Charles Todd - An Unmarked Grave

But there had been no problem at home. I’d spoken to Mrs. Wilson.

“I don’t know that anyone could have helped him,” I said gently.

“Do you remember the onset of your symptoms?” she asked, turning back to me.

“Not really. Great fatigue, but we were all unbelievably tired, weren’t we? A headache, I think. Dizziness.”

“You told Sister Burrows that you felt cold, unable to warm yourself. And then you fainted. Your temperature climbed rapidly.”

Surprised, I said, “I don’t remember fainting. Or being so cold. But perhaps Dr. Harrison is right. Private Wilson knew what was coming and that he had to act quickly.”

“I’ve tried to comfort myself with that thought. But there will always be that little niggling doubt.”

There was no way I could assuage that sense of guilt. Not without telling her the whole truth. I could only agree that he was the last person I could imagine doing such a thing.

“We can’t read minds, can we?” She took a deep breath. “I was glad it was not my duty to write to his wife. Dr. Bennett broke the news as gently as he could. “

“I don’t remember Dr. Bennett,” I said.

“No? He’d hardly arrived here when he was ordered to another station. Three of their doctors died in the epidemic.” She finished her tea. “I must make my rounds,” she said. “And you are needed elsewhere. It was good of you to come and see me, Sister Crawford.”

And five minutes later, the ambulance, washed down and ready to go back the way we’d come, was there at the ward door.

I had remembered nothing useful by coming here, I thought as we bounced and skidded over the broken ground. All I had confirmed was that Private Wilson had indeed killed himself. Or so it appeared. And perhaps he had, after all.

And then as if once I’d stopped trying, the memories crowded in, memories I hadn’t looked for because I hadn’t remembered they were there.

The man with the bandaged shoulder. I’d been standing outside the ward for a moment on that last evening before I fell ill. Another Sister had joined me there, both of us struggling with exhaustion and hoping to find in the fresh air, away from the odors of death and disease, a brief, desperately needed renewal. Yes, and I could almost see again how stained and frayed the bandaging was. The man had gone into the small, makeshift canteen, and I’d wanted to stop him and tell him to see to that wound before it turned septic beneath the filthy dressing.

Had he?

For that matter, was it truly a hasty field dressing? Or was it a disguise? There were so many men coming and going, all of them wounded, that one more hardly warranted notice.

With two sisters standing not twenty feet away, why hadn’t he come to either of us to ask for help?

Sister, I’ve been waiting two hours or more, and nobody’s had a look at this shoulder. I’m fair famished for my tea, but it’s hurting like the very devil-begging your pardon, Sister-and I’m that light-headed from the pain…

We could have brought him his tea while the wound was being seen to. Why had he turned away?

There had been two officers passing by, limping.

Were they the reason he’d turned aside? Because he wasn’t wounded after all and had just put a dead man in the shed, where he should never have been found by Private Wilson or seen by me?

It was a shocking possibility.

“Stop!” I said to the driver of the ambulance. “We must go back. I-I’ve forgot to pick up something for Dr. Hicks.”

We had not come so great a distance that we couldn’t turn back, but ambulances were badly needed at the Front, and as the driver was reminding me, I ought not be using one for personal errands. But the question I needed to ask Matron would only take a moment, no more. Unless, of course, the Sister was still there.

Grumbling, my driver did as he was told, motioning the remainder of the convoy to continue on its way and reversing as soon as he could. I sat there, trying to recall which sister I’d been talking with. So much of those last few hours before my collapse seemed to be shrouded in a haze.

Sister Burrows, that was it. I’d liked her. We’d worked very well together.

The driver stopped not far from the ward where Matron had her office, and said, “I shan’t turn off the motor.”

A reminder that time was passing. I splashed through the muddy, torn yard and scraped my shoes before knocking at her door.

“Come,” she called, and I stepped in.

“Sister Crawford?” she said, surprised to see me. “Is there an emergency?”

“I had forgot-I have a message for Sister Burrows.” It was the only thing I could think of to explain my returning so impetuously.

Matron frowned, emphasizing how much these last weeks had aged her. “Didn’t you know? She died of the influenza not a week after you left us.”

I didn’t know what to say. Stammering, I finally replied, “No. I hadn’t been told.” Remembering my hasty improvisation, I added, “Nor had the young Lieutenant. I’m so very sorry.”

“She was a fine nurse,” Matron agreed. “She kept you alive, I think, until the crisis came. It was devotion to duty more than hope, but here you stand, living proof of her skill.”

“Did-did nursing me contribute to her own illness?”

“I doubt it. Like you when the influenza struck, she had been on her feet for nearly thirty-six hours working with a new convoy of the infected, although the doctor had told her to take a few hours for sleep. They had turned the corner, most of them, when she fainted outside my door. That too is to her credit.”

“I shall write to her family,” I said. “Thank you, Matron.”

I had turned to the door when her next words stopped me in my tracks. “You’re the second person this week who has asked for her.”

I forced myself to turn again slowly. “Who was he?” I asked.

“How did you know it was a man?” Matron demanded, the frown returning.

“I assumed it must be a patient. Or a former patient.”

“Yes, I see. It was rather odd. His name was Prescott, he said. Colonel Prescott. He told me Sister Burrows had nursed his son, and that he’d come to thank her. It’s always possible, of course, that he has a son in the Army. But Colonels seldom arrive without an entourage.” She regarded me. “Not related to your young Lieutenant, by any chance, is he? I’d feel more comfortable if he were.”

The last thing I wanted was to claim a connection with him. “I think not. My young Lieutenant was named Hennessey, and he came from her village.” I could feel myself flushing as I lied so boldly.

“I expect Sister Burrows is the only one who could have told us what this was about.”

“Do you recall what he looked like? The Colonel?”

“Prescott? Mustache. Dark hair. Very cold gray or perhaps blue eyes. I noticed them in particular. Possibly an inch or so short of six feet. A bulky man.”

I tried to remember what I’d seen of the man with the bandaged shoulder. Surely he’d been fair?

I shook my head. “I don’t think I remember a Prescott in our ward. Perhaps the son was one of those she nursed after I’d gone to England. Did you look at the lists?” We kept records of our patients. I was praying she would tell me he was there.

“No, the Colonel explained that his son was carried to the aid station where Sister Burrows had served before coming here. He’d had difficulty tracking her down, that’s why it had taken so long to speak to her, he said.”

“That could be true,” I replied, thinking aloud. “Still, I’d have thought he was too busy to come in person.”

“I wondered myself. But it’s possible he’s a better officer than he gave me the impression of being.”