But that was wrong. It wasn't Marjorie's fault. It wasn't mine. The blame must fall where it belonged. And I truly believed that it would. I had met a number of good people in the course of these last months, and some terribly cruel ones. Because I believed in doing my duty and telling the police what I had seen in that railway station, I had got involved. And that was nothing to be ashamed of.
We hit a deep rut just as the sun reached above the horizon, and I knew that if nothing had stopped his execution, Michael Hart was dead. Quickly, his neck broken, his body already limp and without that force that came with life.
I said a swift prayer for his soul. As the sun moved higher, touching all the blackened and ruined countryside with a golden light, as if trying to hide what war had done to it, I said another for Mr. and Mrs. Hart.
And then we were at our destination, and I had to put Michael and all the rest behind me. There were wounded already waiting for us, men in dire straits, and my duty was to them.
But my last thought as I was handed down from the ambulance by the middle-aged driver comforted me. I would have done nothing differently, even knowing what lay ahead.
We had worked for three days almost without stopping. I hardly had the time to eat or drink or find a bed to fall into. I was already tired, but it was forgotten when I took my turn as theater sister and then as the night nurse for the recovering wounded.
And I counted it a blessing, because there was no space in which to think or mourn or remember.
Finally the lines of wounded dwindled to twenty, and then to ten, and then to five, and then to an empty doorway.
I took off my cap to let the fresh breeze of another dawn cool my face for one brief moment, before putting it on again to walk down the rows of wounded and surgical cases, making certain, before going off duty, I had told the sisters coming on what to watch for. Bleeding here, shock there, nausea across the way, and in the far corner, septicemia. The dread of blood poisoning.
I signed out, walked some fifty yards to the quarters that had been pointed out as mine, and found my things piled in a corner, the bed as fresh as it was when it had been made up days ago.
Sorting out my belongings, I found a towel and toothbrush and a bar of precious soap and went to find where I could wash my face and hands before I slept.
An orderly showed me, and I was just starting in that direction, wondering if my feet could carry me that far and then back again, when a man came running toward me, calling my name. He wore the insignia of the signals corps.
I turned and waited, thinking it was a summons back to the theater, and I knew I was in no condition to go.
'I'm Sister Crawford,' I told him, as he caught me up. 'What is it?'
He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, much creased and more than a little grubby from the touch of many hands.
'This came through in a diplomatic pouch, marked very urgent, Sister. Someone sent it up by a rider, but I didn't receive it until yesterday. And they told me you couldn't be disturbed.'
He held it out to me, almost reluctantly. We had learned that urgent messages often brought bad news.
I tore it open, dreading to see what was written there.
Just a few words, and they swam before my eyes until I could focus on them. Execution delayed indefinitely for new evidence. Weapon that killed Victoria also very likely the weapon used to kill Lieutenant Fordham. Further investigation into Evanson murder and Calder wounding. Forbes expects no less than full pardon, but it will take time. Thank God, there is now time available. Rejoice.
And below it was my father's name and rank and former regiment.
He signed himself that way only on momentous occasions, to mark the importance of them.
I looked up, and saw that the signals corporal was watching my face as I read. I had even forgotten he was there.
Crumpling the letter in my hand, I flung my arms around him and whirled him in a wide circle, laughing and crying at the same time.
'Here, Miss-!' he expostulated, face beet red, caught completely off balance.
'It's good news, good news,' I said, letting him go and trying to remember the dignity of a nursing sister. 'I'm sorry, but I had to share it with someone.'
He touched his cap, smiling. 'Yes, Miss. Glad to be of service. Anytime.' And then he was trotting off toward wherever he belonged, and I reread the letter again.
They had gotten it to me in record time, my father, my mother, and Simon, pulling God knew how many strings to make certain it reached me as soon as possible, before I had mourned a man who still lived.
Shoving the letter into my pocket, I picked up the scattered soap and towel and toothbrush, and went on to wash my face.
I couldn't help but notice when I reached a mirror that it was smiling broadly, my face, and the fatigue that had been grinding me into the ground only ten minutes ago had vanished.
Sparing a moment of pity for Serena and the dark road I knew she was following now, I remembered the living and the dead as I scrubbed my face.
Meriwether Evanson, Marjorie Evanson, even Victoria Garrison.
My father was right. Murder was never kind. To the victims, depriving them of a natural span of life and happiness. And also to the survivors, who must live with reminders of what might have been.
