“But who is he?” I asked. “Why did he-what reason could he have for attacking me? I’ve never made an official report of any kind.” I wanted to know precisely how much my father had told the Captain.
“It appears he killed one Major Carson, who was in your father’s old regiment. And that he’s willing to kill again to protect himself. That woman. The one who lived near the Gorge. Apparently he’d killed her husband as well. The orderly who had discovered the Major’s body.”
Finally satisfied, I nodded. “He must be in the Army. He would have to be to reach the Major and then to attack me. One can’t simply take the next ferry across the Channel.”
“Yes, that was your father’s theory. They don’t know what rank he actually holds. But it’s easy enough out here to kill someone and steal a uniform. One unmarked grave more or less wouldn’t be noticed.”
But one couldn’t murder a Major without a flag going up. He’d be missed. A private soldier wouldn’t.
What’s more, whoever this was had been able to carry off the masquerade as Colonel Prescott. Both in person and in the contents of the letter he’d written Julia Carson. I wondered how many roles as a military officer William Morton had played on the stage. Shakespeare was filled with them, seventeenth- and eighteenth-century plays as well. Gilbert and Sullivan had created lively military characters. Productions had come out to India and were amazingly popular.
But then Matron had questioned Colonel Prescott’s manner-something had made her uneasy. Of course until I asked questions, Matron had kept her doubts to herself. Had I allayed her suspicions-or would she at some point bring them up with someone else?
Matron. I felt a chill. She’d seen his face. But he’d made no effort to harm her. Why? Had there been no opportunity? Or did he think she could wait?
Captain Barclay was adding grimly, “Something could have happened in the trenches between this man and Carson. Not everyone out here is a gallant soldier serving King and Country.”
I’d heard stories of shooting unpopular officers in the back when the opportunity presented itself. Charging across No Man’s Land is a chancy business at best, and it would be easy, firing at the enemy, to find one’s nemesis in the crosshairs.
If Sabrina had been cut off without a farthing when she married her actor, there could very well be hard feelings against Vincent for not doing more for her when the elder Carson died.
But Vincent hadn’t been shot in the back; his neck had been broken.
Captain Barclay gingerly climbed out and restarted the ambulance. “We’ve delayed long enough. They’ll begin to wonder, up ahead.”
The overworked motor coughed and struggled for several seconds before finally turning over properly. Captain Barclay reversed gingerly, the wheel jerking in his hands, and then we were safely back on what passed for a road. I stopped a sigh of relief, but I had a feeling he felt the same way.
We traveled in silence for a time.
I said, “Someone knew I was at the aid station. I don’t see how he could.”
“It shouldn’t be that difficult.” He turned to me in the darkness. “ ‘My sister’s at a forward aid station.’ Or ‘I served under Colonel Crawford before he retired. Is it true his daughter’s a nurse out here?’ Word gets around.”
And so it had last winter, when I’d asked for information about convents that took in French orphans. The answer had come back to me in the most unexpected way.
“Then I’m still at risk. But he won’t try to kill me at the aid station here. Not again. For one thing, I’m carefully watched. All the sisters are. But my next posting-or on the way to it-I’ll be vulnerable.”
“Quite. But I wouldn’t write off someone stopping this ambulance and killing both of us,” he said tightly.
I shivered at the thought, and touched the weight of the little pistol in my pocket. Simon had reminded me that it wasn’t of a caliber to kill or maim. But it was better than no protection, and it could make enough noise and cause enough pain to stop my assailant until someone came to my rescue.
With that thought in mind, when we had reached the station, I slept more soundly in what was left of that night.
Barclay was always in sight, wherever I was, and I wondered when or if he slept at all. He looked tired, and some of that I put down to his leg still being weak. His limp seemed to be worse, but he never complained.
Sister Clery, sitting down beside me as I ate a hasty dinner before returning to my duties, eyed me with interest. “I think,” she said after a moment, “that you have a beau. And he really is handsome, even though he’s not an officer. He ought to be. Perhaps there’s something mysterious in his past that prevented him from joining the Army under his own name.”
Realizing she was speaking of Barclay, I laughed. “He’s actually a rich American in disguise, and he followed me to France because I’ve refused his proposals of marriage nine times.”
She laughed with me. “I tell you, Bess, if that were true, I’d volunteer to mend his sad and broken heart myself.”
“Alas, I fear it’s beyond mending.”
“Ah, well. But I’ve noticed that everyone has been keeping an eye out for us. I don’t mind telling you, I was badly frightened when you were attacked.”
“Whoever he is, he’s well away from here now,” I assured her, and hoped that it was true.
New orders came for me before the week was out. Dr. Hicks informed me of them when he and I had finished working to stabilize an abdomen torn by shrapnel before taking the risk of sending the patient on to Rouen.
“I shall miss your steady hand and good eye,” he said. “But my loss is another station’s gain.”
“Thank you, sir.” And then, with a sense of foreboding, I asked, “Could you tell me who ordered my transfer?”
“I spoke to him by field telephone this morning. A Dr. Percy had requested you.”
I’d never worked with a Dr. Percy. “Was it Dr. Percy on the telephone?”
“No, no, I could hardly hear the Major, there was so much interference. But he confirmed you are to leave at once and the paperwork is to follow by the end of the week.”
“But that’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“True, but apparently they’re shorthanded outside of Ypres, and they can’t wait for the orders to come.” He studied my face. “Are you worried about this transfer, Sister Crawford?”
“I-yes, I must admit that I am,” I said, speaking frankly.
“I can assure you it was all straightforward. I made sure of that.”
“Could you try to reach Ypres and make certain that this was not a mistake?”
“Is it the attack on you that has made you so wary? My dear, you will probably be safer in your new posting than you are here, so close to the lines. I shouldn’t worry, if I were you.”
“Thank you, sir.” I couldn’t protest any more than I had.
Yet this was what I had dreaded-a new posting I knew very little about. I’d been sure Dr. Hicks would keep me, but someone had been insistent and convincing. I had no choice in the matter.
I went back to my tent, trying to think of a way to send word to my father. I’d seen Captain Barclay no more than an hour ago, but now he was nowhere to be found.
Troubled by his continued absence, on my first break I finished packing my possessions as ordered. If I could reach Rouen, surely I could find a way to contact the Colonel Sahib. But when I changed my apron, I made certain that the little pistol was in my pocket.
Outside I could hear the grumble of ambulance motors as they prepared to leave for the Base Hospital.
Just then Dr. Hicks came to say good-bye.
“Be safe, Sister Crawford. Did I tell you that there will be accommodations for you tonight at the American Base Hospital? Your transport to Ypres, as I understand it, will leave tomorrow morning from there.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Sister Clery also came to say good-bye, and several of the others who weren’t busy with the wounded. But still there was no sign of Captain Barclay.
Sister Clery, seeing me look around a last time before taking my seat, smiled and said, “I’ll tell him you’ll miss him, shall I?”
“Don’t bother,” I said, trying to convince myself that he had gone ahead to look into the transfer.
The ambulances followed the usual track, stopping at one other aid station to take on three more patients, and then finally, when my spine felt like a washboard, I could see the lights of Rouen ahead.
