Charles Todd - An Unmarked Grave

One was the vehicle that I’d last seen hurtling down the long line of hawthorn trees from the Baldwin house, and the other was the familiar motorcar my father drove.

My heart sank.

I was too late to prevent the encounter that I’d dreaded for the past seven hours.

I BRAKED, THEN pulled Dr. Gaines’s motorcar into the shelter of a stand of rhododendron, which more or less hid it from view. If anyone was watching for it, I’d already been seen, but I didn’t care. All I could think of was my father.

I reached the door without being challenged. And I stood there, listening for voices, something to guide me to him.

There was only silence inside.

I’d already stepped into the hall when I heard my father’s voice from somewhere inside. He was alive. The relief was overwhelming.

“I assure you, I have no influence over Sandhurst. If you failed to pass the standards set by the staff, I can neither change nor appeal their ruling in any way.”

“You were there,” another voice replied. “On the day I washed out. I saw you. Captain Baldwin didn’t want me to marry his daughter, and the best way to go about that was to see that I was not allowed to finish the course.”

“You give me far too much credit,” my father said drily. “But that’s neither here nor there. Why did you try to kill my daughter? Because she discovered the body of Major Carson?”

“Did she, by God” was the answer. “No, I saw to it that the man who did was removed. I wanted her for the same reason I killed Carson. To diminish you as you’d diminished me. Besides, he’d married a woman named Julia, and every time I looked at him, promising officer, darling of the regiment, I hated him.”

“Indeed,” my father said, in a tone of voice I knew all too well. He was deeply, furiously angry. “Carson. Private Wilson. Nurse Saunders. That’s quite a list.”

“You’ve forgot Palmer. I killed him as well.”

“Did you? Odd that I’ve never been told he was dead.”

My father’s voice had come from his study. If I called to him, would Mitchell shoot? Or wait for me to walk into the room?

I could feel the weight of the little pistol in my pocket. If I used it, I would very likely not kill Mitchell, but if I fired first, I could very likely incapacitate him.

Where was Captain Barclay? Was he inside the house yet? Or still trying to find his way up from the kitchen? I began to walk as silently as I could down toward the study door. I knew the spots where the floors creaked, and my father was speaking, covering any slight sound I might make.

And then I was by the door. It was open. I wished I knew where Sergeant Mitchell was standing.

He spoke and his voice was loud now. I realized he must be very close.

“If you have any prayers to say, now is the time. You might wish to pray for your wife and daughter. I will find them, you know.”

I looked around the edge of the door. My father was seated at his desk. The Sergeant’s back was to me, but I could tell he held a revolver in his right hand, the barrel just visible from where I stood.

My father, long used to danger, never registered my presence.

I brought out the small pistol, lifted it, and took aim.

I was almost too late.

My shot was fired a matter of seconds before the Sergeant’s and it went into the shoulder of the arm holding the revolver. He jerked but pulled the trigger anyway, and I heard my father bite off a cry as the heavier bullet struck home.

I was already taking aim again, this time with every intention of killing the man before me. But before the Sergeant could turn to face me, there was another shot from behind me, this time the report of a service revolver. It spun Sergeant Mitchell around, and the expression on his face was anger mixed with surprise.

And then he dropped like a stone.

I was already crossing the room to reach the Colonel Sahib. I couldn’t see where he’d been shot, there was no blood yet, but he was looking down at his chest. I thought he must be dying. I wouldn’t allow it, I refused to accept it.

Behind me Captain Barclay said, “He’s all right, Bess.”

In the same instant my father looked up. He smiled at me and said, “That was too damned close for comfort.”

I stared as he put a finger into a tidy little hole in his uniform just to the side of his chest. Sergeant Mitchell’s shot had gone wide and to the left.

And then he was getting to his feet, holding out his arms to me, and without a word, I went to him.

“I’m all right, my love, truly I am,” he said, holding me close.

But Sergeant Mitchell was not.

Captain Barclay was already bending over him, and I left my father to kneel beside the wounded man.

Morton came in just then, hobbling toward the desk, and Trelawney was on his heels.

Without looking up, my hands busy with the Sergeant’s tunic, I said, “There’s a doctor in the village. Near the inn called The Four Doves. Quickly!”

Trelawney said tersely, “I’ll go.”

It was my duty to do for this man whatever I could, to save his life if it was within my power. I’d worked over German prisoners and felt no rancor. But as I touched his flesh, I had to shut my mind to what he had done to me and to my father, to a kindly man like Private Wilson, and even Nurse Saunders, who had tried to be helpful and leave a message for his passenger, or that tired courier who carried orders and dispatches behind the lines. If he wanted the world to believe that his love for Julia Baldwin had driven him to murder, then he was a liar. Mrs. Campbell, who had committed adultery and been divorced by her husband, knew more about love than Ralph Mitchell. But I very badly wanted him to survive and be tried for what he had done. Nothing less would take away the stigma of suicide from Private Wilson’s death or the charge of desertion from Major Carson’s good name. And so my mind and not my heart guided my hands.

The wound I had inflicted-in the shoulder-was bleeding but not serious. The chest wound-Captain Barclay’s shot-was far more dangerous and I was hard-pressed to stop the hemorrhaging. By the time I had succeeded, Trelawney had brought Dr. Everett from the village, and we worked side by side for nearly half an hour and still the Sergeant wasn’t stable.

I was aware, once, of my father leaning over my shoulder to see what was being done. I heard a quiet “Hmmpf,” which gave no indication of what he was thinking. After a moment he touched my arm gently, and then ushered everyone out of the study but the doctor and me.

I spared an anxious thought for Hugh Morton. It was very likely that my father was now hearing an account from Trelawney of that long journey from Dorset, and even if he suspected who Private Morton was, he would say nothing in front of the others. But Trelawney knew. And I was afraid that Captain Barclay might see some resemblance to Ross Morton in the son’s face and jump to the right conclusion. He was already suspicious. But there was nothing I could do. I worked in concert with Dr. Everett, following his lead. It was touch-and-go. I thought twice that we’d lost the Sergeant, but then he struggled to breathe again and his pulse steadied.

It wasn’t until the doctor got to his feet and said, “I expect that will have to do,” that I was even certain the patient was going to live.

Dr. Everett looked around, as if suddenly aware that we were in the Colonel Sahib’s study, and he added, “Let him rest for a little while, and then we’ll shift him to my surgery until it’s safe to take him farther afield. Your father seems to prefer Dr. Gaines’s clinic at Longleigh for difficult cases. I can’t say that I blame him.”

“Perhaps London would be best, when he’s ready to be moved,” I said diplomatically. “My father will have sent for Constable Medford, but I believe he considers this an Army matter.”