recognized.
'I'm so sorry to be the one to tell you-we lost Lieutenant Evanson six days ago.'
I started to speak, but she held up her hand.
'He'd been very depressed since the death of his wife. Despondent might be the better word. We did all we could. And then on Tuesday night, we found him in his bed, dead. Somehow he'd managed to purloin a scalpel, we don't know exactly where or how. And he'd cut his own throat. It was the only death he could manage with his bandaged hands. Even so, it couldn't have been easy. But he was determined, you see.'
I knew my face must be mirroring the expression on hers. Horror. Loss. Grief. And there was something more in her eyes, a sense of guilt, as if somehow she should have prevented his death. I sat there, stunned, and after a moment, she nodded, as if she understood what I was feeling.
I managed to say the proper things even as my mind struggled to accept what had happened. It was inevitable, given how much he loved his wife. What else was there to live for, without her, without a face or hands that resembled human features and fingers? And yet it was sad beyond words.
Why hadn't Inspector Herbert told me? But then he couldn't have known I was coming here. Still-
A brief silence fell. Then I asked the difficult question. 'Who told him that his wife was dead?'
'His sister came down. It had to be done, of course. We couldn't have kept it from him. He'd been asking for her, you see. But we thought-he seemed to take the news as well as could be expected. He just stared at the wall and said nothing. He was very quiet for the next week, although he asked on two occasions if the police had made any progress in their search for her killer. Afterward, we realized he was simply biding his time. We kept an eye on him, well aware of how much-how important she was to his recovery. As soon as he'd arrived at Laurel House, he'd asked one of the staff to write to his wife, to tell her that he was back in England and how much he looked forward to seeing her. When she didn't come, he wrote to his sister asking if Mrs. Evanson were ill. His sister had hoped to spare him the news until he was stronger, but that was not to be. Mrs. Melton had no choice but to tell her brother the truth.'
Even as he was dictating his first letter, it was too late. According to the police, Marjorie Evanson had left her house early to set out on the journey that would take her to the railway station and then to her death.
'He did inquire of the doctor if it would be possible for him to attend the funeral service. I needn't tell you it was out of the question. We asked our chaplain, Mr. Davies, to sit with him that day, and offer what comfort he could. I spoke to Mr. Davies that evening as he was leaving, and he felt that Lieutenant Evanson seemed reconciled to his loss. I wasn't convinced, however, and kept an eye on the lieutenant anyway.'
So much for Mr. Davies's powers of observation. Still, he was undoubtedly the village priest, and had very little experience in suicide watches. There was something else to be considered. Lieutenant Evanson was trained as a pilot, taught to bury everything that might distract him from the intense concentration required to handle his aircraft and face a very aggressive enemy. He could well have concealed his intentions by drawing on that same training.
Remembering, I said, 'What became of the photograph he carried with him?'
'The one of his wife? That was odd, you know. We had suggested that it be buried with him. It had meant so much to him. But his sister wouldn't hear of that. She left it on his bed when she came to collect his few belongings. That seemed so-so cruel to me, somehow.'
I interpreted his sister's decision to mean that she had learned about the pregnancy, even if she hadn't told her brother or anyone else here at Laurel House.
Matron opened her desk drawer and took out an envelope. She passed it to me. 'I kept it. I really couldn't bring myself to throw it away.'
I took the envelope, but didn't open it. I could feel the edges of the thin silver frame through the brown paper. 'I understand. I'd have felt the same. I nursed him for days. This was his anchor. Perhaps someone in Mrs. Evanson's family might care to have it later. What a pity.'
'Yes, in spite of his burns, he was doing quite well. And he was a lovely man. You must have seen that too. Never complaining, never thinking of himself. No trouble…'
She took a deep breath, a middle-aged woman who had seen so much suffering, and yet still felt the tragedy of this one man's death. Her hair was turning gray, and there were dark circles under her brown eyes. I thought she had lost weight since I'd seen her last.
'Well. You have made this journey for nothing. But I can tell you that the other patients you brought us have done better than expected. Still, when the winter rains begin-' She shook her head. I knew what she was dreading, the stress of days of dampness on damaged lungs.
'Thank you so much for seeing me, Matron. It must have been difficult.'
'Yes, well. Sometimes talking about things helps. And you knew Lieutenant Evanson too.'
She rose to walk with me to the door. 'You are looking tired,' she commented. 'How long have you been in France?'
'Since late January. Before that I was on Britannic when she went down.'
'Ah, yes, I recall. And you're going back to France now?'
'I'm told to report to a small hospital just outside St. Jacques.' Which sounded more grand than it was. St. Jacques had all but ceased to exist, muddy ruins in the midst of fields that no longer grew anything, even weeds. 'A forward dressing station,' I added. 'Though it calls itself a hospital.'
She nodded. 'Two of my nursing sisters have spent some time in France. They are very good at improvising.'
We had reached the main door. I smiled. 'We often have no choice.'
'This is your driver?' she asked, looking out at the motorcar by the door. 'I wish you a safe journey, my dear. If you-should you find that Mrs. Evanson's family would like to have that photograph, do let me know. It will set my mind at ease. I believe the obituary listed Little Sefton as their address. Sadly, that's not all that far from here, but it might as well be on the moon. They never came to visit, you see.'
And then I was on my way to the train, my leave nearly up, and France waiting for me across the Channel.
At the railing of the ship, staring out at the water as we passed out of The Solent and into the Channel, I found myself thinking that whoever had murdered Mrs. Evanson had killed her husband as well, just as surely as if he'd held that scalpel to the lieutenant's throat. Two victims-three if one counted the unborn child.
I found it hard to put Marjorie Evanson out of my mind. Perhaps because I'd first seen her through her husband's eyes as he held on to life amid great pain so that he could come home to her. Not to her as a murder victim or disgraced wife but as his anchor.
I had kept the photograph with me. Of course there was no time to find the direction of Mrs. Evanson's family and post it to them, but remembering her sister-in-law's emotional response as well as Matron's comment that they had never visited, I felt I ought to ask their wishes before sending it to them.
And in the weeks ahead I often caught myself looking for a face I was certain I would recognize, every time I saw an officer wearing the uniform of the Wiltshire regiment.
It had become a habit.
CHAPTER THREE
I was hardly back in France-a matter of a fortnight-before we were given leave. It was unexpected, but the little dressing station in St. Jacques was too exposed and was being moved to another village. A fresh contingent of nursing sisters was assigned to take over there.
First, however, we were to escort a hundred wounded back to England. It was never easy, and on this occasion, even though our convoy moved at night, we were strafed by a German aircraft, racing down our lines with guns blazing and then swinging around behind the lines to find other targets of opportunity. Ambulances were clearly marked, so there was no excuse for the attack. The wonder was, only three people were wounded and no one died. I couldn't help but think the pilot had intended to frighten us rather than kill us. If that were true, he'd succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.
The weather had changed by the time we reached the coast, and on our crossing there was a storm that
