A Pattern of Lies

by Charles Todd

  I was chuckling to myself as I put my arms around his middle and hooked my fingers together as best I could. I could feel his body shaking with his own laughter.

  And then we were off in a shower of muddy rainwater. If Sergeant Lassiter hadn’t been as good as he was with this machine, I was sure we’d have skidded into the nearest puddle. He steadied us with practiced ease, and soon we were indeed flying down the Rouen road.

  We arrived in Rouen with my arms aching from holding on as tightly as I could, and my fingers permanently turned into claws from attaching themselves to the sergeant’s coat.

  We stopped at a small café not far from the cathedral to have a coffee and to give me a chance to restore a more respectable appearance. And then we went to the gates of the American Base Hospital.

  It had been set up in the famous Rouen racetrack, and had put the space to good use. The man at the gate looked me up and down and demanded my pass.

  “I don’t need one,” I said firmly. “A patient of ours was brought in here and I have come to inspect his quarters. He shouldn’t have been brought here in the first place. We intended to invalid him back to England.”

  It was the best excuse I could think of, and it worked.

  “Patient’s name and rank?”

  “Britton. Corporal. Buffs.”

  “Says here he’s with a Wiltshire regiment now.”

  “I’m sorry. I was given the most recent data we had. He was unconscious when he was brought in.”

  “It happens. All right, Sister, you’ll find him in the surgical ward.”

  “Yes, I know where that is,” I said briskly, and marched past him. The sergeant waited for me at the gate. I found the tent, looked for the Sister in charge, and once more explained my errand.

  “The doctors are with him now. You’ll have to wait. There’s tea in the canteen, if you’d like a cup. Or coffee, if you’d prefer it.” She smiled. “I’ve grown quite fond of the coffee here. My parents will be shocked.”

  I went to the canteen and was surprised to find sugar for my tea and fresh milk in a pitcher. Such luxury. But the Americans hadn’t been at war for four long years; they still had all the necessities we lacked. I even chose a small raisin bun, for the pleasure of it.

  Ten minutes later I was back at the surgical ward.

  Corporal Britton was barely awake. And he’d just been prodded and examined by a phalanx of doctors. He looked up at me with pain-­ridden eyes. “I’ve had my powders,” he said. “They aren’t working yet. So if there’s more?” His voice was thick from the swelling in his face and around his nose.

  “Not this soon, I’m afraid,” I told him. “I must complete your chart. Where were you attacked, and by whom?”

  “None of your business, Sister, begging your pardon.”

  “Was it for shooting one Sergeant Rollins of the tank corps?”

  He scowled at me. “Who says it was?”

  “That’s the rumor,” I said. “The Army will be here shortly to confirm it. And I need to complete your chart.”

  He turned his head away. I didn’t think he recalled my questioning him in the middle of the night. He had more on his mind than one Sister Crawford. And I thought his sight was still blurred. His eyelids were still thick and purple.

  “Please, I’ll be in trouble with Matron, if I don’t fill out this chart,” I said, a whining note in my voice. “I’ve seven more patients to speak to.”

  He turned back to face me. “I’m alive, and I intend to stay that way. I fell into a trench, Sister, and nobody caught me.”

  Men did take flying leaps into trench lines, during a retreat across No Man’s Land, to avoid getting shot. And it was common practice for those already safely out of harm’s way to catch those still inbound.

  It could be true. But the extent of his injuries belied his story.

  What’s more, he persisted in his refusal to say more than that.

  I couldn’t stay much longer. The ward Sister would come to see why I was still with this patient, or an orderly would come by and tell me not to badger him.

  I tried one final time. “I can’t just write down that you fell into a trench. I can see for myself that you have two black eyes today, swollen lips, and what appears to be a broken nose. Not to overlook that leg. And your chart indicates there is additional bruising on your body as well. It speaks of fisticuffs, Corporal. Tell me again how you got those falling into a trench?”

  “You’ve never been in a trench, have you, Sister? You can’t tell me what happened when I was there.”

  But I had been in trenches, both German and British. When I told him as much, he stared at me, his gaze intensifying.

  “I’ve seen you before,” he said, his voice beginning to rise.

  “Of course you have. Who do you think sat with you the better part of the night? And now I’m on record duty.”

  He turned his face away and this time ignored me completely. The ward Sister was coming this way, and so I had no choice but to leave. Smiling at her as we passed in the aisle between beds, I said, “Number Eleven is sleeping. I expect he’s had a long night.”

  “Yes, I had a look at that leg when the bandages were changed. Poor man.”

  “Indeed,” I replied dryly, but she had already stepped in to speak to a patient with bandaged eyes. A gas case, I thought as he coughed as if his lungs were on fire.

  Outside the gate I found Sergeant Lassiter waiting in the rain.

  “Any luck?” he asked quietly.

  “None. He tells everyone he’d taken a flying leap into a trench. Not true, of course, but he refuses to say more.” As the sergeant helped me back on the motorcycle and draped the canvas over me once more, I added, “No one will believe him, not the way he looks.” I described what I’d seen. “But if he tells that story long enough, after a while, when he’s begun to heal, ­people will have forgot what he looked like when he came in.”

  “Best to find the Sergeant-­Major, then.”

  Despite the heavy rain, the state of the roads, and the traffic trying to get through them, we reached the hospital before I was to go on duty in one of the wards. And that was thanks to Sergeant Lassiter’s skill with a motorcycle. My heart was still in my throat as I dismounted—­and nearly fell on my face when my limbs refused to hold me up. A laughing Sergeant Lassiter held on to me until the circulation returned, and then I stamped about vigorously until all the feeling was back again. The constant jarring and the tenseness of holding on regardless of the machine’s gyrations had taken their toll.

  It would require a bath and a complete change of clothes to remove both the mud and the smell the ride had left in its wake.

  I thanked the sergeant for his help, and he in turn told me he’d see that word was passed to Simon.

  “Don’t worry that you couldn’t get what you needed from Britton, lass. Leave him to the Sergeant-­Major. He’ll know how to go about it.”

  Which made it sound as if Simon would use the rack or the iron maiden to make Britton talk.

  I smiled. “Let us hope.”

  But it was three days before Simon appeared at the influenza hospital. I found time to sit down with him in the canteen and tell him what had happened to Corporal Britton and that I’d spoken to him twice without any luck.

  “I’m glad. I’ve been chasing rumors over half of Flanders.”

  It was rather late, and the canteen was nearly empty. I was keeping an eye out for Matron all the same, even though I’d seen her go to her quarters some forty-­five minutes ago. Her face was drawn, and I suddenly worried that she might be coming down with influenza herself. She worked as hard as any of the staff, and sometimes even harder, I thought. And the number of deaths hadn’t begun to decline. It was heartbreaking to lose a patient to a disease before which we were so completely helpless. Like some ancient plague brought back from the h
ot sands of Mesopotamia or Egypt to devastate the modern world.

  “Have you news of home?” I asked as I finished my tea.

  “Not since I saw you last. You?”

  “No. We’ve heard so many rumors. Do you really believe this war will end soon?” I asked. “Everyone seems so hopeful. It would be sad indeed to disappoint them.”

  “I expect by Christmas,” he told me. “I’ve heard rumors that Germany is in a terrible state, lacking just about everything. Their troops still have the courage to fight on, but even they’re finding it hard to defeat the Americans as well the French and the British.”

  “I just want the killing and maiming to stop. I want to stop worrying about you and the Colonel Sahib and all my friends—­those who’re left. I want my mother to have a little time to herself, instead of traveling around England comforting widows and families of the dead. Or visiting hospitals to cheer up the wounded and the dying.”

  He put his hand over mine where it lay beside my cup. It was warm, strong, comforting.

  “You’ve done wonders yourself, Bess. Are there no scars to take home with you?”

  “A good many scars,” I admitted. “Sleep will never be quite the same for any of us. Peace will never be quite the same, with so many gone.”

  And then it was time for him to leave for Rouen.

  I walked back to my quarters and sat down on my cot, knowing that it would be a while before I could rest.

  Simon was back within forty-­eight hours. His face was grim, lined with fatigue, and there was anger there as well.

  “He’s been transferred to England,” he told me straightaway. “Britton. His doctor was concerned about that leg, where the surgery was done. About infection. And so he sent Britton back to England.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Not yet. But I’m leaving for Calais at once. The sooner I’m there in England and can find him, the better.”

  I held out two envelopes. It had occurred to me that he could carry my letter home for me, without the delays of censors and the erratic mail. “Will you see that this arrives in Somerset? And that this one reaches the Ashtons in Cranbourne? I told them about Britton, and even though he’s been moved from Rouen, it’s still information they need to know.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “Sergeant Lassiter swears he hadn’t touched Britton, and I believe him,” I reminded Simon.

  “I expect Britton is in something of a quandary. If he tells anyone that he was beaten by some of the men in the tanks corps, it will be tantamount to confessing to the murder of Sergeant Rollins. They won’t admit to beating him, or they’ll be up on charges. This will be a crime that goes unsolved.”

  “Yes, I thought of that when I tried to question him. Still, it was worth the journey to Rouen. Sometimes after anesthesia or strong sedatives, one’s guard is down.”

  “A pity it didn’t work. All right, I must be on my way. Take care, Bess.”

  I watched him out of sight, then went back to my duties.

  We lost three more men that night, and two the night afterward, all of them to pneumonia, one of the risks in influenza. But more were brought in each day to take their places.

  I had almost no sleep the third night, as several more patients reached their crisis, then in the morning, a messenger brought me a letter from Simon.

  It was brief.

  I’ve been delayed. Storms. Leaving tonight.

  I told myself it wouldn’t matter. Corporal Britton would be sedated for the journey back to England and then the first day or two after his arrival to be sure he rested and that the limb stayed quiet while the bone knit and the stitches healed. It would be examined several times a day to be certain there was no infection, neither the purpling nor the odor of gangrene. The staff wouldn’t let him be distressed by questions.

  It wouldn’t matter.

  But I had an uneasy feeling that it would.

  I’d been there during the surgery on his leg. I knew the risk of infection.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  WE HAD A large number of patients who had survived the influenza and were no longer contagious, but who were suffering from the weakness and malaise that often followed, leaving the body exhausted and unable to cope. It was decided—­I think because of the rumors of peace—­to transfer these patients to England to be cared for in a hospital in the country, where fresh air and exercise would restore them to health. And of course, duty.

  I had suffered that weakness myself, unable to lift my hand to feed myself, even to turn my head on the pillow. I knew how humiliating it was for grown men to be as helpless as small children, and sometimes they pushed themselves too hard and suffered a relapse.

  When the convoy was arranged, Matron asked if I should like to take it in charge.

  I was grateful for the opportunity. I hadn’t heard from Simon or from the Ashtons and I longed to see my parents. And so I walked the convalescent wards with Matron, assessing the condition of patients.

  Two days later, I was coming down the gangway to meet my counterpart, Sister Cameron, who was arranging transport to London.

  “Good evening, Sister Crawford,” she said, walking up to greet me as I was watching the preparations for unloading my charges. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

  We sent the stretcher cases to the London train first, haggard men with sunken, dark-­rimmed eyes, followed by seven men in invalid chairs pushed by orderlies. They gazed at the white cliffs rising beyond the harbor with amazement, as if unable to believe what they saw. One soldier hadn’t been home in three and a half years.

  “Died and gone to heaven,” he murmured, shaking his head.

  Heavy clouds hung over the castle ramparts, and a cold drizzle was falling. We hurried to get our charges under cover as quickly as possible.

  As I worked, I looked for Diana or Mary, hoping that they might be passing through. But no such luck. An orderly waiting for the next ship back to France promised to send a telegram for me, letting my parents know that I was on my way to London. There was no assurance it would arrive in a timely fashion, but I could hope.

  We reached London, and there was my father, chatting with the stationmaster. I finished arranging for the last patient to be sent onward, and as I signed the last papers, he came striding toward me.

  “You’re in London,” I said in surprise. “Is Mother here as well?”

  “She’s in Somerset, but she managed to reach me.” He looked tired. “I’ve just arrived from Paris,” he added, “but that’s for your ears only. I got in two hours ago, and her message was waiting for me at my club.”

  He took up my kit and we walked toward the exit to the station. “She’s well,” he went on. “And sends her love. How much time do you have?”

  “Not a lot, sadly.”

  “Simon is in a convalescent hospital outside Folkestone. Your man Britton was taken there as soon as he landed. As I understand it, his fever spiked, and there was some concern about sending him on to Hampshire.”

  “That’s worrying,” I told him. “Has he spoken?”

  “I don’t know that Simon has been allowed to see him. I expect you want to reach Folkestone as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, if you don’t mind.” I smiled ruefully. “I seem to be dashing away almost as soon as I arrive. Did you discover anything about this man, Corporal Britton?”

  “Unfortunately, very little that would help you or the Ashtons. I did learn that he was in France in late May of 1916. That’s when he was promoted to corporal. Half his company was killed in an attack that went wrong, and he got himself and the rest of the men back safely. With that information I sent one of my ­people to Devon to find his recruiting officer. Sergeant Hull told us that Britton had enlisted just after war had been declared and one step ahead of the police. He was wanted for questioning in a housebreaking case wh
ere the owner was badly hurt. But no one would name him, everyone was too afraid of him, even though the local man was certain who it was. In fact, Constable Lake was happy to let the Army take Britton off his hands just to get him out of his patch. Britton went through his training with high marks. The officer in charge called him a natural soldier. Then he was injured on the last day of exercises, and had to be pulled from the ranks. I expect that’s how he came to be assigned as someone’s batman. I also wonder if that injury might have been contrived by his mates. He was not particularly liked by the men he trained with. Since 1916, there have been a few blemishes on his record, mostly insubordination, but never severe enough to strip him of his rank or report him for discipline.”

  “A natural troublemaker.”

  “So it would appear.”

  “And someone who might have no qualms about killing,” I said. But it could also mean that Britton and Rollins might have a history we didn’t know existed. Still, that left Sister Morris to be accounted for.

  I was on the point of mentioning this to my father when I saw Simon’s motorcar waiting just outside the railway station.

  “He left it in London,” the Colonel explained. “And I’ve commandeered it. However, he needs it in Folkestone. Shall I act as your chauffeur as far as Rochester?”

  “What is in Rochester, that you’re traveling there?” I asked.

  “A staff motorcar that will return me to London.”

  I laughed. “You should have joined the Army. You’re very good at organizing transport.”

  He laughed in his turn, and we set out for Kent.

  His staff motorcar was waiting at the railway station in Rochester, and I said good-­bye to him there. I had enjoyed our journey. The qualities that had made the Colonel Sahib such a good officer had made him a good father as well, and I missed his reassuring presence beside me as I turned the motorcar toward Folkestone. It had been busy as a port through most of the war, relieving the pressure on Dover to handle all the traffic to and from France.