Charles Todd - An Unmarked Grave

“That’s fair. If it’s possible to clear Private Wilson’s name of the charge of suicide, I’ll find it. In his own way, he’d been a very brave man.” A thought struck me. “What was the date of his death? Do you know?”

With reluctance, Simon told me. It was the night after I fell ill.

“Where did Private Wilson come from? Before the war?” I was ashamed that I didn’t know, had never thought to ask.

“From Cheddar Gorge. Or just outside it, to be more accurate.”

And Cheddar Gorge was also in Somerset. It explained, perhaps, why he had chosen to confide in me rather than go directly to Matron. I’d have sworn he didn’t know, hadn’t recognized the dead man. But how fallible was my memory? I hadn’t been watching Private Wilson’s face. What’s more, he’d seen that of the corpse before I had.

The trouble was, there was so little to go on. Only my belief that Private Wilson wouldn’t have killed himself and the timing of his death.

Simon waited as I digested that.

Another thought crossed my mind, and immediately I was ashamed of it. But I had to know.

I searched his face. Was this a conspiracy to force me to choose Somerset for myself? But Simon had never lied to me. He wouldn’t have lied about Private Wilson’s death or where he lived. Even to convince me that I had every reason to go to Somerset.

I got up and walked a little way on my own. Simon stayed where he was, on the bench by the parapet. His gaze was on the confection that was the pier, for all the world an exotic place, filled with wonders, but in fact it was only a way for those visiting the seaside to amuse themselves.

I wanted desperately to go back to France. But setting that aside, could I spend a week or two at the clinic, as everyone seemed to want me to do? It would permit me to learn something about Major Carson and Private Wilson. Going back to France sooner might put me closer to where events had taken place, but I’d be walking blindly into something I knew little about, uncertain where to put my trust. And if murder had been done, I’d be vulnerable.

It shouldn’t take too long, should it, to learn what I needed to know and then ask to be sent back to France?

Simon had put my letter into his pocket. I didn’t feel I could ask him to return it. On the other hand, if I’d written it once, I could write it again when the time came. And I wouldn’t be putting Simon squarely in the middle.

I paced as far as the pier, then turned and walked back again. Simon was standing by the parapet now, his gaze on the hotel. He didn’t want to read in my face what decision I had made. And I realized in that moment how worried he was, how much my return to France concerned him.

There were very few things that frightened Simon Brandon. It was a measure of how much he cared for me that he couldn’t face me now.

I said when I’d reached him, “It appears that my decision has been taken out of my hands. The clinic in Somerset it is.”

His relief was well concealed, but still I saw it.

“This doesn’t mean that I won’t go back to France, Simon. You do understand that.”

“Yes” was all he said.

As he offered me his arm for the walk back to the hotel, I thought perhaps things had turned out for the best.

It was difficult to be at odds with those I loved.

But the time would surely come when I’d have to face making the decision again.

SHORTLY AFTER MY parents returned from the Major’s memorial service, we set out for the clinic in Somerset. No one mentioned my about-face on serving there. It would have been gloating, and my parents would never do that.

We spent one night at home, and the following morning it was my father who drove me to my next posting.

I asked, to pass the time, how he had felt about the memorial service.

“Difficult at best, of course. But I think it went off rather well, and it gave Julia Carson a little comfort. He’s buried in France, you know. Vincent.”

“I remember him before he met Julia. He was half in love with Mother for a time.”

My father chuckled. “So he was. But then a good part of the regiment thought they were in love with her. Your mother has an air about her that binds men to her.”

“Did you know his family well? I remember Vincent’s father as a rather stern man. On one visit he found me in an upstairs passage, looking for Mother, and he quick-marched me back to the Nursery, ordering Nurse to see that I stayed there.”

“Did he indeed? He was a barrister, a formidable opponent in a courtroom, but outside of it he had a stiff manner that sometimes put people off. Vincent confided to me that it was a great shock to his father when his only son chose the Army over the Law. He’d assumed that Vincent would be eager to follow in his footsteps, and for a time he blamed me for that decision. His mother, on the other hand, was from Devon, her family connected with the Raleighs in some way, I think. She was known for her good works and her flame-red hair. A beauty in her day. She was very fond of your mother. Do you remember her?”

“She’d carry me off to the kitchen, where they looked after me until Nurse could fetch me. There were small cakes, iced in different colors. And a cream cake with a rum and sultana sauce for tea.”

“Rum?” he asked, his brows flying up. “I never heard of that.”

I laughed. “Yes, well, I was sworn to secrecy. It was quite lovely, actually.”

Odd that Vincent Carson had married just the opposite woman-pretty, but not a beauty, and a homebody. Her fame, such as it was, lay in her gardens, where she enjoyed spending hours, to the despair of her gardener. She had wanted children, a house full of them. But there hadn’t been any. And wouldn’t be now.

“The Major had two sisters. They were a little older than I, and treated me with kindness.”

There had been some gossip about that amongst the women from the garrison in India who called on my mother from time to time. One of Vincent’s sisters had married beneath her, causing a family breach. The other had married well, her husband something to do with banking in Bristol.

“Do you think-if my duties allowed-that I could call on Julia? Not right away, of course. But I’d like to do that, unless she’s not receiving visitors yet.”

“I think she’d be delighted to see you.”

It was clear from what my father was saying that Simon hadn’t told him about my belief that the Major had been murdered. I was grateful.

Medford Longleigh was a small village in the rolling country that led to the Cotswolds, and high brick walls kept the houses and shops from sliding downhill into the road. They gave a very secretive air to the village, but in fact it had been the only way the area could be settled. The clinic was in Longleigh House, which was just on the outskirts, where the twisting main road straightened itself out for a quarter of a mile or more, allowing the gates to the park to appear to be even more stately than they were. Tall, capped with stone, then curving down in a graceful sweep to connect to the walls that surrounded the grounds, they promised a grand house ahead.

And the promise was fulfilled. Three stories high with an elegant roofline, tall chimneys, and a wing set to either side, the house was lovely. Stone faced the windows, and the portico was Grecian, with wide steps leading down to the drive.

My first thought was that if I’d lived here, I’d have found it hard to give it up to the Army and the hordes of doctors, nursing sisters, orderlies, and patients who inhabited it now. Of course it was the size that had made it ideal for a convalescent clinic. It could accommodate dozens of wounded and the staff to serve them.