Charles Todd - An Unmarked Grave

The ambulance rocked and swayed over the debris, and I feared we would never extract it again just as Barclay turned off the motor and silence fell. I could have sworn I heard a cricket somewhere, it was so quiet.

“All right,” he said, turning to me, his face a pale mask in the darkness and oddly sinister. “I’m sorry there was no chance to explain before this. I was told I didn’t know you. I suspected the Sergeant-Major’s touch there. Necessity or precaution or jealousy.” The mask split into a white grin in the shadows.

“How is Simon?” I asked anxiously.

“I didn’t see him, to tell the truth.”

And that worried me. Surely if he were well enough, Simon would have been consulted.

“Then how did you become involved in this? What did they tell you? Dr. Gaines and my father?”

“Dr. Gaines had been sent for. He must have told your father that I’d accompanied you to Nether Thornton and then to the Gorge.”

“But you’d spoken to my father once. When I was sailing to France. You told him where to meet me.”

“That was sheer luck. Bess, I called the War Office. They found him, wherever he was, and passed on my message. Apparently they thought I was the Sergeant-Major. The Colonel had a few words to say about that when we spoke again.”

I could just imagine how annoyed my father was. The relationship with Simon was sacrosanct. He wouldn’t have appreciated Captain Barclay’s efforts, however well intentioned.

“At any rate, your father asked if I was fit enough for duty and if I’d take on a hazardous assignment. I was to report directly to him. Or if I couldn’t reach him, then to your mother.”

I’d told Simon about my companion on those journeys. Was it he who’d remembered?

“What did they tell you? How did they explain that I might be in danger?”

I still wasn’t prepared to trust this man.

“The Colonel told me the truth. At least I had the feeling he did.”

“What did they tell you?” I asked again, trying not to sound impatient.

“That someone had been murdered and you were the only witness who could testify to that. The trouble was, the killer knew you, but you couldn’t identify him as easily. That you were in danger. Well, by God, they were right. I heard about what happened just before I got there, and if I get my hands on that-on whoever it is, I’ll kill him myself.” The grin had disappeared like the smile of the Cheshire Cat, and I could feel the tension in the man across from me, a deep-seated anger that was like a flare of warmth in the ambulance.

“At any rate,” he went on after collecting himself, “when they spoke to me, I jumped at the chance. I’d rather be back with my men, but if that’s out of the question, I’ll use this assignment to prove that I’m ready to fight again.”

“Going over the top is not easy with a bad leg,” I said. “You know that as well as I do.”

“Yes, I can get others killed if I’m a burden,” he said impatiently. “That’s been brought home to me. But your father saw to it that I was given a background that wouldn’t make anyone suspicious. And your father asked me to give you this.”

He moved in the darkness and his hand stretched out toward me. In the palm lay the little pistol that Simon had given me once before. I recognized it immediately.

“My father? Not Simon himself?”

“I never saw the Sergeant-Major, Bess.”

I bit my lip. Once before I’d been afraid that bad news was being kept from me. I had that feeling again. Had Simon not lived to reach England? Had he lost that arm?

I looked down at the little pistol. Nurses were not permitted to carry weapons, but this time, remembering my feeling of helplessness when that arm had come around my throat and how lucky I was that I’d been able to kick the water pail, then scream, I touched it with my fingertips and then settled it carefully in the pocket of my uniform.

Captain Barclay was saying, “Better to wing him, Bess. Your father wants him alive.”

“But who is he?” I asked. “Why did he-what reason could he have for attacking me? I’ve never made an official report of any kind.” I wanted to know precisely how much my father had told the Captain.

“It appears he killed one Major Carson, who was in your father’s old regiment. And that he’s willing to kill again to protect himself. That woman. The one who lived near the Gorge. Apparently he’d killed her husband as well. The orderly who had discovered the Major’s body.”

Finally satisfied, I nodded. “He must be in the Army. He would have to be to reach the Major and then to attack me. One can’t simply take the next ferry across the Channel.”

“Yes, that was your father’s theory. They don’t know what rank he actually holds. But it’s easy enough out here to kill someone and steal a uniform. One unmarked grave more or less wouldn’t be noticed.”

But one couldn’t murder a Major without a flag going up. He’d be missed. A private soldier wouldn’t.

What’s more, whoever this was had been able to carry off the masquerade as Colonel Prescott. Both in person and in the contents of the letter he’d written Julia Carson. I wondered how many roles as a military officer William Morton had played on the stage. Shakespeare was filled with them, seventeenth- and eighteenth-century plays as well. Gilbert and Sullivan had created lively military characters. Productions had come out to India and were amazingly popular.

But then Matron had questioned Colonel Prescott’s manner-something had made her uneasy. Of course until I asked questions, Matron had kept her doubts to herself. Had I allayed her suspicions-or would she at some point bring them up with someone else?

Matron. I felt a chill. She’d seen his face. But he’d made no effort to harm her. Why? Had there been no opportunity? Or did he think she could wait?

Captain Barclay was adding grimly, “Something could have happened in the trenches between this man and Carson. Not everyone out here is a gallant soldier serving King and Country.”

I’d heard stories of shooting unpopular officers in the back when the opportunity presented itself. Charging across No Man’s Land is a chancy business at best, and it would be easy, firing at the enemy, to find one’s nemesis in the crosshairs.

If Sabrina had been cut off without a farthing when she married her actor, there could very well be hard feelings against Vincent for not doing more for her when the elder Carson died.

But Vincent hadn’t been shot in the back; his neck had been broken.

Captain Barclay gingerly climbed out and restarted the ambulance. “We’ve delayed long enough. They’ll begin to wonder, up ahead.”

The overworked motor coughed and struggled for several seconds before finally turning over properly. Captain Barclay reversed gingerly, the wheel jerking in his hands, and then we were safely back on what passed for a road. I stopped a sigh of relief, but I had a feeling he felt the same way.

We traveled in silence for a time.

I said, “Someone knew I was at the aid station. I don’t see how he could.”

“It shouldn’t be that difficult.” He turned to me in the darkness. “ ‘My sister’s at a forward aid station.’ Or ‘I served under Colonel Crawford before he retired. Is it true his daughter’s a nurse out here?’ Word gets around.”

And so it had last winter, when I’d asked for information about convents that took in French orphans. The answer had come back to me in the most unexpected way.

“Then I’m still at risk. But he won’t try to kill me at the aid station here. Not again. For one thing, I’m carefully watched. All the sisters are. But my next posting-or on the way to it-I’ll be vulnerable.”