Charles Todd - An Unmarked Grave

I found myself with a new respect for Dr. Gaines.

We drove out of Nether Thornton in silence, mainly because Captain Barclay was in no mood for light conversation. But as his leg stopped throbbing quite so viciously, his spirits returned and he said, “Was it a good visit?”

“Yes, indeed.” Julia had unwittingly given me food for thought.

My confidence had been shaken by Colonel Prescott’s letter. And yet there was the evidence of Private Wilson’s death. And what had become of Vincent’s journal? If it was in his tunic pocket when he was killed, someone should have discovered it and put it with his other belongings. A doctor wouldn’t have undressed him if he had died instantly of his wounds. Sadly there was no time for the dead, because there were so many living in need of attention.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Captain Barclay said after several miles of silence.

I smiled ruefully. “Sorry. I was distracted.”

“This wasn’t simply a courtesy call, was it?” the Captain asked after a few minutes. “There’s something on your mind. Why did you go to visit Mrs. Carson?”

That was too close to the truth for comfort.

“Actually I was thinking about Major Carson’s journal. He kept one, according to Julia. She’d seen it, he’d read her a few passages from it. But it didn’t come home with his other possessions.”

“Is it important?”

“I-don’t quite know. For Julia it is.”

“It could have been lost when he was wounded and every effort was being made to save his life.”

“He died instantly, according to his commanding officer.”

“It’s what we’re taught to write. No mother or wife wants to hear that a loved one died screaming and writhing in agony. When he was hit, his men would have done what they could, and whatever falls into the unspeakable muck in the bottom of a trench is lost forever. Or it could have been buried with him.”

“True,” I said doubtfully, unable to tell him that it could all have been a lie, how Vincent Carson had died.

“You don’t believe me. Why do women fix on tangible things? He could have given instructions for the journal not to be sent home. It’s possible he wrote what he believed to be the truth at the time, but still words that perhaps it would pain his wife to read after he was dead and unable to explain. Or perhaps his commanding officer read enough to feel it was unwise.”

“Yes, I do believe you,” I said, threading my way through a flock of sheep that was taking up the road. “Thinking about it in that light.” But it once more raised the specter of marital problems. There was nothing about Julia even to hint that she was glad to be free to marry someone else. But if Vincent had fallen out of love with his wife and there was someone else, he could have written about his struggle with himself. A very good reason to order it destroyed if he was killed.

“Good. Anything else worrying you? I’m always happy to make your burdens lighter.”

I had to laugh. For the rest of the journey we talked about him-how he’d come to join the Canadian Army, when and where he was wounded, and what he hoped to do when the war finally ended.

We had come within sight of the gates to Longleigh House when Thomas Barclay said again, without warning, “Tell me again who Simon Brandon is.”

I WROTE TO Simon that evening in the quiet of my room. A storm was blowing up, and I listened to the distant thunder, reminded again that I ought to be in France.

By telling Simon what I had learned, I was able to put it in better perspective.

Was there anything really suspicious in what Julia had told me? Or was it my imagination looking to support my own belief about how Major Carson had died?

I sealed the letter and set it out for the post, then went to bed.

I was kept busy over the next few days. One patient was on the brink of developing gangrene, and with my battlefield experience Matron asked me to work in the surgical theater with Dr. Gaines.

When I went to read to the ambulatory, Captain Lawrence had been scanning a newspaper, and as he set it aside, I glimpsed a photograph on the page turned up. It was Mrs. Campbell. I couldn’t see the full caption, but the first part read DIVORCEE ARRESTED FOR-

For what?

When the hour was over, I was summoned to the surgical theater again. An abscess required draining. As the patient was being taken away for recovery, Dr. Gaines said to me, “You really ought to be in France, you know. Your skills are wasted here.”

Surprised by his praise, I said, “My family was frightened by my illness. I think they pulled strings to keep me in England.”

He nodded and said nothing more. I realized I’d been too honest, but I didn’t want him to believe that I had run away from the nightmare of nursing there. Pride, I told myself, sometimes had much to answer for.

But then my ancestress, who had sent her husband off to face Napoleon at Waterloo and danced through the night to conceal the fact that experienced officers had been called to duty, would have appreciated my dilemma. She had helped keep the townspeople of Brussels calm and unsuspecting. It was her duty to the cause, even though she knew she might never see her husband alive again. Perhaps I had inherited a little of her strength. I’d like to think so.

The following day we faced a long and very difficult surgery as we fought to clean a suppurating wound and save a man’s leg. It had been a near run thing, and the smell of the infection had filled the tiny surgical theater, nearly sickening us, but when the last stitch had been taken, the wound dressed, Dr. Gaines nodded to me and walked out of the room. I could see how exhausted he was, but I was impressed with his skills and dedication. It would have been much easier simply to amputate the lower part of the leg and be done with it. There was always the shadow of gangrene hanging over such cases. But he had done what he could to leave the patient whole.

I had hoped this morning might bring Simon’s response to my letter, but there was nothing for me in the post. Instead, summoned to Matron’s office as I finished changing into a fresh uniform, I found him waiting for me there.

Matron said, “Your father has sent a message by Sergeant-Major Brandon. I’ll leave you to speak to him in private.”

Simon thanked her, waiting until the door had closed behind her and the sound of her footsteps had faded down the passage, before saying to me in a low voice, “Will you walk in the park with me?”

“Is anything wrong?”

“Not at home,” he said briefly. I nodded, and we left Matron’s office and went out into the park where we couldn’t be overheard even by chance.

“The only Colonel Prescott I could find in the lists is an officer in the Royal Engineers. As you’d expect, he never commanded Major Carson. I can’t say whether or not they ever met, but I doubt it. Carson’s commanding officer was Colonel Travers.”

“Julia must have been mistaken,” I said doubtfully. “But she was impressed by his kindness in his letter, and surely she’d have got his name right when she spoke to me.”

“This tends to support your dream. I’m beginning to believe there was indeed a murder.”

“Have you said anything to my father about this matter?”

“No. He’d order an immediate inquiry, and I don’t think we have sufficient proof to make this public. Besides, it would be cruel to upset Mrs. Carson if none of this turns out to be true. Early days.”

“I should think that letter of condolence to a family giving false information about an officer’s death would be a place to start.”

“To start, yes. I’d like to see this carried to a conclusion.”