The Shattered Tree

by Charles Todd

  He helped me to find a taxi, gave the driver instructions, and took my hand before closing the door after me.

  “Au revoir, Mademoiselle. You must not expend so much of your own strength to visit your friend. She will wish you to take every care of yourself first.”

  And with the closing of the door, my avenue to Marie-Luc was firmly shut off.

  I let the driver take me back to Belle-Île, and he solicitously held my arm all the way to the door. I thanked him and went inside, leaning against the door after closing it behind me.

  I couldn’t find Jerome Karadeg, I couldn’t find Philippe Moreau, and I couldn’t visit the only person who was connected in some fashion with both men.

  What was I to do now?

  I could hear footsteps as the orderly came down the passage to return to his duty at the desk.

  I straightened and went sedately up the stairs, in spite of my frustration.

  Chapter Eight

  I couldn’t quite understand why I’d had that sudden sense of trouble if I continued asking the policeman questions. But I’d learned long ago to listen to my instincts. Whatever he was after, I had no business getting myself involved in his inquiry, and I had nearly done just that.

  He was clearly investigating the stabbing of a nun. That much I understood. Which meant, with information in hand, that he was looking for Jerome Karadeg. I should leave that matter alone and go on with my own concerns.

  But the key to that was finding out more from Marie-Luc about Lieutenant Moreau.

  And so I was involved, like it or not, with the attack on her.

  Sighing, I listened to the crackling of the fire, watching the heart of it burn red and orange.

  Where had the elder Karadeg and his wife gone? Were they at a police station somewhere in Paris, trying to convince the gendarmes that their son wouldn’t have hurt anyone? Or were they out searching, to find him and persuade him to give himself up? I wouldn’t put it past them to try to spirit him away to Brittany before he was caught.

  There was no Front grapevine here. The friends my parents had known in the past had moved to Nice and Provence, out of reach of the German advance. Simon was in England.

  And then Madame Ezay came in with a cup of tea, and I thought, Why not?

  She set the small tray on the table at my elbow, and observing me closely, she said, “You are too pale. You should not go out so much. Matron has said she is worried about you.”

  “I have a friend in hospital. She was badly hurt by someone, and the police are hoping she will be able to speak to them soon. The sad thing is, whoever attacked her could well be a man she knows—whose parents are her friends. I’ve tried to visit her, but she was in surgery to close the wounds, and still sedated when I came to see her. The nuns must wake her up very soon, or she will contract pneumonia. I very badly want to go back tonight. When the police have left. Will you help me?”

  She was astonished that I should ask her to do this. And I thought surely she was going to refuse.

  “But yes, I will do this. A friend, you say? A nun? It is too bad that someone would even think of harming her. I will do what I can.”

  Surprised in my turn, I said, “I don’t want to cause trouble for anyone. But I could wait in a taxi, outside the hospital, while you go in, and if there are no policemen with her, if she’s awake, it just might be possible for me to speak to her.”

  I’d concocted this plan on the spur of the moment, and I wasn’t sure she would be happy about it. But Madame Ezay had the heart of a conspirator, and I think if I’d asked her to help me run away with my lover, she would have done it.

  And so it was that after my dinner I slipped down the stairs while the orderly was eating his, and outside I found Madame with a taxi waiting.

  “I have told Matron I am visiting my cousin. She did not object,” she said to me in a whisper, and then I gave the patient driver the direction of the hospital.

  It was quite dark now, and I sat well back in the taxi when we came down the seemingly darker street. I had removed my cap, because it would gleam too brightly in the shadows, and buttoned up my coat to cover my uniform.

  “There’s the hospital,” I said to the driver as it loomed ahead of us. There was an almost Gothic look to it, and the dark shades, put up to shield the light in each room, gave it a blind air.

  “I don’t know this place,” Madame said, and I wondered if she was about to refuse to go inside.

  “It serves the poor,” I told her. “You’ll see.”

  She nodded, and after the briefest hesitation got out and crossed the street to the door.

  “We will wait,” I said quietly to the driver as a rectangle of light spilled out into the street, held her silhouette for a moment, and then vanished as the door was shut.

  I tried to follow her in my mind. Up the steps, down the passage, into the ward, between the rows of cots, stopping at the right one.

  It shouldn’t take long, I thought. Surely not.

  But I heard a church bell strike the quarter hour, and still she hadn’t come out.

  I was very uneasy now. The police would stop her—question her—and she wouldn’t dare to lie to them.

  And then the door opened again as someone hurried out and came toward the taxi.

  Madame Ezay said breathlessly, “She is awake. The police have gone. But you must hurry. The Mother Superior will be making her rounds soon.”

  I thanked her, made my way as quickly as I could across the quiet street, and went through the door in my turn.

  But there was a nun in Reception, come to collect the visitors’ book. I smiled at her, nodded, and went on, as if by right.

  She turned and I heard a door open and close somewhere behind me.

  It seemed to take far too long to reach the ward. I opened the door, the familiar smells of disinfectant, illness, and soap greeting me as I stepped inside and shut it softly.

  Walking down the aisle between patients, some of whom moaned in their sleep, others snoring, was familiar as well, except that these were all women, mostly surgical cases—gallbladder, appendix, tumors—the list was long. Not soldiers with their limbs missing or their faces swathed in bandages or their abdomens a mound under the sheets and blankets. I walked as quietly as I could until I came to the cot where Marie-Luc lay. Her eyes were open, dark in her pale face, and her fingers fidgeted with the coverlet over her.

  “Hallo,” I said quietly, smiling. “I expect you’ve had a very difficult time. Have the police been too bothersome?”

  “They have been kind. But they don’t believe me.” She looked away, her eyes seeing something besides her neighbor, a white-haired woman of perhaps sixty-five, asleep with her mouth open, breathing loudly. The sound covered our whispers.

  “Did you tell them—could you tell them who wounded you so badly?”

  “I said, it was a stranger. I don’t know who he was, but they asked about Jerome. Over and over again. They said he was seen with me just before it happened. But he wasn’t with me. We had argued. He left. I was willing to swear to it. But they shook their heads. There is a witness.”

  “Perhaps Jerome did leave, and then decided to come back.”

  She shook her head restlessly. “He wouldn’t harm me. I didn’t see who it was. It was dark, just there, and he came at me. The knife was sharp. I felt it pull at my coat, and then it was through the cloth, into my body. I tried to fight. It was useless, he was too strong. Someone screamed. I think it was me. Or this witness. Possibly both of us. I don’t know. And as quickly he was gone. I could feel the blood. And only then the pain.”

  Grimacing, she looked up at me. “It was terrible. I know now how brave my patients are. They don’t scream, most of them. They are too quiet. I have never hurt so badly.”

  “What do the doctors say?”

  “That it will heal. The cut. But there will be an ugly scar. They had to clean out the wound first. And then they sewed it carefully. But it will be there for me to see. Always t
here.” Her voice was bitter.

  “Are you protecting Jerome?” I asked.

  She closed her eyes. “Sometimes it’s better not to know. You understand?”

  Which told me that she was afraid she did know.

  “They will search for him. His parents must be out looking for him as well. If you know something that would make a difference, you must tell the police. Before it’s too late.”

  There was fear in her voice as she answered me. “It wasn’t Jerome. But they won’t listen. And I can’t explain.”

  She was tiring quickly now. I said, smoothing the sheet over her shoulders, “It’s all right. You have done your best. I will try to come and see you again.”

  She closed her eyes. “No. It’s best that you don’t. I’d rather be left alone.”

  After a moment I turned and walked back the way I’d come.

  Was she afraid it was Jerome? That he’d turned on her? What she said came back to me when it was too late to return to the ward.

  I can’t explain . . .

  What couldn’t she explain? The fact that he was too shell-shocked to know he’d attacked her? That in the dark, he’d seen one of his monsters and tried to kill it?

  I could feel a mantle of sadness settling across my shoulders.

  And I wasn’t quite sure why.

  We managed to return to Belle-Île undetected, Madame Ezay and I. As I paid the taxi driver, giving him a generous pourboire for his willingness to wait at the hospital, she went ahead of me, opened the clinic’s outer door, peered inside, and beckoned to me. No one was about.

  She was quiet as we walked up the stairs to our rooms. Someone had brought me hot water and fresh towels, and after making certain that I was well taken care of, Madame Ezay went off to her own quarters.

  There was blood on my bandages when I got ready for bed. I scolded myself and promised I’d do better tomorrow.

  Still, Marie-Luc was very much on my mind as I fell asleep.

  It was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon when one of the staff came for me.

  I had just finished reading to the wounded, and listened to their critique of the chapters we’d covered.

  It was Captain Barkley who was waiting for me in the small lounge that had been a sitting room for the French family who still owned this house.

  As I went in and closed the door behind me, he said, “Bess. I have some news of Marie-Luc. She’s recovering in hospital, after surgery to deal with the knife wound. While the wound wasn’t life threatening, it was extensive, I’m told, and because of blood loss, sutures were needed to close it, and hopefully to keep out infection.”

  I knew most of this, but I thanked him soberly for telling me about her condition.

  “And have the police found her attacker?”

  He stirred, as if he’d hoped I wouldn’t ask that question.

  “They’ve closed the case.”

  “What? They’ve arrested—they’ve arrested someone?” I had almost used Jerome Karadeg’s name.

  “In a manner of speaking.” He looked out the window toward the street. “There was a young sergeant, son of friends. She’d known him for some time. The witness believed he must have attacked her. Marie-Luc refused to believe it, and the police have been searching for him. He turned up this morning.”

  “Have they told Marie-Luc?” I asked. “She will want to know. She has surely been waiting to hear. They will need her to identify him, when she’s a little stronger.”

  The Captain took a deep breath. “She won’t have to identify him.”

  Then Jerome had confessed. Was he even able to remember what had happened? Could he have realized that he had attacked the nun by mistake? Or perhaps she had got it all wrong, and he was indeed angry enough to kill, and now wanted to make amends.

  “A sad business,” I said, knowing she would be deeply hurt by the news. “Do the police believe him, then?”

  There was something in his face that told me the answer to that before Captain Barkley could find the words.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” I asked suddenly.

  “His body was pulled from the Seine near dawn this morning. I just heard. Jerome Karadeg. That’s his name. He’s from Brittany. His parents own a small restaurant not far from Notre-Dame. I didn’t want you to learn about this from idle gossip.”

  “Gentle God,” I said, trying to take it all in. “How awful for them. How awful for her.” The fear had always been that Jerome would take his own life. If he had realized . . . if he believed he had harmed Marie-Luc, he could have been driven to his death by self-loathing. “Oh, how horrible. How sad. Suicide always is.”

  “Well. As to suicide, the police aren’t quite sure about that,” he told me reluctantly.

  For one terrible moment I thought perhaps that the elder Karadeg, Jerome’s father, might have taken matters into his own hands. Might have preferred to see his son dead than in police custody. And then I realized that it wouldn’t be possible. He’d have saved his son, gotten him out of Paris. Surely he would have?

  Captain Barkley walked to the window and looked out at the street scene beyond. And then he said over his shoulder, “I’ll take you to see her, if you like. She might be grateful for your presence.”

  Astonished that he would offer, I said, “I have only to collect my coat.”

  When we arrived at the hospital and were shown to the women’s ward, I was told that the police had asked that Marie-Luc be moved to a private room for the time being. The staff was waiting for one to be cleaned.

  A small kindness, I thought. She would have taken this hard. First the attack, then Jerome’s death. It was all too much, surely, even for a well person to take in stride.

  She lay with her face turned toward the far end of the ward, staring at nothing.

  She didn’t turn when I spoke.

  I said, “Marie-Luc, I am so sorry.”

  She looked at me then. “Was it your doing? Did you tell the police, and they hounded him to his death?”

  “No,” I told her quietly. “I haven’t spoken to the police. I only just heard. Is there anything I can do? For you or for the Karadegs?”

  “No. He is dead, and that is all there is to it now. I’d rather be left alone, please.”

  I said, “On the other hand, if it wasn’t Jerome who attacked you, then there is still work to be done.”

  “It won’t bring him back.”

  “It will keep you safe.”

  I don’t think in that moment she really cared. Jerome was a suicide. And his parents would be devastated, might even blame her. It was too much to take in, on top of her surgery.

  I looked up at Captain Barkley. He wasn’t happy about what I was asking, but he knew what I wanted.

  With a brief word to Marie-Luc, he left the ward, left us alone.

  I pulled up one of the chairs and sat down beside her bed.

  For a while we said nothing. I don’t think she wished to talk to me. But I could be patient.

  Finally she turned to me and said, “I tried to tell the police. They wouldn’t listen. Who is this witness? Who made them believe it was Jerome?” Her eyes were incredibly sad. “I would not have hurt him for the world. I knew him when he was just a boy. He was a brave soldier. He didn’t deserve to die a suicide.” Her voice was hardly a whisper. “He would never hurt me.”

  “The police aren’t sure—” I began. “I don’t know why, but there is some question about what happened.”

  She stared at me. “What are you saying? That they don’t believe Jerome hurt me? It’s too late for them to apologize now. He’s gone.”

  “I don’t know. But I don’t think it’s that. It’s the suicide. That’s only what Captain Barkley told me. That they aren’t completely satisfied, somehow.”

  Her gaze sharpened. “I must speak to his parents.”

  “They are dealing with the death of their son. I can’t ask them to come here. I don’t know where they are. The restaurant is closed. But if you wi
sh to write a letter, I’ll see that it’s posted.”

  “Then I must be there, when he’s buried. It will be in Brittany. They will take him home.”

  “You can’t travel to Brittany. You aren’t ready for such a journey. Even across Paris.”

  She intended to argue. And thought better of it.

  “Then take me to Petite-Beauvais. It is a shorter distance than Brittany.”

  Completely confused now, I said, “I don’t understand.”

  “I want to go there. My old governess left the house to me.”

  “For comfort? I don’t think the hospital will allow even that. You know how much blood you have lost. How the tissue and muscles in your chest were slashed. It’s too soon, believe me.” I had only to look at her face to see that she didn’t have the strength to walk as far as the hospital door. “If there is something in the house that you need or want, I’ll try to go in your place and bring it back to you.”

  She considered me. “By the time I am discharged, it will be too late. But I must find a way to prove that Jerome isn’t a murderer. You have to understand that. For his sake and that of his parents. I owe him that.”

  “Captain Barkley will take me. You have met him. You know he can be trusted. If it will give you peace.”

  I was beginning to see the steel in her soul. I’d glimpsed it when she sent me away there on the Left Bank, near the restaurant owned by the Karadegs. I could now understand why she had left her convent and gone out on her own to serve wounded and dying men after nuns were withdrawn from military hospitals. It would be impossible for her to do anything else, given her own character.

  There was some reason why she was refusing me. It was present in her eyes, it was present in the way she held her shoulders. A physical resistance. Had she been arguing with Jerome when the witness saw them together? And now, because of that, because the police had been hunting him and he had had nowhere else to go but the river, she couldn’t bear the guilt. And there was also the fact that she had used the excuse of going to see him to leave me outside the restaurant. She had used him. And he was dead. It was even possible she felt I should have a share in that guilt.