A Duty to the Dead

Charles Todd A Duty to the Dead

The first book in the Bess Crawford Mystery series, 2009

This book is for-

Pauline and Brian Gadd, two terrific people, who shared their England with the authors, including a wonderful day at the Imperial War Museum and hot chocolate, pork pies, the fox in the back garden, and making us feel we were family…

Moses and Monty, the most enormous, warmhearted kitties, who purred when we needed a cat fix and ours three thousand miles away…

Fran Bush, bookseller extraordinaire, who isn’t afraid of anything, including driving on the left and having adventures in Romney Marsh, Battle, and the wilds of Sevenoaks…

Don Bush, who did without Fran so that she could go with Caroline, an act of love if ever there was one…

The wonderful landscape of Kent, which has been the inspiration for more than one Todd novel…

And not least, Robin Hathaway, author of the Dr. Fenimore and Dr. Jo Banks mysteries, who offered us Gum Tree and other adventures, when we needed a sanctuary to finish Duty…

With much, much love always.

CHAPTER ONE

Tuesday, 21 November, 1916. 8:00 A.M.

At sea…

This morning the sun is lovely and warm. All the portholes below are open, to allow what breeze there is to blow through the lower decks and air them. With no wounded onboard to keep us occupied, we are weary of one another’s company. Beds are made up, kits readied, duties done. Since Gibraltar I’ve written to everyone I know, read all the books I could borrow, and even sketched the seabirds. Uneventful is the password of the day.

I lifted my pen from the paper and stared out across the blue water. I’d posted letters during our coaling stopover in Naples, and there wasn’t much I could add about the journey since then. I’d already mentioned the fact that Greece was somewhere over the horizon and likely to stay there. Someone had sighted dolphins off the bow just after first light, and I’d mentioned that too. What else? Oh, yes.

We discovered a bird’s nest in one of the lifeboats, no idea how long it had been there or if the hatching was successful. Or what variety of bird it might have been. Margaret, one of the nursing sisters, claimed it must surely be the Ancient Mariner’s albatross, and we spent the next half hour trying to think what we should name our unknown guest. Choices ranged from Coleridge to the Kaiser, but my personal favorite was Alice in Wonderland.

I always tried to keep my letters cheerful, even when the wards were filled with wounded, and we were working late into the night, fighting to save the worst cases. My worries weren’t to be shared. At home and in the trenches, letters were a brief and welcome respite from war. It was better that way. And now we were in the Kea Channel, just off the Greek coast at Cape Sounion, and steaming toward our final destination at Lemnos. It was the collection point for wounded from Greek Macedonia, Palestine, and Mesopotamia. There, post could be sent on through the Army.

I’d grown rather superstitious about writing to friends as often as I could. I’d learned too well just how precious time was, and how easily someone slipped away, dying days or weeks before I heard the news. My only consolation was that a letter might have reached them and made them smile a little while they were still living, or comforted them in their last hours. God knew, the Battle of the Somme over the summer had been such a bloodbath no one could say with any certainty how many men we’d lost. I could put a face to far too many names on those casualty lists.

A gull flew up to land on the railing close by me, an eye fixed on me. Most were nearly tame, begging for handouts. In the distance, over the bird’s shoulder, was a smudge that must be Kea. The sea here was a sparkling blue and calm, Britannic’s frothy wake the only disturbance as far as the eye could see in any direction. Sailing between the island and the mainland was a shortcut that saved miles and miles of travel.

Or as Captain Bartlett had told me on my first voyage out, “Keep Cape Sounion on your left and Kea on your right, and you can’t go wrong.” And so I looked for it every voyage thereafter, like a marker in the sea.

One of Britannic’s officers paused by my deck chair, and the gull took flight with an annoyed squawk. “I see you’re already enjoying the morning air, Miss Crawford. The last time we passed through here, it was pouring rain. You could hardly see your hand before your face. Remember?”

Browning was sun browned, broad shouldered, and handsome in his uniform. We’d formed a friendship of sorts during the voyages out, flirting a little to pass the time. Neither of us took it seriously.

“Much pleasanter than France this time of year,” I replied, smiling up at him. “No mud.”

He laughed. “And no one firing at you. We should be safe as houses soon.”

“That’s good to hear.” But I knew he was lying. It was a game all of us played, pretending that German U-boats weren’t a constant threat. Even hospital ships like Britannic were not safe from them, despite our white paint and great red crosses. They were said to believe that we hid fresh troops among the wounded or stowed munitions in the hold amongst the medical supplies. There was no truth to their suspicions, of course. And this channel was well traveled, always a temptation. For that matter, mines paid no heed to the nationality or purpose of the hull above them, when a vessel sailed too near. You couldn’t dwell on it, or you’d live in fear.

He moved on, overseeing the change of the watch, and I capped my pen.

There was something about his laugh that reminded me of Arthur Graham. When it caught me unawares, as it had done just now, the gates of memory opened and Arthur’s face would come back to me.

During training, we’d been warned about letting ourselves care too much for our patients. “They are yours to comfort, yours to heal, but not yours to dream about,” Matron had told us firmly. “Only foolish girls let themselves be drawn into romantic imaginings. See that you are not one of them.”

Good advice. But Matron hadn’t foreseen Arthur Graham. He’d been popular with the other wounded, the medical orderlies, and the nursing staff. It was impossible not to like him, and liking him, it was impossible not to feel something for him as he fought a gallant but losing battle with death. I wasn’t foolish enough to believe it was love, but I was honest enough to admit I cared more than I should. I’d watched so many wounded die. Perhaps that was why I desperately wanted to see this one man snatch a victory out of defeat and restore my faith in the goodness of God. But it wasn’t to be.

And truth be told, I had more than one reason for remembering Arthur Graham and his laugh. There was a promise I’d made. Freely.

If you gave your word so freely, my conscience argued, then why have you never kept your promise?

“There’s been no opportunity!” I said the words aloud, then in embarrassment turned to see if anyone had overheard me.

Liar. You never made the time.

It isn’t true-

You traveled through Kent on your last leave. You could have kept it then.