Charles Todd
A Bitter Truth
The third book in the Bess Crawford Mystery series, 2011
Chapter One
A cold rain had followed me from France to England, and an even colder wind greeted me as we pulled into the railway station in London. As I handed in my ticket, I looked for my father, who was usually here to meet me. Or if he couldn’t come, he generally sent Simon Brandon in his place.
But there were no familiar faces among the crowd, and after waiting nearly fifteen minutes, I decided that my telegram from Dover must have been delayed. Of course military traffic was always given priority, but the telegraph office had assured me that they would do their best. There was nothing for it but to find a cab for myself.
Outside Victoria Station, a family with small children was just bespeaking the last one. Well, then, it would have to be an omnibus. As I walked on to the nearest stop, the wind whipped along the street after me, plucking at my skirts, prodding my back. One going in my direction was already approaching, for which I was grateful, and as we rumbled through the darkness toward my destination, I took stock of the city I hadn’t seen for several months.
Even at this hour it was quiet, the streets empty except for a few brave souls going about their business with heads down and coats wrapped tightly against the probing fingers of the wind. Shops were already closing, and everywhere curtains were drawn to keep out the night. In front of a pub we were passing, a few men stood talking for a moment, hands deep in pockets, and even as I watched, they said their farewells and hurried their separate ways toward home. A boy raced up the steps of a church and disappeared through the heavy door, a shaft of light briefly illuminating his worried face. The sound of voices just reached me, a boys’ choir, and at a guess, he had nearly missed rehearsal.
We were only three stops from where I usually got down when the omnibus came to a lurching halt.
Just ahead of us, I could see torches flashing this way and that in the street, and someone was shouting at us.
My first thought was that we had struck someone.
I got to my feet, ready to offer whatever aid was needed, just as a middle-aged constable hurried up to the omnibus and spoke to the driver. We couldn’t hear what was said, but soon enough the constable had opened the omnibus door and stepped inside. He frowned when he saw me standing there.
“Is anyone hurt?” I asked quickly.
“No, Sister,” he said harshly. “Resume your seat.”
I did as I was told, and he scanned each of us with a thoroughness that indicated he was intent on finding someone. Finally, apparently satisfied, he was gone, mercifully closing the door behind him and shutting out the wind. But I heard his boots climbing the rear stairs to the upper deck, where no one had had the courage to sit, then pelt down again after several seconds. He and the driver exchanged a few more words, and I saw the driver reluctantly nod. And then the constable was hurrying away, caught for a brief moment in the glare of our headlamps.
A man just behind where I was sitting demanded fretfully, “What’s happened? Why did we stop?”
Outside, the driver got down from behind the wheel and opened the door once more, poking his head inside, his face barely visible above a thick blue muffler. “Deserter,” he informed us. “We won’t be allowed to move on until this street has been cleared. The police have reason to believe he’s hiding hereabouts. Or being hidden.”
Everyone began asking questions at the same time, but the driver simply shook his head and closed the door. I was looking out the window, clearing the glass with one gloved hand, watching the play of torches against the windows and doors of the houses on my side as the police went on with their search. And then out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure in black slip down a service passage, disappearing into the deeper shadows cast by the houses on either side. There would be a stout wooden gate at the end leading into a back garden, and with luck, another at the bottom of that, giving onto another garden and another passage to the street beyond. Either a trap- or an escape.
It had happened so fast, I couldn’t judge whether it was a man or a woman. Or if I had imagined it altogether. The deserter? Or someone else nearly caught up in the tightening net?
A constable must have seen the figure as well, because he blew his whistle and ran forward. But when he turned his torch into the blackness, it showed only the closed gate. After a moment, he walked halfway to the end of the passage before coming back.
I sat there, trying to come to terms with my duty. As an officer’s daughter I understood the need for discipline and order in the Army. To walk away and leave one’s fellow soldiers to their fate was, in my view, dishonorable. And yet I’d seen the horror of war, the suffering and the awful cost of doing one’s duty. For some men that was insupportable.
There were other reasons too. For all I knew, the hunted man had risked everything to come home to a wife who was desperately ill or to see a newborn child. Even to sit by his mother’s deathbed. The Army was not always generous with compassionate leaves, refusing to allow a man torn between love and duty the few days he so badly wanted to comfort those who needed him at home. I’d seen men in despair driven to shooting themselves in the hand or foot in a bid for leave.
Who was I to decide the fate of this man? The constable had already looked closely at the passage, hadn’t he? And decided that it was empty?
But this deserter would eventually be found. And shot. The Army was relentless in its determination. It was just a matter of time.
