Charles Todd - An Unmarked Grave

“Yes, I’ve looked into that. There’s no doubt of it. But he had brothers, and one could have taken it into his head to exact a little revenge. I don’t want you to return to France for the time being. Not until we’ve located all six of them.”

“Revenge is one thing. Indiscriminate killing is another. Vincent Carson is dead. Why isn’t it finished?”

“That’s why I’ve been as careful as may be about any inquiries. I don’t want to start a witch hunt until we have a better idea of what’s going on. The Army is like Scotland Yard in one sense-any investigation is by its very nature official. And we’ve too little information, much less proof, to take that step.”

“I understand,” I said reluctantly. Still, the sooner we could get to the bottom of this affair, the sooner I could return to France.

“One more thing. I’ve spoke to the Carsons’ solicitors. There were no provisions in Vincent’s will for his sister or her offspring. But then the will was drawn up just before he left for France in the autumn of 1914. He’d have had no reason to add such a bequest at that stage. Morton hadn’t enlisted, the war was expected to end by Christmas, Sabrina was still in disgrace. There was a letter from Vincent to the solicitors after her child was born, indicating an intention on his part to provide for her straightaway. His solicitors drew up a proposal and sent it to France for his approval, but he never returned it. No one seems to know if the proposal was found with his personal effects. According to the solicitors, Julia was unaware of it, and so it was assumed that he must have changed his mind.”

“How sad.” I couldn’t help but wish that Julia had been sent her husband’s journal. There could be an entry in it that would make all the difference.

I’ve approved the proposal regarding Sabrina, but I haven’t sent it to London. I want to tell Julia and Valerie first, but there’s been no time to write…

But the entry could also have read, I had every intention of helping Sabrina, but Morton was at me again yesterday, wanting a sizable settlement instead. It has shown me how right my father was to have nothing to do with that match…

“Yes, very sad. All right, take me to Simon, if you will.” He put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “It will be over shortly, my dear. Meanwhile, best to keep you safe.”

I led him from Matron’s office to the surgical ward and presented Sister Randolph, who was on duty. He asked about her patients, and she gave him a brief report on their conditions. He thanked her, walked slowly down the row of cots, nodding to the men who were awake and pausing finally where Simon lay waiting. I heard the Colonel Sahib clear his throat, then say, “Well, Brandon, you’ve decided to live, have you?”

The officer lying next to Simon was awake as well, and he shifted his head toward the two men, curious and unabashedly listening. Men of my father’s rank were not often visitors here, nor did they know many of the patients by name.

I turned away as Simon lifted his left hand to take my father’s.

And then behind me I heard Simon’s voice begin speaking in Hindi, clearly, concisely, a soldier reporting to an officer. I couldn’t help but overhear some of it, but Sister Randolph was saying at my side, “Oh, how nice, he’s found someone who understands the same language.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” I replied, my ears pricked. What were they saying? For my father was answering, and then Simon’s voice responded with additional intelligence.

But even as I was listening with only half my attention on Sister Randolph’s chatter while trying to hear information I was not supposed to have, I felt guilty.

Behind me, my father swore feelingly in Urdu.

“Do you realize what you’re saying? And damn the War Office for keeping it from my people. It would have made a difference if I’d known.” He turned and glanced my way. I was already leading Sister Randolph away.

The conversation went on for another several minutes. Then my father said, “Heal. We need you.”

He was striding up the room toward Sister Randolph and me, and as he thanked her, he reached for my arm and guided me toward the door.

“Come with me. Let’s hope we don’t encounter Matron along the way.”

We didn’t. The staff was busy handing out medications, and Dr. Gaines was closeted with one of his patients. We walked calmly toward the door and out into the evening sunlight. I blinked. The Colonel Sahib led me down the short shallow steps and across the lawns to a bench set under a stand of trees.

“How much do you know about why Brandon was in France?”

I’d learned long since to tell my father the truth when it came to regimental business.

“Only a little,” I told him, adding, “It was the Gurkhas who brought him in after he was wounded. I never saw them, but suddenly he was there. I could guess that he’d been behind the German lines.”

I remembered too that I’d drugged him, to keep him quiet, when he’d asked specifically to get word to my father. A wash of guilt swept over me.

“What else?” My father turned his back on the clinic, his eyes on my face.

“There’s a German spy behind our lines. Or so Simon believed.”

“Go on.”

“And he was trying to find him. That’s why it was necessary to capture a German officer to question.”

“Yes. All right. You shouldn’t have overheard any of that, but no harm done. The question is now, who are we looking for? Who killed Carson and your Private Wilson, and Nurse Saunders? William Morton or one of his brothers? Or a German behind British lines looking for an identity.”

There had been talk of spies from the start. Even before the war began. German waiters in popular restaurants or staff in hotels were accused of spying. Professors and clerics and students from Germany were suspected. Even men from the north of England, whose accents were unfamiliar, found themselves stopped and questioned by overzealous citizens and policemen. The English coastline, broken by a thousand river mouths and inlets and hidden beaches, was always rife with speculation about spies being landed from submarines or small boats that had escaped the notice of the Royal Navy. There were even tales of spies being lowered from Zeppelins on misty nights and disappearing into the countryside. But was any of it true? Seeing monsters under the bed was one thing, real spies quite another.

“I don’t quite see what a spy has to gain,” I answered. “But if he exists, he must have spent some time in England. No one who spoke to this man we’re concerned with mentioned anything about him that would indicate that he was German. But there are his eyes, a very pale color. You’d think Berlin could find someone without any characteristic that would stand out.”

“Yes, well, this spy hunt is of course a secret. I haven’t been told anything about it officially. And apparently Simon was only given enough information to carry out his foray. In fact, he was ordered not to question his prisoner. But between us, I think we’ve begun to piece together enough to worry both of us.”

“Did he bring someone in?” I asked, curious.

“He says he did, and that when he was wounded in a rearguard action, the Gurkhas split up, half the company getting Simon to an aid station against all orders, and the rest taking the prisoner in.”

“They were to leave Simon?” I asked, shocked.

“They were to see that there were no wounded left behind who could be questioned by the Germans.” My father’s voice was grim.

Which meant that they were to kill any wounded who were in the way. It was a measure of their respect for the Sergeant-Major that they had disobeyed that order. It explained too why the Gurkhas left him at the nearest aid station and then vanished.