“Yes. Sadly,” I answered.
“I can’t believe he’s dead. It’s just not possible. And it makes me anxious for George now. He’s at sea, you know. We don’t hear, his mother and I, for weeks on end.”
“When they’re at sea, there’s nowhere to post a letter,” I said, and she smiled.
“I never thought of it that way.”
“Sabrina eloped, didn’t she?”
“Yes, our father had forbade her to see William again. I wished at the time that I’d had the courage to attend the ceremony, but I was rather afraid of what my father might do or say.”
“Did she ever send you any photographs? Of the happy couple?”
She frowned. “I never liked to display them. I didn’t want to annoy my father.”
“I’d like to see them. I don’t believe I’ve seen Sabrina since Vincent left Sandhurst.”
“I’m really not up to searching for them. Another time, perhaps.”
“Is he dark or fair? William? My mother thought she’d seen him in a play once. Moliere? Or Sheridan, perhaps.”
“It was so hard to tell. They weren’t very good photographs, I’m afraid.” And she pointedly changed the subject, clearly not interested in her sister’s husband.
We talked about her pregnancy and her garden, and then it was time to take my leave.
When I met Captain Barclay in the pub where I’d left him, his first question was “Did you learn anything?”
“Only that she doesn’t wish to talk about her sister’s husband,” I said when we’d reached the motorcar.
“Not surprising.”
“But her sister has a child. A little boy, born sometime in the winter.”
Captain Barclay whistled softly. “This man Morton might not have fought for his wife, but he would for his child, wouldn’t he? And he’d have been furious with his brother-in-law for snubbing him. It must have seemed rather callous, I should think, to be met with a refusal to do anything for his family.”
Defending Major Carson, I said, “We don’t know that he did, do we? It’s possible that William Morton wasn’t satisfied with his offer.”
“That’s true,” Captain Barclay replied thoughtfully. “And there’s only one way to settle that-if your father is successful in discovering any provisions in the Major’s will. If he’s taken care of the wife or the child-or both-then Morton is out of the running.”
“I did ask Valerie if she had a photograph of her brother-in-law. But she’s feeling her pregnancy and wasn’t particularly interested in making the effort to find one. She didn’t seem to think any of them were very good, anyway.”
“What about the man’s old theatrical company? Did they have posters and the like? As you said in Rouen, eyes never change.”
“I don’t know if they still exist or how to contact them. Sabrina might have something of that sort. Or a photograph of her husband in uniform. Every wife wants one. In case…”
“In case,” he agreed.
A silence fell, and I found myself thinking about Simon again, all the way home.
When I told my parents about Sabrina’s child, they were surprised. No one had mentioned the boy to them. They were of the same mind, that if Major Carson had been murdered, his brother-in-law could have the best possible motive.
My father said, “It’s not like Vincent to be as vindictive as his father was. I don’t understand it. I’ll look into the will. I can be quite frank, I think, and ask the solicitors if the boy was provided for. If not, I can suggest that Julia might care to make amends.”
“I’m not sure she will,” I said, considering my conversation with Julia. “She doesn’t seem to be as fond of Sabrina as Valerie is. I wish I’d thought to ask Valerie about the will. She must have been there for the reading.”
“Hardly something you could bring up, without a very sound reason,” my mother said. “But getting back to what happened to Vincent, it’s possible that William Morton chose to badger him after the baby was born, and he wouldn’t have cared for that. Even if he’d already included his sister in his own will, he would have resented being pressed that way. And so the two of them quarreled, and Morton went away with the worst possible view of Vincent’s intentions. Morton was worried about his family, and Vincent had more than enough on his mind, keeping his men alive. They didn’t like each other to begin with. This could only have made matters between them even more tense.”
“She has a point,” Captain Barclay put in. “With a big push coming, Morton would have been anxious to know the matter was settled. Either one-or both-could have died. One of my men asked for leave to see his widowed mother. He wanted me to sign the request before we fought. I did, but he was killed in the second wave.”
“I must go up to London tomorrow,” my father said. “I’ll see what I can discover.”
Simon hadn’t been in the house, much to my surprise. What’s more, my mother had put me off when I had asked to go and visit him in his cottage. She was also rather vague about his condition.
And so when my father took the Captain off to the clinic the next morning and my mother went to see a woman who had lost her husband at Passchendaele, I slipped out of the house and walked through the back garden and the wood to Simon’s cottage.
It was small but comfortable, and it had suited him well. Filled with well-read books and memorabilia from his years in the Army, it had a masculine air that I’d always found pleasant.
Coming up the walk, I kept an eye to the windows, expecting him to see me approaching and pretend not to be at home. My mother was right; men were often not very good at waiting to heal, impatient and eager to be about their business again. And I suspected that he probably wouldn’t be pleased to have me know he had not taken as good care of himself as he should.
I tapped at the door, waiting to be admitted. But he didn’t answer the summons or come to the door. I tapped again, in case he was sleeping, and when he still didn’t open the door to me, I was angry enough to open it myself, and standing on the threshold, I called his name.
“There’s no use in hiding,” I added. “I know you’re here.”
But my voice echoed in the cottage, and I knew it must be empty. Simon wasn’t there.
Disbelieving, I walked in and searched. The bed was made up, there were no newspapers neatly stacked by the table where he ate his meals, and when I looked in the wardrobe, I saw that his valise was gone.
Frightened, I went out of the cottage and shut the door behind me before almost running back to the house.
When my mother came in an hour later, I was waiting for her.
“Where is Simon?” I asked. “He’s not here, and he’s not in the cottage. What is it you’re keeping from me?”
She set down her basket, her expression suddenly kind, and I had the most dreadful premonition.
I wanted to cover my ears or tell her not to answer my question. But she was already saying the words, and there was no way to stop them now.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MY DEAR, HE’S been very ill-”
“I was there when he was brought in, I know how serious his wound was. I thought-I was told you were nursing him. I took that to mean that he was here, or at the cottage.”
“He did come here when he was well enough. He signed himself out of hospital and a driver brought him to Somerset. But there was infection, you see, and his arm-we thought for a time he would lose it. Dr. Gaines cleaned it as best he could, but Simon is still running a fever. He doesn’t always remember where he is.”
“Dr. Gaines? Then Simon is at the clinic.”
“Yes, but he specifically asked-I wasn’t to tell you.”
“Why did he sign himself out of hospital? He knew the risk he’d be taking.”
“There was some pressing matter he had to deal with. He came here to use your father’s telephone. He didn’t
