“Keep me informed. Please? Don’t let me worry.”
“We’ll do our best,” he told me, and then they were gone.
As the ambulance drove slowly past me, avoiding the lines of wounded, Dr. Hicks said from just behind me, “I gave him a little morphine. He’ll not remember the journey. What’s more, he will not reopen that shoulder fighting to avoid the jostling. Stubborn man, Sergeant-Major Brandon. What was he doing here in France in the first place?”
I said, as offhand as I could, “He’s responsible for training recruits. I expect he comes sometimes to see firsthand how to do it better.”
Satisfied, Dr. Hicks nodded. Then he said, “Don’t stand there staring after them, Sister Crawford. There’s work to be done.”
And there was.
A letter came from my mother quite soon after my father had reached England, sent in one of the HQ pouches that were secure. I collected it while on a run to replenish supplies.
Still, she was circumspect, saying only that “our dear neighbor” was slowly recovering after a small relapse, and I was not to worry. She went on to talk about ordinary household matters-how Cook had not smoked the bees sufficiently before stealing a little of their hoard of honey for our table, how the new calf was faring, how the roses had bloomed beautifully this spring, reminding her of the summer of 1914, and how she hoped that I was not overextending my strength, cautioning me that a relapse on my part was still possible.
And then she added a few lines that I knew must have come straight from my father.
The dear neighbor was, of course, Simon, whose cottage was just across the back garden and down the lane from us. I wasn’t surprised to hear he’d had a small relapse, for the journey had been hazardous from the start.
My latest news meant that Simon had managed to remember what I had told him about Colonel Prescott and Sister Burrows.
But who was “our cousin”?
I had no cousins, not now. One had died in India many years ago of cholera, and the other had been killed at Mons early in 1915.
Clearly, whoever he was, he was coming back to France in spite of still recovering from a broken leg. I was confused by the reference to light duties. There were no light duties in the trenches. I ran through our acquaintance, came up empty-handed, and read the last paragraph again.
And then I realized that my father was alerting me to the fact that my news was worrying enough that he was sending someone to keep an eye on me and make communication easier until Simon was well again.
Not a real cousin, then, but someone I knew and, what’s more, knew that I could trust. Someone who wouldn’t stand out or draw attention to himself or, more important, draw attention to the fact that he was guarding me.
In spite of Simon’s warning, I was aghast. This had all begun as an attempt to find out who had murdered Major Carson and perhaps even Private Wilson. But now it was possible that I was in danger, not only because I’d seen the Major’s body but also because I could have seen the man who killed him. Whether I actually could identify him or not, all that mattered was that the killer believed I could. He had come in search of Sister Burrows, if the man who presented himself to Matron was one and the same Colonel Prescott who had written that spurious letter of sympathy to Julia Carson.
I couldn’t imagine what Major Carson’s death was all about, which made it easier for me to make a mistake or put my trust in the wrong person.
What’s more, when I looked over my shoulder in the dark, I had no way of knowing if the person I saw in the shadows of a tent or lurking behind an ambulance was friend or foe. And that was truly disturbing to me.
While I was looking for Colonel Prescott, whoever he was, the man in the stained bandage might be standing just behind me. Or the orderly carrying the mop and pail might be the man handing me fresh bandages. Because I couldn’t be sure I’d know either of them.
As I drank the last of my tea and finished the thin sandwich that was my dinner, I asked myself what in the name of God Major Carson had done that had set all this in motion.
Vincent Carson was one of ours. My father would move heaven and earth if he had to, to find the captain’s murderer. It would become a personal obligation, a matter of honor.
But where to begin? How were we ever going to know what it was that had put the Major in danger in the first place? And what about the rumor that he’d deserted? Was it true, what Simon had said, that this meant whoever was behind the Major’s death was indeed tidying up?
I watched the shell flashes as the ambulance crawled over the rutted road toward the forward aid station, listening to the bombardment that presaged an attack.
What part-if any-had Sabrina’s husband, William Morton, played in any of this? Where was he? If he and his brother-in-law had never seen eye to eye, had this escalated to the point that it had led to murder?
The staff was waiting for our supplies, and I was busy for hours working with the latest influx of wounded. It was shortly before moonrise when the last of the men had been examined and a decision had been made about their treatment.
Dr. Hicks, straightening his back, then arching it, as if it ached, said, “Go on to bed, Sister. We’ve done all we can. I’ll rouse Dr. Timmons and Sister Clery. They can take over.”
He was right, we had done what we could do. And that was saying a good bit. I said good night and trudged out into the darkness, wondering if the time would ever come when I could say with any confidence that I had had enough sleep while I was in France. Certainly since Eastbourne and even Longleigh House, I had not.
I made a detour to wash up before going to bed, entering the empty line of latrines and basins, listening to the sound of my footsteps echoing on the thin boards that kept our feet out of the foul mud below. A single candle in a dish gave me enough light to see the bucket standing under the water lorry, and I filled it just enough to take out my handkerchief and wash my face and hands. Water was precious, but so was cleanliness, when dealing with patients.
I had closed my eyes to splash water over my face. It smelled strongly of brine and faintly of petrol, but it was cool enough to feel the fresh morning air on my wet skin. I leaned my head back to bathe my throat.
Just as I did, an arm came round my neck from behind, hard enough to choke off my breath, and I had a flash of thought-that this was how Private Wilson had been found hanging-before I reacted. I wasn’t about to be choked into unconsciousness and then a rope pulled around my neck. Private Wilson had been taken unawares. I was as well, but I had a little history to guide me. I hadn’t grown up in an Army post without learning something about self-defense. Subalterns had vied to show off-and show me tricks sure to protect me.
As the candle sputtered, my booted foot kicked out at the water bucket, connecting with such force that it went bouncing and clanging down the boards. My hands went not to claw uselessly at the arm of my attacker and the heavy fabric of his uniform sleeve, but at his vulnerable sides, digging in my nails and raking upward, finding the soft skin beneath his tunic and shirt. It caught him by surprise. As he twisted to protect himself, I tramped down on his instep with my other boot. And these weren’t the pretty shoes of a London season; they were designed to survive the Front.
He relaxed his arm briefly, swearing and jerking back in pain. I spun out of his grip, and as soon as I could fill my lungs with air again, I screamed. Furious, he shoved me toward the lorry, and I stumbled as I tried to keep my balance, hurting my wrist as I went down.
He reached for me again, pulling me up, trying to get a hand over my mouth, no longer hoping to make my death look like suicide. Now he was intent on simple murder. I cried out again before he succeeded in cutting it short.
There are only a handful of women this close to the front lines, and my first scream brought men racing from every direction. By my second, they were converging on us. My assailant flung me against the offside wheel of the water lorry with some force. I threw up my hands just in time to protect my head and face. He ducked beneath the
