turned the rough Channel into bedlam. We were all seasick, patients, nurses, orderlies, and doctors, and probably half the crew if they were honest about it. I'd sailed from India to England and never met a storm like this.
My stomach agreed with me as I ran to the railing for the third time.
Then it was back below, cleaning sheets as best I could, washing faces, swabbing the decks. By the time we reached Dover, I could have kissed the quay from the sheer joy of having dry land under my feet once more.
Dover Castle was a familiar sight looming above us, half hidden in the clouds, its walls dark with rain. A friend was on duty there, but I didn't catch a glimpse of him. We were pressing on, for the sake of the worst cases, and pulled into London late in the afternoon. A watery sun greeted us, the worst of the storm well behind us.
I was relieved of my duties there, and after seeing the train on its way again, I took the omnibus to the corner of our street and walked down to the flat I shared with friends.
None of them was at home, but there were signs that Mary might be on leave again as well, and I left her a note before taking a leisurely bath and falling into bed. It was Thursday evening, and I'd have enjoyed dining out if I hadn't been so tired.
Mary came in later, bringing me a cup of tea and a plate of cheeses and biscuits that she'd just received from home. She was small, British fair, with rosy cheeks and dimples. The soldiers adored her, wrote poems to her blue eyes and curls, and flirted outrageously with her, but her heart was in the Navy, the first officer on a cruiser.
'You can't sleep away your leave,' she said cheerfully. 'How long do you have?'
'Ten days,' I said, stretching and yawning. 'I thought I might go home for the last half of it.'
'Your parents will be delighted.' She paused, then said, 'I've heard stories. Was it a bad crossing?'
'Very bad. I thought I would never be able to swallow food again. Now I'm ravenous. Tell your father how grateful I am that he is in the cheese business. I haven't had a Stilton this good since the war began.'
'And these are the leftover bits. Think what it would be like to have half a wheel to ourselves.'
Laughing, we caught up on news, chatting among the biscuit crumbs, and then Mary said something that nearly caused me to choke on my tea.
'I've an invitation to spend the weekend with friends. A house party in the country. Would you like to come?'
'It would make a nice change. Do I know them?'
'I don't believe you do. It's the Melton family. But I think you convoyed Serena's brother home from France. Lieutenant Evanson. He killed himself not long ago, had you heard? Serena's husband will be coming home after a fortnight somewhere he can't talk about; it's his birthday, and she wants to do something nice to celebrate-here!' She reached out to pound me on the back as I turned red from coughing.
I cleared my throat and said politely, 'Surely this is a family occasion-she wouldn't care to have strangers hanging about.'
'The truth is, nearly everyone they know is somewhere else-in France, at sea, in the Middle East. She told me I could bring one of my flatmates with me, if I cared to. She wants it to be a gay weekend, no sadness to mar it.'
I thought of the envelope with Marjorie Evanson's photograph still sealed in it. I'd carried it through France and now it lay in the top drawer of the small chest under my window, where I'd put it when I unpacked. It was Mrs. Melton who had decided that it shouldn't be buried with her brother. I thought I'd guessed why, but both Matron and I had felt it was-wrong. I really shouldn't go to this house party.
On the other hand, I hadn't had any news about the search for the killer. Perhaps I could satisfy my curiosity without causing any trouble.
'Yes, all right. If she'll have me. But it might be best if we don't say anything about my having nursed her brother. It could bring up-painful memories.'
'If you don't mind, then I won't.'
Which is how I found myself on a crowded train to Oxford-shire, with malice aforethought.
The house where the Meltons lived was within walking distance of the station. We arranged to have our valises brought there by trap and set out on foot. It was a lovely day, and the dusty scents of summer wafted from the front gardens of the small village of Diddlestoke, and then from the pastures and fields that surrounded us as we reached the outskirts. Another quarter mile, and we could see the gates of our destination.
Melton Hall was a charming old brick house with a central block, spacious wings to either side, and a small park through which the drive meandered on its way to the handsome Pedimented front door. Two small children ran out to greet us, the girl taking my hand and the little boy clinging to Mary's.
'Niece and nephew,' she said over their heads, and I nodded. 'On Jack Melton's side. Serena told me they'd be leaving before dinner.'
We were greeted in the marble foyer by Serena Melton herself, and I was most interested in my first impression of her. Tall, dark, and rather elegant, she embraced the shorter, fairer Mary, then held out her hand to me. 'Elizabeth! I may call you Elizabeth, may I not? We are so pleased you could come.'
I hadn't met Lieutenant Evanson before he was burned, and so I couldn't judge the likeness between brother and sister.
And then she was leading the way up the stairs to our room, which overlooked the east gardens. Over her shoulder, she was telling us about her plans for the grand celebration and then, while we washed away the dust of travel, she was asking me about my family, expressing interest in the exotic places where my father had served, and then wanting to know about my work in France.
'I hear it's frightful to be the first to deal with the severest wounds. My brother was badly burned. I was never so shocked as I was when I saw him the first time. They were changing his bandages, and his skin was raw and weeping. It was all I could do to keep myself from showing what I was feeling, that he could have been a complete stranger.'
'I hope he's continuing to heal,' I said, though Mary cast me a sharp glance.
'Alas, he didn't survive,' Serena Melton answered, her eyes filling, and I made appropriate noises of sympathy. I could see how much she cared for her brother. In her shoes I might have felt the same about Marjorie Evanson. After all, it was Marjorie's betrayal of her husband that had led to his suicide. Sometimes in cases of sudden death, people needed someone to blame. Or blamed God.
Taking a deep breath, Serena added, 'I was never so grateful than when they found that Jack was good at numbers, and assigned him to break codes instead of carrying a rifle. He was furious, but as I told him, one martyr to the cause in a family is enough. If he can protect a convoy or warn of an attack, he saves hundreds of lives. Surely that's more useful than slogging through France in the hope of killing a few Germans. I don't know why men think that they aren't doing their part if they aren't up to their knees in mud and frightfully cold and hungry and tired.'
We followed Serena down the stairs. She and Mary were having a conversation about a mutual friend serving in the Navy, and exchanging news about him. Then we were in the kitchen, where she was supervising the main course for dinner. Serena said proudly, 'I got my hands on a roast. Don't ask how! It nearly cost me my virtue and my firstborn. But it's Jack's favorite.'
From the oven came the most tantalizing aromas-beef, I was sure of it. After a quick look at her prize, and a few instructions for the cook, a Mrs. Dunner, Serena whisked us out to the north terrace where her husband was sitting with several other guests. There she made the introductions.
Captain Truscott, Lieutenant Gilbert, and Major Dunlop were Army of course, while Jack wore his naval uniform with panache. I thought perhaps that he was making up, a little, for not having war stories to tell, for he worked in the Admiralty in Signals. He looked particularly handsome, regular features, his hair only lightly touched with gray, and his eyes without that haunted look one so often sees among men who've served at the Front. Still, there were lines in his face, and I had the feeling that he knew more about the war than most, and carried different burdens because of it.
I realized very quickly that everything happening outside this household had been set aside for the weekend. Talk ranged from past shooting parties in Scotland to the Thames regatta. Any topic would do that didn't remind us of war and death and destruction. We laughed at stories that weren't really funny, made no mention of absent friends, and pretended to be happy and lighthearted. Other guests arrived in the next hour, but none of them was a certain officer in a Wiltshire regiment. Not that I'd expected him to be here, he was no doubt still in France. But Marjorie Evanson must have met him somewhere, in just such a social setting. It was entirely possible that
