Weapons of Peace

by Johnston, Peter D. ;

  The tall forty-five-year-old brunette had always pursued love and life with abandon, taking risks whenever warranted. Two decades earlier, for instance, she invested a sizable portion of her inheritance in buying a broken-down castle and employing some of Europe’s leading designers to restore it. One of the many other risks she took, this one daily, was in her left hand as she spoke with Emma and Pauline in the Gloriette’s bright second-floor living room, its walls covered with watercolors of exotic birds. Despite bouts of uneven breathing, Lady Baillie loved smoking—inhaling through her cherished walnut cigarette holder with more joy and vigor than an avid hiker might experience gathering fresh mountain air into their lungs.

  “I do look forward to meeting Mr. Nash. I’m sure we’ll have a number of acquaintances in common,” Lady Baillie said, exhaling pale-white smoke through her immaculate red lipstick. “What time shall I come down?”

  Emma suppressed a cough. The smoke had left her feeling wheezy. After losing two beloved aunts to lung cancer, in nursing school she’d discovered extensive German findings—the earliest by Isaac Adler in 1912—that linked smoking and cancer. She’d been skeptical but had known enough smokers, including her father, to realize that, at the very least, breathing becomes harder the more cigarettes one consumed.

  “It’s five now,” Emma said. “Why don’t we say seven o’clock, since Nurse Fraser will be overseeing the cleanup from dinner.”

  “Fine, seven it is,” the heiress said. “As you know, Nurse Fraser reports to Dr. Meyers—not to me. I simply own where she works, which gives me influence, not authority.” There was a gleam in her eye. “But I think it will work out all right.”

  Emma nodded. She rarely saw Dr. Meyers, and Nurse Fraser spent most of her time at the new castle, leaving Emma as the senior staff member at the Gloriette. Despite this status, Emma knew that, as far as her abrasive supervisor was concerned, she was just one mistake away from being demoted or released.

  “I know it may be stating the obvious,” Emma said, “but Mr. Nash asked me to emphasize, for the sake of everyone here at the castle, that no one else should be informed of his true identity.” She smiled, looking in turn at each of her new allies. “Thank you, Lady Baillie, and thank you, Pauline.” Emma gathered the Nash media clippings and rose to leave, her lungs urging her to run toward the door. Lady Baillie waved her back into her chair, leaned over, and took Emma’s hand in hers, glancing sideways at her daughter.

  “Emma, you did well to approach Pauline and meet with me. I’m sure this hasn’t been easy. I was a nurse at the end of the first war, and I know how hard it can be as a woman in your role. Courageous people like you and Mr. Nash are one of the reasons I donated my home to our wartime cause.”

  Emma blushed. “That’s kind of you to say, my lady.”

  “As you said yourself, I believe I am indeed one of the staunchest individual supporters of this nation’s war efforts. If our American patient’s role in history is to be as significant as we might imagine, then I’ll stop at nothing to see him through it.”

  She wished Emma good luck and gave her leave.

  Lady Olive Baillie had heard the whispers. She knew that she was seen by her few critics as someone who couldn’t stay married and had squandered her great wealth on her historic home and her wild parties, without any greater cause in mind. Of course, she had donated her castle to the Allies for the war, but she assumed that this, too, was discounted by her detractors, since she owned many homes and they likely thought she would be compensated by the government in some way.

  While these whispered comments were hurtful on occasion, anyone who didn’t approve of her would come and go, she believed. What Olive Baillie cared about most was her legacy. Her castle was simply the building block for what she hoped, with time, would prove to be increasingly vital contributions to her nation’s security.

  She had hosted Britain’s royal family in her home, prime ministers, foreign leaders, and dozens of well-known personalities, including Charlie Chaplin, Jimmy Stewart, and Ian Fleming. But this Mr. Nash might be her most important guest yet.

  —

  Emma feared the worst.

  She rushed to the Gloriette, having been summoned by Nurse Fraser just before 10:00 p.m.

  Fraser stood waiting in the dim main foyer just inside the old castle. The banquet hall in the background was dark, its lights extinguished each night at 9:00 p.m.

  “Ma’am,” Emma said. “Is something wrong?”

  “I hope not,” Fraser said in a tone unfamiliar to Emma—it was friendly. “I need a favor from you, Nurse Doyle. Dr. Lowe phoned about his schedule this month. He mentioned that two inspectors went through his hospital in Maidstone on Friday. He said they might be here tomorrow to see us.”

  Emma breathed a sigh of relief. “And how can I help?” she asked.

  “I know it’s your day off tomorrow, but I’ll be in surgery until midmorning with Dr. Meyers. In my absence, if by chance they should arrive, you can handle any administrative inquiries and perhaps do a walk-through of our facilities,” she said, half asking, half telling.

  “Of course.”

  “There is something else I need to speak with you about,” the rotund head nurse continued—too nicely for Emma’s liking.

  “Yes?”

  “Lady Baillie paid us a visit. She came across Mr. Hargrove, and wouldn’t you know it, the two are old friends. They must have spoken for forty-five minutes! Then she came to see me and asked, ever so politely, if her friend could be moved to a private room. She did indicate that security was a consideration, and as such requested that we not mention him to anyone and that we assume he is a guest of hers—instead of a patient!”

  “Well, isn’t that something,” Emma said, hoping her contrived surprise was believable.

  “And, my dear, can you guess which majestic room in the Gloriette she wants Mr. Hargrove moved to?”

  “I can’t fathom,” Emma responded, certain that she had never before been called “my dear” by Nurse Fraser.

  “Go on, take one guess, please,” Nurse Fraser said, a crooked smile exposing her rotten lower teeth, the price of drinking heavily sugared tea from birth.

  “All right, I’d have to guess the queen’s bedroom.”

  Nurse Fraser moved in closer, her fetid breath forcing Emma to turn away and use her ear as a shield against the smell. “Not the queen’s bedroom—the queen’s bathroom!” she said with a cackle.

  “Crikey! And what did you say to that, Nurse Fraser?” Emma said with feigned shock.

  “Well, I told Lady Baillie that if this suited her needs and Mr. Hargrove’s I would say yes. After all, our lady does own the castle, and she was good enough to ask me. But of course I couldn’t approve her request.”

  Emma stilled. “And why was that?”

  “Because I had to speak with you first.” Startled, Emma said nothing. “This is your patient. How could I approve a transfer without consulting you?” Fraser continued. “You’re the one who knows best whether Mr. Hargrove is stable enough to be moved and isolated without full access to our standard care.”

  Emma recovered. “Thank you. I do appreciate your consulting me,” she said, pausing for effect. “I suppose that would work for me. Obviously, I will need to check on Mr. Hargrove regularly. Perhaps we can also design a means by which he can call us in case of an emergency.”

  “An excellent idea, Nurse Doyle! I will inform Lady Baillie of your suggestion and our decision first thing tomorrow. I will schedule the transfer for noon, after I’ve had the cleaners completely disinfect the queen’s bathroom. If Mr. Hargrove is going to be relegated to a lavatory, it’s going to be a clean one! Given the fragile state of his recovery, as well the fact that we’ve had to reduce his penicillin due to recent shortages, he’d be at a high risk of infection otherwise.”

  Emma couldn’t disagree. “Is there anyt
hing else?”

  “Not that I can think of,” Nurse Fraser said, walking back toward the banquet hall, where Nash would be fast asleep by now. “Good night, then, Nurse Doyle.”

  “Good night, Nurse Fraser.”

  Emma turned to leave, stunned at the reversal in her superior’s dictatorial style. Lady Baillie’s gentle, consultative manner had paid magical dividends.

  “Oh, Nurse Doyle, I’m sorry. There is indeed one final matter I forgot to mention.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Emma said, turning, bracing herself for the return of her dictator.

  “Dr. Lowe mentioned that the inspectors at Maidstone Hospital were asking him about a certain patient, a friend they’re trying to track down in this area—nothing to do with their inspection. I said I’d ask around here. Anything we can do to curry favor with these inspectors can only help our cause. The name Dr. Lowe mentioned didn’t mean anything to me, but I’m terrible with names. I wrote it down. Just wait one moment.” She flipped through a notebook she’d pulled from a pocket of her dress. “Oh, here it is—Everett Nash.”

  Chapter 7

  Monday, September 4, 1944

  7:45 a.m.

  “Nurse Doyle!” Several thumps followed.

  Emma shot up in bed, tossed off her covers, and raced toward the door. Before lifting the latch, she glanced at her watch. Only 7:45, on a day that she wasn’t formally scheduled to work. She’d set her alarm clock for eight, hoping for sleep, anticipating that it might be another long day. She swung open her door. One of the castle’s guards stood in the hallway.

  “Nurse Doyle, two inspectors ’ave arrived at the gatehouse, and Nurse Fraser says yuh is to greet ’em,” he said.

  “Really, Mr. Harris? They’re here already? We don’t normally have visitors for another hour,” Emma said, trying to straighten her uncombed hair.

  “Guess they is early risers. Anyway, what will I do wiv ’em?” the tall, burly young man asked. Her mind swirled with excuses that might buy her time. She realized that delaying the inspectors would cause suspicion.

  “Tell them I will be there in fifteen minutes,” she said with a sigh. “And, Mr. Harris, can you please do something else for me?” She knew that he would—she suspected the guard fancied her.

  “Yes, ma’am,” John Harris said, averting his eyes from the nurse in her nightgown.

  “Could you take a message immediately to Nurse Seymour at the Gloriette?”

  “Me partner will be ’ere at eight-thirty and soon as ’e arrives I can take yuh message to Nurse Seymour,” Harris said eagerly. “Or I could call Nurse Seymour from the guardhouse if they is wiv ya in one room and I ’ave a little time to meself.”

  Emma stopped, a white stocking halfway up her leg. She decided that it would be more efficient if she called Seymour herself as soon as she was able. “Let’s do things differently, then, Mr. Harris. When your partner arrives at eight-thirty, please come and see me in the records room. You’ll escort the men to the new castle, moving as slowly as possible along the way so that I can catch up with you for the start of the tour. Wait for me in front of the new castle, all right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Harris said, nodding as he turned to go.

  “Mr. Harris,” she added, “just don’t let these men think anything is afoot.”

  —

  Harris, red-faced, rushed out to see Emma as she climbed the gatehouse stairs.

  “Ma’am, I told ’em to stay put when I went to fetch yuh. But they didn’t listen. Took the key from me desk and went straight to the records room. They is in there now, and ’ave been for some time by the looks of things.”

  Emma didn’t know what she was going to say or do, but she did know that she had to keep the inspectors occupied until eight-thirty. She walked briskly into the stuffy, stone-walled room where all the medical records were kept, including the precise time that a patient was admitted at the gatehouse, right through to the time he was released. She saw two men dressed in white lab coats, clipboards by their sides, one sandy-haired and good-looking, the other a short, hideous version of Winston Churchill. The inspectors had pulled several record books out and were riffling through them.

  “Gentlemen! Really, I’m so sorry my tardiness has forced you to try and work your way through our arcane filing system on your own!” She extended her hand to Moore, then introduced herself to Suggs, noting that he wasn’t just missing most of his hair but that he barely had eyebrows or eyelashes. “Now, let me tell you all about the history of this gatehouse.”

  Emma began talking non-stop, killing as much time as possible. She went on to detail how the medical files had originally been kept under the new castle near the operating theater but, as the war had gone on, more space had been needed for both the files and the surgeries.

  “Where do you store your most recent records?” Moore asked, interrupting her long monologue.

  “How recent?” Emma responded.

  “Let’s take last month as an example, beginning on August 1st.”

  Emma pointed to the shelves closest to the door, where they could find the monthly logbook for August. “Brief notes, at most two pages due to the scarcity of paper, are kept for each patient in a logbook dedicated to the month in which they were admitted.”

  She stole a look at her watch: 8:20. Ten more minutes and Harris could lead these men away, freeing her to warn Seymour directly and have her hide Nash. She was now certain they were after him. She just didn’t know if they were legitimate inspectors unknowingly acting for corrupt officials or ill-intentioned phonies sent here by their superiors. One way or another, they couldn’t simply disappear into the dungeon or someone would come looking for them.

  “Please retrieve August,” Moore instructed, sneezing as dust from the room’s dozens of shelves, all filled with logbooks, gathered in his nostrils.

  “Certainly,” Emma said. She went to the shelf and pulled out the thin leather-bound book he’d requested. She handed it to Moore, who flipped through a number of pages before stopping abruptly. Emma watched, hiding her nerves, ready to yell for John Harris, in the adjoining room, if she needed the guard’s help.

  “This entry for August 22nd at 3:00 a.m. It says you were the admitting nurse.”

  She walked to his side, looking at the meticulously inked entry. “Absolutely,” she said. “I remember it well.”

  “How so?” asked Moore, scanning the injury report.

  “Because we don’t get many patients in the early-morning hours, sir, nor do we see many victims with such severe and unexplained injuries. He’d been found on the beach at Folkestone during the bombing there. As you can see in the notes, he lost a kidney and most of his blood from gunshot wounds. It’s rare for anyone to survive that kind of trauma, given the conditions we work under.”

  “But he did survive?” Moore asked. She noted the rise in his voice.

  “Yes, he did, and if you don’t mind my asking, is there a reason you’re so interested in this particular patient?”

  “We’re interested in how well you keep your files, Nurse Doyle, not in any single patient,” Moore said. “But it so happens that this patient is an old mate of ours, and so as a test we wanted to see if he was here, how quickly you could locate his file, and how accurate the information would be. Once we see our longtime friend in person, we’ll be able to fully confirm the accuracy of your records. So, if you wouldn’t mind, we’d very much like to see him—before completing our tour.”

  Emma looked down at her feet, then up. “I’m so sorry. That won’t be possible.”

  “Not acceptable. We have the right to see every patient here,” Moore countered.

  “Sir, I don’t know how to tell you this.” She hesitated. “Your friend, Mr. Hargrove, survived his surgery and fought valiantly, but there was only so much we could do.”

  She motioned for him to turn to the next pag
e in the logbook. Moore turned the page, scanning down to its final entry, dated August 30th at 3:35 p.m.:

  The patient died of a massive heart attack triggered by his extensive injuries, including an infection in his remaining kidney.

  Moore and Suggs looked at each other. “How would you describe the appearance of this patient?” Moore asked.

  “Six feet tall, black hair, green eyes,” Emma offered. “Good-looking British chap, I would guess, before being shot. One of the bullets almost took his face off, so I can’t tell you too much more. I looked after him until his death. It was ghastly, really. His final week on earth was the kind of pain you’d only expect to find in hell.”

  Suggs couldn’t hold back his smirk. Moore shot him a disapproving look. “Sometimes God works in mysterious ways,” Moore said to Emma. He paused. “Nurse Doyle, everything points to this man Hargrove being our mate, except his real name wasn’t Hargrove. His name was Everett Nash. For some reason, Everett decided not to use his real name here. Nor was he British; he was a Yank.”

  “How odd,” said Emma. “I can’t imagine that—”

  “Any idea why he’d lie about who he was?” Moore interrupted, eyeing her closely.

  “No, and, honestly, I find all of this impossible to believe,” Emma said. “This patient certainly spoke like a Brit. Said he was from Oxford. He had no identification on him, and, as you can see in our logbook, he told us his name was Brian J. Hargrove. Frankly, we didn’t have much time, or reason, to doubt him.”

  “No, you wouldn’t, of course,” Moore said.

  The strict professional standards passed down to Moore by his father dictated that he be damn certain of every death, whether it meant shooting someone repeatedly or digging up a dead body. This case was lining up nicely—a quick visit to Nash’s burial site would more than suffice. He turned toward Emma, slowly, pretending to be holding back his emotions.

  “Such a shame Everett had to die. I suppose you wouldn’t mind directing us to his final resting place, would you?”