Charles Todd - An Unmarked Grave

“Yes. But, Simon, what about the journal? He read portions of it to Julia. It must exist!”

“There’s no certainty that it has anything to do with his death.”

“I know. One can hope. There must be answers somewhere . I must speak to Private Wilson’s family. Not that I expect to learn anything from them, but if they also find it hard to believe that he killed himself, then it supports my own feeling.”

“I did one other bit of research while I was in London. Remember Sabrina Carson, who married a reprobate? Your mother told me she wasn’t at the memorial service. Whether it’s against his will or not, William Morton is in the Army. Most likely called up and threatened with desertion if he didn’t appear at the proper time.” There was contempt in Simon’s voice. He had no sympathy for a man who refused to serve his country in its hour of need. “His wife is living on a private soldier’s pay. That may explain why she couldn’t afford to travel to the memorial service.”

“Or to dress appropriately,” I added. “That would matter to her.”

“I hadn’t considered that possibility. Nevertheless, Morton was in a Wiltshire regiment that was depleted, and it was combined with ours. It could have caused friction between the two men.”

“But Julia told me he was in the Royal Engineers.”

“Sabrina could have lied to her. Wasn’t he an actor, and not a very good one at that? Attached to a third-rate touring company that barely stayed one step ahead of the bailiffs? I shouldn’t put it past him to tell his wife what she wanted to hear.”

“My mother told me once that he reminded her of the snake charmers in India, luring unsuspecting girls out of their homes the way the snake charmer lured the cobra out of its basket.”

“Depend upon your mother to make an apt comparison.”

“What am I to do now?”

“Nothing. Let me explore several avenues, and see what I can discover. London has sent for me, and I’m on my way there now. Give me a few days to attend to that, and I’ll be back in touch.” We had nearly reached the house in our walk. “I wouldn’t make too much of this yet, Bess,” he warned me. “But Morton might not have passed up a chance to rid himself of his brother-in-law.”

“I’m torn,” I admitted. “I’d rather not have to tell Julia that her husband was murdered.”

“Remember that you’re the only other person to have seen that body,” Simon reminded me. “Take care. At this stage, I’m damned glad you aren’t in France.”

I sighed. “There’s that. All right. Be safe, Simon, whatever it is that London wants. Is my father summoned as well?”

“I won’t know until I get there.”

And he was gone, in a hurry to reach London because he had already taken precious time to come and speak to me.

I watched his motorcar out of sight, then turned to find the Yank standing in the doorway behind me.

“The family friend Mr. Brandon, I presume? Why isn’t he at the Front?”

“It’s a long story,” I said. “And not for your ears.”

He followed me inside. “Sorry, I was more than a little jealous. You don’t hang on my every word the way you hang on his.”

I turned. “Did you just arrive with news of my family?”

“I did not. I misjudged the visit. Why do I seem always to be apologizing to you?”

“Because you tend not to look before you leap,” I retorted, and left him standing there.

On my next free afternoon, I once more asked Dr. Gaines to allow me to borrow his motorcar.

He didn’t quiz me on my skills as a driver-apparently he’d received a good report from Captain Barclay-but again he insisted that I take an escort with me.

And once more it was the American Captain waiting for me at the door when I came down from changing into a fresh uniform.

“Where to this time?”

I glanced over my shoulder, but no one was within hearing. “We’re going to see one of the wonders of Britain. Cheddar Gorge. It’s a deep natural ravine slashed through stone. Amazing, really. I’ll drive the length of it and show you. But first there’s someone I’d like very much to visit.”

“Another widow of an officer in your father’s old regiment?” There was an undercurrent of suspicion in his voice, as if I found that to be a handy excuse for my assignations.

“The family of a man I served with just before I was taken ill. He’s dead.” I had to smile to myself at the thought of the Captain feeling jealous of Private Wilson.

But he only nodded as we set off down the drive, as if time would tell.

As the crow flew, Cheddar Gorge was not all that far from Longleigh House, but the crow didn’t always fly the way the road makers went. It was a twisting, turning route that led us to where we were going.

The Gorge is some three miles long, narrow at some points, wider at others, with towering limestone ramparts on either side. Quite a spectacular drive, really, through a place where it was said early cave dwellers found sanctuary.

As we approached the Gorge, I could see the small house that sat to one side. If this was not where Private Wilson lived, the occupants could tell me where to look. Old and weathered, the house must have been freshly painted shortly before the war because it appeared to be in better condition than some of its neighbors. Behind it rose a small barn, and I glimpsed several sheds as well. There were black-and-white cows grazing quietly in a meadow on our left.

“This is where Cheddar cheese comes from,” I told the Captain. “It was aged in the coolness of the caves you’ll see in a bit, after we’ve finished here.”

“I thought Cheddar cheese came from New York,” he told me with a grin. “That’s where we buy it, at least.”

“There’s no pub that I can see just here,” I said, ignoring his attempt at humor. “But would you mind terribly waiting for me in the motorcar? Mrs. Wilson will be shy enough finding me on her doorstep. You’ll frighten her.”

“Don’t worry. Go speak to her. I’ll be fine.”

I thanked him, got down, and went up the walk to the front of the house. Marigolds bloomed in clay pots on the steps, and a cat slept on a cushion by the door.

It rose at my approach, stretched and yawned, then waited to be let into the house when Mrs. Wilson answered my knock.

She wasn’t quite what I’d expected. A pretty woman in her late thirties, she said pleasantly, “Are you lost, love? The entrance to the Gorge is just down the road over there.”

“My name is Sister Elizabeth Crawford. I’ve come to see a Mrs. Wilson. I knew her husband in France. I was a nursing sister in the aid station where he served as an orderly.”

“I’m Joyce Wilson,” she said after a moment. “Will you come in?”

“Yes, thank you.” I followed her into a neat parlor where nothing was out of place except a yarn ball that obviously belonged to the cat. It had come with us into the room and jumped into a tall rocker that stood by the cold hearth.

“That was my husband’s favorite chair,” she told me, reaching down to touch the cat’s head. I could hear it purr from where I stood. “Toby remembers and often sits there of an evening. He’s company, he is.” Her Somerset accent was nearly impenetrable.

“Do you have children?” I asked.

“A daughter. I’ve sent Audrey away to live with my sister. I didn’t want her to hear what was being said about her father.”

It was my opening. I had wondered how to bring up such a difficult subject.

“For what it’s worth, Mrs. Wilson, I cannot in good conscience believe that your husband killed himself. I worked with him day in and day out, you see, and I knew how he felt about what he was doing. Yes, it was depressing work, sad work, often heartbreaking work, tending to the dead. But he took pride in doing it well and with respect.”