“We shouldn’t have come. We’ve only upset her.”
My mother said, “Yes, but we’re talking about murder, aren’t we? Better us than the police. Or the Army. They wouldn’t have been as kind.”
And that was cold comfort as we walked back to the gray stone church and then found our way in the gathering dusk up the twisting path back to the hotel. A small dog came out to a garden gate, barking ferociously, then jumping up to be greeted, his tail wagging madly. As I petted the furry head, scratching behind his ears, I thought about the child growing up on the river. Would he ever have a dog?
I couldn’t understand how the young officer I’d known in India could have denied his widowed sister some financial help. But then he himself had died only a short time after his brother-in-law. There had been no chance to do anything. Still, he must surely have known about the child and guessed what Sabrina’s circumstances must be. He could have written to Julia to make his wishes known. She would have carried them out, if he had. She would have done anything he’d asked. Even a small allowance would have made a huge difference in Oxfordshire and she could have kept the cottage.
For that matter, Valerie-with her inheritance from her mother as well as her father-who had visited Sabrina and must have seen the straits she was in with a new baby, could have done something to help.
I commented on this to my mother as we walked on.
“I expect everyone felt it was the Morton family who ought to step in, since Sabrina’s family had cut her off. And they did offer Sabrina a home, didn’t they? Perhaps Julia will have a change of heart, once the solicitors have finished and Vincent’s estate is settled. I’ll drop a word in her ear, without mentioning Cornwall. She has no child of her own, and she may be willing to consider the boy’s needs.”
But the boy was a Morton. Not a Carson. Would that make any difference?
As we reached the last few steps of the path up to our hotel, my mother took a deep breath and said, “Who killed Vincent? I’d have answered, Someone in his company who knew Morton and thought he and his family had been badly treated-if it weren’t for the fact that Vincent wasn’t shot and that his body was discovered some distance from the Front. Simple revenge isn’t that personal or clever.”
I had no answer for her.
“I’m very glad you’re home and safe,” she went on, putting an arm around my shoulders and drawing me to her in a brief embrace as we reached the tall white doors of the hotel.
Later I stood by the window of my room, watching the lights of boats plying the river. They couldn’t go beyond the fortifications, for the sea was probably mined, or a submarine might be lurking in the black depths farther out.
As they bobbed about far below on their mysterious errands, fishing or simply longing for another time, I asked myself the questions I’d put off until I’d said good night to my mother.
If it hadn’t been Will Morton who killed Vincent Carson and Private Wilson or had twice tried to kill me, then who was it?
If it wasn’t revenge for his treatment of his sister that had brought about Major Carson’s murder and all that had followed, what was driving this man?
There had to be a reason. But would any of us be able to find it?
CHAPTER TWELVE
WHEN I ARRIVED at the clinic, there were courtesies to observe before I could go and look for Simon Brandon.
First, the official visit with Matron to present my orders. She remembered me, and we talked about France for a few minutes, and then she passed me to Dr. Gaines. He welcomed me just as warmly and sent for tea.
“I’ve just made rounds. I could use a cup,” he said, offering me the only other chair in his narrow office. “Tell me about France.”
I tried to remember interesting surgeries or treatments I’d observed, because I knew that was what he wanted to hear, not how the war was progressing. The wounded in his care told their own tale of what was happening in the trenches.
And then Sister Masters was there to show me to my quarters and outline my duties. Once more with my experience I’d be serving in the surgical theater when needed.
It was after eleven o’clock by that time, and she suggested that I meet the rest of the staff at lunch. Some of them had been here when I first came to the clinic, and others were new. As before, the staff was handpicked by Dr. Gaines, and we enjoyed a lively discussion about the patients and what I’d been doing in France. Half my mind was elsewhere, but I managed to hold my own from long practice. We were just finishing our meal when mercifully Sister Masters suggested that I take the next half hour to settle in. I rose from the table, took my leave of the others as I thanked her, and went up the main stairs.
I’d done this so often that it took no more than five minutes to unpack and stow my belongings where I could reach them quickly when needed. My mother had seen to it that my uniforms were starched and ready to wear, and I was grateful.
And then I sat on the bed and stared at nothing for another several minutes. Finally I got to my feet and walked out of my room. Now that the time had come I was almost afraid of what I was going to find when I left this sanctuary and walked down to the wards.
But it had to be done. I went down the steps, counting them as I’d done so many times during my routine duties, the count always helping me put one patient out of my mind and prepare me to address the next.
As I passed the doorway to the room where convalescents sat to read, play cards, or talk, I glimpsed Captain Barclay at a table writing what appeared to be a letter. Fortunately he didn’t look up. I had only a very little time in which to find Simon, and I didn’t want to call attention to what I was about to do.
Simon, I’d been told, was in the surgical ward in the back of the house where the library used to be. Most of the books had been removed for safekeeping, although a few volumes were left amidst the medical kit filling the shelves now. As I entered, I could feel the warmth of the sun on my face from the long windows that overlooked one of the gardens. A slight breeze lifted the thin curtains and blew lightly against my cap.
The sister on duty smiled and nodded to me. She believed I was there to familiarize myself with all the patients, and I let her take a moment to describe the conditions of her charges. But at this present moment, I was concerned most about just one.
I tried to quell my impatience as we began to pace slowly down the row of cots, stopping to look at both sides. There were men in various stages of recovery, some of them asleep, others moaning in a drug-induced unconsciousness. One or two were barely awake, watching us as we stopped, their faces pain ridden and thin.
I was two beds from the end of the room when I heard a rapid-fire outburst of familiar words.
Sister Randolph was in the middle of a description about the man in front of us, and I lost track for a moment. She had to repeat her comment, and I nodded. Finally we had come to Simon’s cot. He was still speaking rapidly, urgently, as if something mattered intensely in his drug-clouded mind.
“We can’t understand him half the time,” Sister Randolph was saying. “It’s some foreign tongue, I’m told. One of our convalescents was in India for a number of years with his regiment. He didn’t know enough of the language to translate, but he said he thought it was Hindu.”
“Hindi,” I said automatically. “Hindi is the language. Hinduism the religion. A Hindu is the man or the woman.” But it wasn’t Hindi that Simon was speaking just now, it was Urdu, the Muslim equivalent.
I went to his bedside. Someone had shaved him this morning, but his face was flushed with fever, his hair long and soaked with perspiration. But mercifully I could see both arms under the bedclothes. There had been no amputation.
“I was in India,” I said. “Let me sit with him a bit, and see if I can decipher what he’s saying.”
“Please do!” Sister Randolph said gratefully. “It’s very worrying not to know what’s on his mind. I can tell that something is, and it may be hindering his recovery.” She referred to her chart. “His name is Brandon. We don’t know much else about him. Regiment, that sort of thing. Dr. Gaines admitted him as an emergency patient.”
“What’s his status?”
“If the fever breaks, Dr. Gaines expects he’ll keep his arm. If it doesn’t, well, there will have to be steps taken.”
