'No,' he said quietly. 'It was not.'
And this time I believed him.
We arrived in Little Sefton late in the afternoon. I took Michael directly to the house of his aunt and uncle.
As I helped him get out of the motorcar, stiff from the drive down, he said, 'Thank you, Bess Crawford. For taking me to London.'
'I'm sorry it wasn't more helpful.'
'It made me feel less useless. As if I'd at least tried to find the truth.' He nodded to me, picked up his valise in his good hand, and walked up to the door. There he turned, and with that smile that seemed to light up the world, he said, 'Give my regards to Sergeant-Major Brandon.'
I laughed in spite of myself.
I went on up the street to Alicia's house and knocked at the door. She was surprised to see me but greeted me with friendly warmth. 'I didn't expect to find you on my doorstep. But do come in. I'll put on the kettle and make sandwiches.'
I thanked her and joined her in the kitchen as she worked. It was her cook's day off, and she was rummaging in the pantry for cold chicken and a pudding as she said, 'This is my dinner, but I dine alone far too often. It will be nice to have someone to share my meal.'
We ate it in the kitchen, and talked about everything but the war.
'I'm tired of knitting and growing vegetables to save room in the holds of ships for war materiel,' she said as we ate our pudding. 'I'm restless, I want to do something useful, really useful. But Gareth won't hear of turning the house into a hospital or my going to London and finding work. I type, you know.'
'Do you? You'll be in demand.'
'I think what he really wants is to know that nothing has changed at home. Not the village, not the house, not me. That it's all there to come back to.'
'A good many soldiers feel that way. It's what sees them through.'
'He sent me photographs in the last letter but one. Would you like to see them? His father gave him a camera for his birthday and he's been using it to capture memories, he said.'
'I'd love to see them.' I had a long drive ahead of me, but she had been good enough to invite me to dine, and I owed her a few minutes of my time.
She went off to find the letter, and I finished my pudding, looking out at the kitchen garden and the outbuildings and the quiet peace of late afternoon.
Alicia came back with the envelope, and took out a sheaf of photographs. 'He found someone who could develop these for him. They cover a year or more. I was so pleased to have them, because now I know what his world is like.'
But the photographs were not his world as it truly was. It was a tidy look at war that made me want to cry. Had Gareth chosen to spare his wife, or was he afraid that the censors would object to the truth and confiscate these photographs?
There were tents pitched in neat rows, well behind the lines, like an encampment for troops on parade. Artillery that was silent, the gunners standing grinning in front of a jumble of empty casings. A group of French children, smiling for the camera, their faces unmarked by fear and despair. I turned it over to see the name of the village where this was taken, and it was well south of the lines too. There were several photographs of his fellow officers posing absurdly, as if they hadn't a care in the world. But I could see the tension around their eyes, belying their antics. There was even one photograph of Meriwether Evanson's aircraft, with Meriwether standing proudly with a hand on the prop, his face only partly shadowed by his cap. Alicia pointed him out to me.
'I should have sent that to Marjorie, but I couldn't part with any of these for a while…' She let the words trail off as she handed me a few more photographs from another envelope.
Here were another group of officers standing together at a crossroads, a line of soldiers and caissons and well-laden lorries passing behind them.
I recognized the uniforms-the Wiltshire Fusiliers. And third from the left was a face I knew.
Staring at it, I said, 'Do you have a glass? I'd like to see this one a little more clearly.'
'I think there's one in Gareth's desk.'
She went away and I tried to contain my excitement while I waited.
Alicia came back with a small magnifying glass that she said was a part of Gareth's stamp collection, and I took it from her, holding it above the photograph.
I'd been right. The third officer from the left was the man I'd seen with Marjorie Evanson at the railway station.
I turned the photograph over. The caption just read: Friends meeting by chance.
'Do you know who these friends are?' I asked her.
'Just the two on Gareth's right. I don't know that one.'
'Could I possibly borrow this, if I promise to return it safely?' I asked. 'Just for a few days.'
She was reluctant to part with it, but in the end allowed me to take it with me.
I thanked her for my meal and set out for Somerset.
The light was with me most of the way, the long light of an English summer evening, a warm breeze blowing through the motorcar, the world looking as if it had never been at war. And then I caught up with a field ambulance carrying wounded to a nearby house that had been turned into a clinic, taking the rutted drive in first gear.
My first thought on leaving Alicia's house had been to find Michael and ask him if he recognized the man standing at the crossroads with Gareth. But I wasn't sure that was wise.
And so I went to the one person I knew would find the answer for me without asking questions.
Simon.
It was beginning to rain hard as I drove up the drive and put my motorcar in the shed where it lived while I was in France.
I pulled the shed doors closed and made a dash for the side door of the house.
My mother, startled by the apparition meeting her in the passage, said, 'Oh. I didn't hear you coming.'
'I'm not surprised. It's pouring down out there. Mother, did Simon come to dine tonight? Is he still here?'
'I expect he is. Where's your handsome young artillery officer?'
'Back where he came from.'
'You decided not to keep him?'
I laughed. 'His heart belongs to someone else,' I said lightly and went up to change out of my wet clothes.
At the sound of voices, Simon came out of my father's study. He greeted me with raised eyebrows. 'Have you abandoned young Hart to the tender mercies of The Four Doves again?'
'Alas, I was afraid he might be taken up for murder,' I responded.
Simon laughed, but it was wry amusement.
In fact, I was telling the simple truth.
'But that reminds me,' I went on, taking the photograph from my pocket. 'I'd like very much to know the identity of the man third from the left. It's important.'
Simon still had contacts with men he'd known while serving, both in my father's regiment and in others that had crossed his path. It was very likely someone would recognize that face.
He looked at the photograph, read what was written on the reverse, noted the uniform, then regarded me with interest. 'Where on earth did you find this?'
'It was quite by accident,' I told him. 'A matter of pure luck.'
'Let me see what I can do.' He pocketed the photograph and turned to speak to my mother as she came into the room.
I'd always thought she was the only person on earth Simon Brandon would obey without question-next, of course, to the Colonel Sahib. He would have walked through fire for her sake. There were those who whispered that he was in love with the Colonel's lady, but his devotion had very different roots.
My father eyed me with interest as I came into his study. 'What, no lost sheep? No crusades to lead? You've
