Charles Todd - An Unmarked Grave

It was several minutes before anyone appeared.

Surely even at this hour someone was awake, acting as porteress.

I knocked again, glancing anxiously over my shoulder. And I was just in time to see a figure sliding quickly into the deeper shadows of another doorway some four houses away.

More frightened than I cared to admit-for myself and for the nuns inside-I tried to think what to do. Screaming wouldn’t help, and if I left the convent, I would be vulnerable with nowhere to turn.

I was on the point of leaving when the convent door opened at last and the elderly nun standing there said, “My dear,” in French. “We were at our devotions. Is anything wrong?”

I glanced again at the spot where I’d seen the figure disappear. And at that same instant, he stepped out of the shadows and lifted a hand in salute before turning back the way I had come.

Captain Barclay had followed me-and while I was in a way glad of his protection, I was also angry with him for not staying safely in the hotel where I’d thought I’d left him.

“Who is that man?” the nun asked, peering after him.

“He’s an orderly. He wished to be sure I was safe, late as it is. As it turned out, my transport was delayed.”

“How very kind of him,” she said, nodding. “But do come in, my dear, out of the damp air. It will do you no good.”

I smiled and thanked her, and followed her into the kitchen, where a light still burned. There she saw me clearly for the first time and said, shocked, “But what has happened to you!”

I had forgot how disheveled I must appear. “A motorcar came along,” I answered, trying to stay as close to the truth as I could, “and in my effort to avoid him in the narrow street, I slipped and fell into a shrubbery.”

“You must wash your face and hands. And brush your hair. I will see to your garments. You can’t leave us in the morning, looking like this. It would not be proper.”

I thanked her again, and very shortly afterward, she saw me to the room I’d used earlier, offered me a warmed nightdress again, and gently closed the door.

Feeling a little better, I thought I might sleep. Instead, I tossed and turned, my mind unsettled over what to do.

I refused to eat breakfast in the morning, knowing how little the nuns had to spare, and hurried back to the hotel where I had left Captain Barclay. In the early light I could read the sign-L’HOTEL DE LILLE-and I stepped inside to find the clerk, a heavy man in his late fifties, just coming back on duty.

I said briskly, “Would you please tell my orderly, Private Barclay, that Sister Crawford is waiting for him in Reception?”

The clerk smiled, offered me a chair, and went up the stairs. After a few minutes, he came down again.

“The Private is not in his room.”

“Not-has he come down for breakfast already?”

“I regret to say, it appears he has not slept in his room. I opened the door when there was no response.” He shrugged. “He was not dressed properly. I thought perhaps he was… not what he appeared to be.”

Taking that in, I said, “May I see for myself?”

“But of course, Mademoiselle.” He escorted me up the stairs to the second floor and a room that overlooked the street. It was simple-a bed, an elderly wardrobe, a chair, and a table that could be used for meals or as a desk. The bed hadn’t been turned down, and even the counterpane was smooth. No one had even sat down upon it. I could see that for myself.

“When did you last see my orderly?” I asked.

“He took a room, went up the stairs, and in a moment had come back down again, going out at once.”

To follow me through the streets.

“And then?”

“I went to bed, Mademoiselle.”

“Yes, of course.”

I thanked the clerk and went down the stairs again, thinking furiously.

What had become of Captain Barclay? Surely he hadn’t been set upon in the streets after leaving me safely at the convent door!

Was he lying hurt somewhere? But I’d taken the same route from the hotel and back to it this morning. I hadn’t seen anything to arouse my suspicions.

Outside once more, I debated, and then finally went to the nearest police station, to ask if there had been any trouble in the area during the previous night.

“My orderly was to meet me this morning. He’s missing,” I explained.

But there had been no trouble, no arrests, no calls for assistance. The gendarme in charge assured me that it had been a quiet night. “They often are, Mademoiselle. There is little money for drunkenness and even less to steal.”

I nodded, then asked where someone would be taken if he had been found injured on the street. “If he was English, Mademoiselle, he would most likely be carried to the American Base Hospital.”

“Yes, of course.”

Once more I was back in the street, this time on my way to the American Base Hospital in what used to be Rouen’s handsome racetrack.

The orderly minding the gates was yawning prodigiously as he stretched, as if it were past time for him to be relieved.

I asked him if an American or British or Canadian soldier had been brought in during the night. “Someone found injured on the street, perhaps?”

“There’s been a convoy of wounded, Sister, but only nine men this journey. All from sector aid stations. No one else has been brought in since well before midnight.”

Then where had Captain Barclay got to?

I thanked him and went to find the officer in charge of the port.

He couldn’t help me at first, and then he spoke to his sergeant, on the off chance there was any information that hadn’t yet been officially reported.

The Sergeant, eyeing me with interest, said, “There was an orderly who couldn’t account for himself wandering the streets last night. He’s been taken up for desertion. I’ve sent to the Base Hospital to ask if he’s one of theirs and what we should do with him. So far there’s been no answer. And that’s been several hours.”

“Taken up for-” I exclaimed. It was the last thing that had crossed my mind. “Could I see this man, please?”

“It’s a military matter, Sister,” the officer told me politely. “He isn’t the person you’re looking for.”

“Yes, I understand about the military matter,” I said. “But I must also locate my missing orderly before I report to my own sector. If you have him, then I can explain why he isn’t with me.”

“What was he doing in the streets of Rouen, then? If he’d come in with the wounded, why didn’t he say as much?” The officer was losing patience with me.

“I don’t know. He’d been hurt himself.”

“In a fight most likely,” the Sergeant muttered. “We had a-there was a spot of trouble bringing him in.”

I stood there, waiting. Finally the officer said, “All right, Sergeant Brent. Take her to him. If she does know him, we’ll have a name, and then we can find out what he’s running from.”

I wanted to tell the Major that this particular man was resisting arrest because he was to meet me in the morning at the Hotel de Lille. But that would never do.

The Sergeant led me through the maze of the port to the small square building where miscreants and deserters were held until their situation could be determined. As I neared it, the odor of urine, stale spirits, cigarette smoke, and unwashed bodies struck me.

Three of the men incarcerated here were, the Sergeant told me, drunk and disorderly. He asked me to wait outside, and after a moment he brought out a reluctant Captain Barclay, who blinked in the watery morning light and then recognized me. There were new bruises and scrapes on his face, but I read the message in his eyes quite clearly.

Watch yourself.