by J. R. Trtek
“I don’t believe so,” I admitted.
“Possibly the activities of the Aesthetic Guild have come to your attention?” he suggested. “Though they have declined in prominence a bit since the days of the late queen, their spirit remains, I think.”
“In any event,” I said, “they all have made the area so much the better, I gather.”
“It is like living in a great laboratory of thought,” Mrs. Jimson said as we approached the Haven Stones, an ancient circle of large rocks. “And it is so glorious to feel the vibrancy of the eager, young people who lead all the newest movements,” she declared as we stared at the arrangement of megaliths, whose original purpose had been lost in the mists of time.
“Intellectual history is being made in our studies, sitting rooms, and gardens, that is certain,” added her husband some time later, as we returned to the village proper and caught sight of the couple’s cottage and my new residence, where Scaife was busy clearing the garden plot.
“The war is a remote thing to many of us here, I must confess,” Mr. Jimson added with strain in his voice as he watched my batman work the soil. “I wish it could be forever remote from everyone. After all, some are sacrificing so that people like us can be permitted leisure and peace to think. Many of those whom you have met today—I speak in particular of Aronson and the reviewer Letchford and Miss Lester—very strongly oppose the war, Colonel, and I must be candid with you and admit that I do not disagree with them on the issue. Still, I can never pretend to the same sort of moral superiority that they claim for themselves.”
Mr. Jimson kept staring at Scaife, bent over on his knees. “Never,” he repeated.
While settling into my new surroundings, I was to make the acquaintance of many more Biggleswick inhabitants beyond my closest neighbours. Perhaps half of those I met were stolid citizens who had moved to the town for the country air and low rates. The younger men tended to be government clerks, or writers and artists like Aronson. There were a few widows with flocks of sensitive daughters sprinkled amongst the populace, and on the outskirts of town I found several larger residences which had been part of the landscape before the garden city itself was built up. Largely constructed for the gentry in those days when the region dominated the wool trade, these older structures were of a different style than the common cottages such as mine.
One such great house, I was informed, was owned by the publisher Frederick Shaw, in whose company I had almost been run over by the speeding bicyclist. Over the course of the next few weeks, I regularly espied Shaw at the local railway station carrying a little black bag full of manuscripts, which I understood he took with him every working day to his London office. He did not recognise me from our brief meeting days before, and I chose not to renew the passing acquaintance, having at once marked him for further observation at a distance.
Another imposing villa, sitting upon a hill amid sprawling wild gardens, was that of a man named Moxon Ivery, who was described by the Jimsons as a former don and very prominent pacifist leader.125
I found myself tolerated, though not intimately embraced by some elements of local society. Being part of the war effort, I was held at arm’s length by those, but most people’s attitudes toward me were softened by the fact that my role in the conflict was one of ministering to the wounded. In that context, I thought myself treated well, though a few, such as Aronson and Letchford, appeared on occasion to view me with smug, condescending amusement.
At Isham itself, I relished my role as chief administrator of the hospital, where I hoped to at last contribute directly to the relief of human suffering. I found that my predecessor had not been well respected or liked, and that his poor administration had led to falling morale among the staff, with an accompanying decline in the effectiveness of the facility in rehabilitating patients.
I vowed to reverse this downward spiral, and began to undertake great effort to win over the staff, which included several competent individuals around whom I hoped to build a core that would lift the hospital above its current unenviable state.
Of great help to me in this endeavour was Major Collins, the chief surgeon and my de facto second-in-command. Below him, Captains Hughes and Simmons managed the details of daily medical routine, such as morning inspections, while each ward was assigned an officer from our small bevy of lieutenants. Those junior officers were all a sober, determined lot—though at times I would find myself casting a half-sceptical eye in the direction of Lt. Hooper, who though dedicated was at times more than capable of being distracted from his duties.
It took me a while to become acquainted with all the staff sergeants and corporals in the facility, as well as the nursing corps, though it was within the first quarter hour of stepping into Isham that I became quite familiar with two individuals in particular.
I had not even entered my office for the first time when I encountered a warrant officer in heated argument with a matronly female nurse.
“Isolation and special care are the best we can do for him,” insisted the woman. “We can make the space for him, I tell you!”
“Do that, you fool, and you’ll break the man for good,” countered the sergeant-major with disdain.
“Here,” I said at once, stepping from Major Collins to approach the angry pair. “What seems to be the dispute?”
“We are discussing a hospital matter, sir,” the nurse said. “Your rank aside, sir, I would appreciate it if you might let the two of us resolve this matter.”
“And as I am your new commanding officer—Colonel John Watson—I believe that resolution is of interest to me as well.”
“Oh,” said the woman, as if suddenly chastened. “My apologies, sir.”
“And who are you?” I asked her.
“This is Nurse Williams, sir,” said the warrant officer, saluting as he spoke for the woman. “Sergeant-Major Ffolkes, sir.”
“I believe Nurse Williams is capable of introducing herself, Sergeant-Major.”
“Quite so, sir.”
“And what is the matter that you discuss?” I asked as Major Collins approached to stand at my side.
The warrant officer and the nurse cautiously looked at one another, and then the former reluctantly gestured for the other to speak.
“It concerns one of our patients, a Lieutenant Clayton,” said the nurse. “He displays extreme social anxiety, and so I propose to isolate him, so as to reduce sources of irritation and discomfort. As I am sure you are aware, it is the course many recommend in such cases.”
“And with all respect, sir,” interjected Sergeant-Major Ffolkes, showing the marks of a Queen Alexandra’s Staff man,126 “Lieutenant Clayton shows marked paranoia with respect to his condition. I am certain you also recognise the dangers of such a course as the nurse proposes. There are—”
“Why is this an issue that causes argument between you?” I asked. “Do we not have clear recommendations for the disposition of such cases here at Isham? And in any event, is that determination not made a level higher than either of your ranks?”
I turned to Major Collins, who shrugged.
“In truth, sir,” he said, “the previous administration was somewhat lax about adopting guidelines issued from RAMC command, and those we have established ourselves are rather incomplete.”
“Then we must complete them,” I said.
Collins nodded sharply. “Of course, sir.”
“In any event, do not put that man put in isolation at present,” I said to Nurse Williams, who was taken aback. “You tell me that Lieutenant Clayton is strained in his relations with patients and staff around him, and while I do not argue that isolation might produce some beneficial effects, I believe, as the Sergeant-Major suggests, that there is a grave possibility that such treatment may lead him to believe his case is more serious than it is.
“As a matter of experience, it is often found that many men cannot stand such clinical isolation for long. They feel they must break out. No,” I said, “let us carefully review
how we may improve Lieutenant Clayton’s relations with us and his fellow patients, but do not place him by himself just yet.”
“Right, sir,” said Ffolkes, cheered by my support for his position.
“And in future, Sergeant-Major,” I added sharply, “allow Nurse Williams and others to speak for themselves. Do you quite understand?”
“Why, yes sir!”
“Very well,” I said, leading Major Collins on down the hall, suspecting that I had done nothing to endear myself to either of the two subordinates I had just met.
The facility itself housed at any time about fifty officer patients, some suffering physical wounds, but all carrying the burden of broken psyches, and while our doctors and surgeons were kept occupied, the greatest work was done by the nurses, led by the aforementioned Mrs. Williams, whose pronouncements were often considered by some a law higher than my own—at least, when I was not made aware of them.
The staff also included several VADs127 in their blue dresses and aprons. Prominent amongst these were Mary Lamington and Edith Finch, the former being especially notable. Though she was young enough that some might have termed her a flapper,128 Miss Lamington’s broad brow-framed eyes conveyed a keen intelligence, and she had an uncanny ability to shift her mood from cheery mirth to grave contemplation within an instant.
During my first week at Isham, she entered my office with a small collection of personal files, which she gingerly deposited upon my desk.
“These are the dossiers of the patients who will be arriving next Tuesday,” she said in her lilting voice, and I took the top folder in hand, unopened. “Nurse Williams is uncertain whether we have room for them all. Her understanding is that the senior three patients currently in the north ward, for example, may not be discharged until the end of next week.”
“I will speak to Captains Hughes and Simmons; perhaps they might work out the details with her,” I suggested, for I was now hesitant to personally confront Nurse Williams, who seemed to view me with pronounced disdain. I put the file back with the others. “Perhaps we could double up rooms for some of those nearing the end of their treatment.”
“In past months, sir, there was occasional talk of billeting the more promising ones in surrounding homes.”
“Yes, I remember Major Collins mentioning that.” I sighed. “I don’t wish to consider it, since that policy would amount to handing our problems off on unwitting and untrained civilians, even assuming that some local residents are willing to accept them.”
“Of course, sir.”
I pushed the pile of dossiers to one side and hesitated before returning to my correspondence, waiting for the VAD to leave my office. When she did not, I looked up at her with an avuncular smile.
“You have something else, Miss Lamington?”
“I simply wished to welcome you to Isham,” she said, taking a moment to adjust her white cap, which sat atop hair that looked like spun gold. “I was present when staff received you, of course, but allow me at this moment to express my personal greeting as well, sir.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It is most appreciated.”
“I would have offered you some gift, had I thought beforehand of doing so,” she went on as I again glanced down at the letter I was composing. “Indeed, were it the season, I believe I might have baked you a blueberry tart.”
I began to chuckle with amusement, but almost at once the smile left my face. I looked up with surprise at this young woman, barely past twenty years of age, and said in a hushed voice, “You are Bullivant’s—”
“Perhaps we should talk of those matters elsewhere,” she interjected. “Might we gather some of these dossiers, as well as our coats, and pretend to discuss patients while making a circuit of the grounds?” the nurse suggested.
And so, minutes later, each bundled against the brisk air of early spring, we strolled about outside the hospital, seemingly engaged in hospital business, though our conversation was comprised of very different references.
“Have you been in Bullivant’s employ for some time?” I asked as we approached the south garden, where three convalescents, wrapped in greatcoats, stood and stared at a bed of primroses in the company of Lt. Hooper.
“A moment, please, before you answer,” I quickly added as we greeted the trio of invalids and enquired if they were in need. With careful, deliberate voices, each man in his turn declared himself to be quite satisfied, and with cautious smiles all round as well as a nod to Hooper, Miss Lamington and I continued on our way.
“I was recruited by Sir Walter not quite three years ago,” she said. “Though we never did, you and I might have chanced to meet before now, for I was one of the women who posed as Mr. Holmes’s housekeeper in Sussex, you see.”
“Ah, so you were one of the Marthas.”
“That was my first assignment—a quite trivial one, of course.”
“And now you hunt German spies in the Cotswolds.”
She smiled. “Well, I keep my eyes open for them, as I have been instructed. And I will assist you in communicating with Sir Walter, for as you have been told, he does not wish you to contact him directly.”
“Yes, I am to pass anything of note to the agent already stationed here—you, I now realise.”
“I shall fulfil that duty,” she replied. “And I am also to facilitate your meeting various people in the community, so that Mr. Holmes may in turn observe them at first hand during his coming visit. My understanding from Sir Walter is that he is to arrive sometime before Maundy Thursday.”129
“He has been delayed,” I said, a statement that seemed to give Miss Lamington concern. “He will arrive not long after, however: on the Wednesday following Easter,” I quickly added, and the news appeared to put her at ease. “His stay in Biggleswick will last for over a fortnight. Part of that time, however, will be spent travelling to Scotland with me, as if on holiday. However, we instead will be—”
“Attempting to probe the northern reaches of the German spy apparatus,” the young woman completed.
“Quite so,” I replied. “And trying in particular to discern its connections with Biggleswick.”
By this time, we had circled halfway round the facility and were near the road leading past the hospital, where I observed a man approaching on bicycle. As he drew nearer, I saw that it was the same lanky fellow who had almost run down Frederick Shaw, me, and others during my first stroll about the village. The rider slowed to a halt right before us and stuck out a leg to brace himself.
“Halloa, Mary,” he said in a cheerful if whining voice to my companion.
The man was about thirty years of age, wearing grey flannels and dingy shoes, and his thin face was framed by rather more hair than the average man’s. His chin was long, the mouth drawn into a firm line with peevish depressions at its corners. What struck me most about the newcomer, however, were his eyes, for in their way they gave off a burning expression—not angry or fierce, but relentlessly active, in much the same way as did the eyes of Sherlock Holmes.
“This is Launcelot Wake, my cousin,” Miss Lamington said. “Launcelot, please meet Colonel Watson, our new hospital chief.”
“Halloa,” said the young man, extending a hand. “You seem familiar,” he added, “though I cannot say why.”
“We were in close proximity some days ago,” I told him. “I was in the company of golfers and was not wearing my uniform then, while you were on that bicycle of yours.”
The man thought for a moment and then said, “Ah, yes, of course. I recall it now. You all were standing in the middle of the road, weren’t you?”
“I suppose so,” I replied untruthfully, realising the man’s perception of the incident was not identical to mine.
“Yes,” said Wake. “I had a devil of a time getting round all of you, for you were blocking the lane rather completely.”
I merely nodded and set my stance as if to defer to Miss Lamington, who took my cue immediately.
“The aunts are planning a grand din
ner on Easter Friday,”130 she said, giving me a significant glance before turning toward Wake. “I expect you will be invited, Launcelot.”
“And will you be present?” her cousin asked.
“Of course.”
“Then I will attend as well,” Wake replied smugly, “invitation or no.”
The woman smiled and then once more looked at me.
“And I was about to inform you, Colonel, that you are on the guest list as well.”
“Well then,” I said, “I will certainly accept.”
“That gladdens me.”
“I will have a friend staying with me by that time,” I added, almost as if her eyes had coaxed me to say those words in front of her cousin. “Might he, perhaps, be included at the table?”
“Our aunts—they are really distant cousins, but we refer to them as aunts—are very accommodating,” said Wake in a sullen voice. “I expect they will allow him to join you—that is, join us.”
“I will inform Aunt Claire and Aunt Doria,” the woman said. “I am certain the answer will be in the affirmative. Ah, and here comes another who is to be present.”
I turned and saw, walking in the road, a stout, middle-aged man. His face was pale and rather nondescript, even when he smiled upon approaching us.
“Miss Lamington, Mr. Wake,” he said, and the man’s voice more than made up for his lack of physical presence, for its sound was resonant and full, and phrases flowed from his mouth with the smoothness of warm butter.
“And you,” he added, looking me straight in the eye while glancing over my uniform, “you must be the new head of hospital.”
“Colonel John H. Watson,” I said before Miss Lamington could introduce me.
“I am Moxon Ivery,” he replied, taking my hand in a firm grip.
“Ah, the great house on the hill,” I remarked. “I enjoy the look of its gardens very much,” I added.
“Thank you, Major,” Ivery said. “You must see my delphiniums, cowslips, and pennycress at closer hand someday.”
