he has to say.'
Dr. Hall regarded me with interest. 'He's more than a friend?'
'No, sir. Just-a friend. But I feel rather responsible for his situation. I was a witness in the case, though not called on to give evidence in court. I was in the right place at the wrong time. And what I saw proved to be important. An attempt on my part to help the police uncover the identity of one man in the case led them to another man, but it seems to me that there were problems with evidence. And circumstance conspired to put the worst possible interpretation on that evidence. Given my friend's wounds in two instances, I can't see how he could have committed the crimes he was charged with. But the police surgeon must have seen the matter differently. And so my friend will hang.'
'Interesting,' Dr. Hall said. 'What sort of wounds?'
I told him about the particle in Lieutenant Hart's eye, and then about the damaged shoulder.
Dr. Hall looked at his watch. 'I don't have time to pursue this now. But if you'll meet me when I come off duty, I'd like to hear more.'
I thanked him, thinking he was trying to be polite and would have lost interest by morning.
But I was wrong. I was sitting in the canteen finishing my tea when Dr. Hall came looking for me.
He took the chair across from me, and said, 'I'm so tired I could sleep on my feet. But talk to me, and if I can stay awake, I'll give you my opinion. It won't make any difference to the Crown, or to the case in hand. Still, I might be able to set your mind at ease on the medical issues.'
I tried to marshal my thoughts, and then told him as concisely as I knew how the way the murders had occurred and what Michael's physical condition was at this time, after his shoulder had healed. At least to the best of my knowledge, which was superficial at the very least.
Dr. Hall stirred his coffee-he had picked up the French habit of drinking coffee, as so many others had done during this war-and considered the medical implications.
'He could have done these things, in spite of his injuries-that is to say, if he didn't care about the physical damage and was prepared to take the risk.'
I wondered if his barrister had ordered a physician to examine Michael's eye. He hadn't complained-but then he wouldn't have, would he? If he'd disobeyed the doctor's instructions?
He must have read my face.
'My dear, you must understand that people who kill are not marked by the brand of Cain. They appear no different from you or me. It's hard to believe sometimes that someone we know well-or think we know well-could do horrible things. But they can.'
He was right, of course he was.
I smiled, trying to make it appear bright and accepting.
'Thank you. I needed impartiality.'
He cocked his head to one side. 'The position as transport nurse is still yours. Sometimes it's better to learn the truth firsthand.'
He was a small man, graying early, lines forming around his eyes that would not go away even when he slept for a week. But his hands were gentle in the operating theater, and they worked miracles with torn flesh and sinew and bone.
I sighed. 'You're very kind.'
'No,' he said, finishing his coffee and getting to his feet. 'I'm just very tired.'
We brought the wounded to England and I discovered I'd been given ten days' leave.
I went home and surprised my parents. As I stood in the doorway, they stared at me as if I were a ghost, then they rushed to greet me, talking at the same time, laughing with excitement, sweeping me into the family circle with such warmth it was as if I'd never been away.
I said nothing about Michael Hart. Not then, nor at dinner. But after my parents had gone to bed, I pulled on a sweater against the night's chill and walked the mile to the cottage where Simon Brandon lived.
He hadn't come to dinner. He hadn't come to welcome me home. My parents hadn't mentioned that he was away. So where was he?
I could hear a night bird calling as I went up the lane and came to the path to the cottage door.
The house was in darkness except for a single lamp in the front room.
I stood for a moment on the step, then lifted my hand to the knocker. It was shaped like an elephant's head. Simon had had it made in Agra at a little shop where a man sat cross-legged and spent his days carving useful objects. A rectangular length of brass had been fitted to the back of the head, and the plate was also brass. It had a musical ring as I let it fall.
I didn't think he was going to come to the door. But after what seemed like a very long time, the door opened, and Simon stood there in shirt and dark trousers.
'I was waiting,' he said, and stepped aside to allow me to enter.
I had always liked the cottage. It was strictly a man's home, of course, filled with a lifetime's treasures and memories, but as tidy as a sergeant-major's quarters in camp.
I moved into the parlor as Simon closed the door behind me and I took the chair that had always been mine, by the window overlooking the garden.
'The news isn't good,' he said, coming in to join me, but not sitting down. 'He's stubborn, your Michael Hart. He asked that his sentence be expedited. Mrs. Calder isn't doing well. Preparing herself for the trial has taxed her strength. And of course there was no trial. As such.'
'He's not my Michael Hart.'
Simon nodded, then said, 'The execution is set for a fortnight tomorrow.'
I couldn't stop myself from reacting. I had thought, before Christmas. Months away.
More than enough time, surely. But there was almost none.
'You didn't write,' I accused him.
'No. He refuses to see you. He asked me to wait to tell you until it was-over.'
'He did it for her, you know. To prevent what she'd done being opened up for the public to gawk at and whisper about.'
'I think he did it for himself as well. That arm will probably be useless for the rest of his life. He can't live with that. So why not die for a good reason?'
'It's stupid! There was a chance-you said so as well-that the trial could have ended in an acquittal.'
'At what price to Mrs. Evanson's reputation?'
'Well, he hasn't considered one thing. And I intend to bring it to his attention. Can you or the Colonel arrange for me to see him?'
'I told you. He refuses to see you.'
'He may refuse. But you might tell him that I am bringing a photograph of Marjorie to take with him to the gallows.'
Simon's face had been in shadow, but suddenly I saw the gleam of his teeth as he smiled. 'My dear girl. I bow to your brilliance. But where will you find a photograph of Mrs. Evanson in ten days' time?'
'I've had it since I went to Hampshire and learned that Meriwether Evanson had killed himself. Serena refused to put it in his coffin. Matron couldn't bear to throw it away, and so I took it. I had thought-if I'd considered the matter at all-that I might somehow put it by Lieutenant Evanson's grave.'
'You had told me the photograph went with Evanson from France to the clinic. But not that it was now in your possession.'
'It was-personal. Whatever she did, whatever reason she might have had for doing it, he loved her more than living.'
Simon went to the sideboard in the dining room. I could hear him collecting two glasses and a decanter. It was whiskey he brought back with him, and a small carafe of water as well.
He poured a small measure of the whiskey in a glass, added water to it, and passed the glass to me, then poured himself a larger measure without the water. Holding his glass out to me, he said, 'Welcome home, Bess.'
I drank the whiskey. They say Queen Victoria drank a small tot each night before retiring. If she approved of it for herself, it would do me no harm. But I wasn't sure I really cared for the taste of it, a smokiness that caught at
