under guard for attempted murder. There will be other charges, but that will do for now.”

  The orderly lifted Jones to his feet. Jones looked up at Rutledge. Something stirred in his eyes. And then he lashed out at the man holding his arm.

  Rutledge swore as the wounded man broke free of the orderly’s grip and stumbled toward the back of the ambulance. He held on to the doors and leaned in, peering at his brother’s body. “He wouldn’t have lied to me,” he insisted, his voice heavy with grief and pain. “Not Aaron. Not about Sarah.”

  Rutledge pointed to the revolver. “Where did he get this?”

  “He took it from a dead officer. He couldn’t find Williams in Manchester—he thought the bastard might be in France. And he was. Family honor, Aaron said.” Jones put up a hand and wiped at the blood on his face. “I loved her. I never thought she’d betray me. But when I looked at Williams, it all made sense. She always did have an eye for tall men.”

  “Lloyd must have been afraid that you’d find out the truth and go after him instead. And so he tried to persuade you to kill an innocent man. That’s the only thing that makes sense. Family honor indeed.”

  “He’d never lied to me before.”

  “Have you asked Sarah’s sister? Did she describe Williams?”

  “Aaron spoke to her. He said. I was down the mines, you see. I couldn’t go. But he could. What with the pneumonia.”

  “You’re a fool,” Rutledge said again. “For all you know, Sarah is still in Manchester, waiting for your half-brother to come back from the war. You have only Lloyd’s word that any of this happened, and under the circumstances, I’d not trust anything he said. And if Williams was killed, you’d have hanged for it. Not Aaron. Didn’t it occur to you that if the Germans didn’t shoot you, your own side would? For murder? Cheaper than a divorce.”

  Jones lunged at Rutledge, but the orderly caught him and this time held him.

  Leaving them, Rutledge went to search the pockets of the dead man, and stopped, staring at something he’d just pulled out of Lloyd’s tunic.