A Pattern of Lies (28 page)

He was too exhausted to respond, but as he closed his eyes again, there was a glimmer of relief in them.

My next visitor arrived very early in the morning, just as I was crossing to the canteen for my last meal before finding my cot. It had been a long night, and I had lost a patient. My spirits were sunk well down into my boots as I walked through a light drizzle toward the canteen door.

“Bess.”

I turned. It was Simon. I was so glad to see him I didn't at first know what to say.

Hurrying toward the large tree where he was standing, I realized how very tired he looked.

“Are you all right?” I asked, suddenly worried for him. This influenza could find any weakness in the body's defenses, and fatigue was one of the worst.

“I haven't slept in three days,” he said ruefully. “I was sent over to find out who killed Sergeant Rollins. Did the Colonel not tell you?”

I shook my head. “Come and have some tea. And a biscuit. We can talk inside. The canteen is almost deserted at this hour.”

I took his arm and we walked side by side toward the door. There were only two other ­people in the room, not counting the sleepy night staff behind the counter. Choosing a table by one of the back windows where I thought we might not be disturbed, I asked for two cups of tea and a plate of sandwiches.

We sat down in silence, waiting until they were brought to us. The tea was fresh and hot, but the sandwiches were dry. Nevertheless, Simon tucked into them with the appetite of a hungry man.

“I haven't been able to reach my father,” I said quietly when we were alone. “He's been in the north. At least that's what he told me. I received one telegram telling me only that Sergeant Rollins had been killed. Nothing after that. When I telephoned Somerset, Iris told me that Mother was driving into London to pick up my father at the station.”

“He sent you a second telegram. I expect it was delayed for military traffic or is still waiting for you in Kent. The doctor who examined the sergeant's body told his commanding officer that it was not a sniper's shot that brought him down. It was a regular issue Army rifle cartridge. And someone from his tank swore that he'd been shot by one of his own men. But no one knows who.”

“I think I do,” I said, feeling a little better as I sipped my tea. I was hoping Simon felt the same. “It was Sergeant Lassiter who told me that very likely the shot had come from our own lines. And then he told me that the sergeant had spoken just before he died.”

“Yes, that message was relayed to London. It will be sent to the King in due course.”

“But it's not what they thought it was, Simon.” I put down my cup. “He said the word three times.
Britain
. Everyone took it to mean that he was dying for Britain. A very brave last word from a hero. They didn't know what I did. That a man named Britton had tried to kill me—­”

Simon's head came up, his eyes intent on mine. “You never said anything about this to your father. I'd have heard.”

“He attacked the wrong Sister. She was given the room that was listed as mine, because she arrived earlier than expected and her own room wasn't ready. They're all alike. Ordinarily it wouldn't matter. This night it did. She screamed and fought, and one of the night guards heard her. When he got there, she was scratched and coughing but very much alive. It was put down to a drunken orderly, but no one ever found him, as far as I know.” I went on to describe the cushion that I'd discovered and dissected, then explained about the sleepwalking trench foot case. “I suspected then that he had some connection with Kent. Corporal Britton. He was from Devon but he was serving with The Buffs. He once served as batman to an officer. At a guess, when that officer was killed, he went back to his regiment and was eventually promoted in the field.”

Simon had once been my father's batman, his military servant.

“Yes, that sounds logical. But what has he to do with Sergeant Rollins?”

“I suspect he'd already attempted to kill the sergeant, but missed his shot. I tried to warn Rollins to be careful, but he felt he could take care of himself. Apparently when the first attempt failed, someone tried again. Sergeant Rollins was the only witness when the Ashton Powder Mill went up and then burned. The Army interviewed him. But now Philip Ashton is about to go on trial for murdering the men who died in that explosion and fire. And no one wanted to bring Sergeant Rollins back to question him again. The Army was only interested in saboteurs. Rollins himself refused to return to Kent when I proposed that he ask for leave to testify.” I gave Simon an account of what the sergeant had told me. “So it's very likely that Sergeant Rollins's death and the attack on me are connected, and the only possible connection is the Ashton family.”

“I'm confused. Why should Britton be involved with that? Did he ever work for the mill?”

“According to Mrs. Ashton, he didn't. I don't know his connection. Not yet. But if you can find him, you can question him about it. It might be the only way to learn why Rollins had to die.”

“That's very helpful, Bess. It should make my task much easier.”

“You'd better hurry,” I told him. “Sergeant Lassiter has put out word that he wants Britton rather badly.”

Simon said grimly, “He'll have to find him before I do.”

“What has happened with the black aircraft? I haven't heard anything about it since I got back to France.”

“He's down. Crashed behind his own lines. Word has it that his leg was broken in the crash, and he won't be flying again. A pity. He was a fine pilot.”

I thought about Alex Craig, who wouldn't fly again either. “Why is it soldiers always respect the abilities of their enemies?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

Simon grinned. “That's how we came to have the Gurkha battalions. They were such fine enemies, we decided to recruit them for our own ranks.”

I'd been brought up on the stories.

Simon finished his tea. “Thanks for this. I feel much better.” He looked better as well. “I must go.” He got to his feet.

We walked to the door, and as we opened it, Matron came in. She looked at me, at the tall man beside me in his uniform of a Sergeant-­Major, and she frowned.

I had to think fast.

I smiled. “Matron. May I present Sergeant-­Major Brandon? He's just brought me word from Colonel Crawford. I haven't been able to reach my father for some time. It was worrying.”

She knew, of course, who my father was. I had never kept it particularly secret, but I hadn't used it to my advantage either.

“Indeed,” she said, smiling up at Simon. “Give the Colonel my regards, please, Sergeant-­Major.”

“Thank you, Matron. Sister Crawford, I'll escort you to the hospital before leaving.”

“Thank you.”

We escaped without a lecture from Matron. Out of earshot, I said, “Between you and Sergeant Lassiter, I shall have no reputation left by the time the war ends.”

I expected him to smile with me. Instead, his eyes were bleak.

“It will be an Armistice, Bess. Not a victory.”

An Armistice. After all the bloodshed and the suffering. It hardly seemed worth four years of fighting to end in a draw.

Well. It would be over. That's what mattered.

“Keep in touch,” I said as he prepared to leave. “And find Britton.”

And then he was gone, my connection with home and my parents gone with him.

I was the attending Sister in surgery when they brought in a man who had been battered almost beyond recognition.

The doctor working on a shattered leg was cursing under his breath as he looked at the incision he'd just made.

“He'll never walk again,” he said grimly. “Not with this leg.”

But I wondered if he would survive at all, whether whatever had happened to this soldier was too traumatic to survive. There must surely be severe concussion . . .

We worked well into the night before the doctor straightened his back and said, “All right. Take him to recovery. We'll just have to wait and see.”

I removed my apron and went to wash my hands. Another Sister came to wheel away the stretcher on which the patient was lying.

The doctor turned to me. “Get yourself some food, Sister. It's well after dinner.”

I thanked him and took his advice, crossing through the cold, clear air to the canteen. For some reason I was reminded of sitting here with Simon, and I went to that table with my meal. I was too tired to eat anything, instead letting the quiet seep through me and trying to summon the strength to take my dishes back to the counter.

Sister Anderson came in just then, asking for tea, and then bringing it over to where I was sitting. I really didn't feel like talking to anyone, but it was clear that she needed company.

“Captain Taylor died.” It was a stark comment.

“I am so sorry,” I said. I knew how she felt. That sense of helplessness in the face of death. “He seemed to be better this morning.”

“Yes, that's what's so hard, isn't it?” She put her head in her hands for a moment. “You'd think, wouldn't you, that it would be easier after a while. But it isn't.” After a moment or two, she raised her head and reached for her cup. “What has kept you up this late?”

“A surgical case was brought in earlier.” We were an influenza hospital, but we couldn't turn away emergencies. “I don't know if he's going to live.”

“The corporal? I saw the ambulance that brought him in. What happened to him?”

“I wasn't told.”

“I looked at the chart earlier. Someone found him in one of the communication trenches, but it wasn't his own sector. No one quite knows how he got there.”

“It looked as if someone had attacked him. Bruises and cuts and a badly broken leg. A concussion.”

“He had enemies,” she said.

“How do you know? Who was he?”

“The name is Britton. Charles Davis Britton. But wounds like that aren't from fighting. It's retaliation.”

I stared at her. “Are you sure?”

“His name was there on the chart.”

But that wasn't what I'd asked.

I rose, starting toward the counter. I needed to speak to Britton straightaway. And then I remembered: the surgery. He wouldn't be awake for some hours.

I stopped, turning back to Sister Anderson. “Sorry, I just remembered something I have to do.”

“Then go to bed. Do you know how late it is? I'm going myself in a bit.”

I took her advice, setting my internal alarm clock to wake me in two hours.

But it was nearly three before I opened my eyes. I bathed my face, dressed hastily, and went back to the wards.

Matron had put the corporal in isolation, where he was less likely to contract influenza before he could be moved to another hospital. I stepped in and looked at the patient.

If I could have recognized him before, I surely couldn't now. I leaned closer in the dim light to be sure. Yes, I thought it was the Corporal Britton I'd treated for trench foot and who must have tried to kill Sister Morris.

He was moving restlessly. The doctors had been wary of giving him too much to ease his pain until they could determine the extent of his concussion.

I thought perhaps he was rousing up from the surgery, and I waited. After a time, he opened his eyes and said, “Am I alive?”

“You are,” I answered. He was trying to see me, but his eyes were swollen and I expect my face appeared blurred to him.

He lapsed into unconsciousness again, then roused once more. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I'm the Sister who assisted the doctor during your surgery. Your leg—­it has been splinted. You must leave it that way for a while. But it's still there.” I didn't add,
At least for now.
But that's what his chart indicated.

He lifted a hand and put his arm across his eyes. “My head aches like the very devil,” he said, more a statement than a complaint.

“We can't give you too much to ease that until we know whether you have a concussion or not.”

“Everything hurts. But the head is worse. Worse even than my leg.”

He drifted again. I said, “What happened to you?”

“I was set upon. Out of the blue. That's all I remember. The next thing I knew, I came to here. I don't know where
here
is.”

I told him, then I asked, “Why did you hunt down Sergeant Rollins?”

“Who is Sergeant Rollins?”

I couldn't judge whether he really didn't know—­or if he was awake enough to try to confuse me. I said, “The tank man you killed.”

His mind had clouded again. It was still too soon after the ether to expect him to make sense.

“Did you see who did this to you?” My fear was, he'd tell me it was Sergeant Lassiter.

“I don't know.”

But I thought he did. I got nowhere, although I tried several more times to find out if he was the man I thought he must be. To find out why he had wanted to kill Sergeant Rollins.

“Do you know anyone in Kent? In a village called Cranbourne?” I asked finally.

And the bleary eyes stared sharply at me. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious,” I said.

He turned his face to the wall then, and wouldn't speak to me.

I stood there for a moment longer and then quietly left the little room.

The next morning he was gone.

I got up early to look in on him, and found the room cleared and cleaned.

“What's become of our surgical patient?” I asked Matron later in the morning. “Surely he hasn't been put in one of the wards, with the influenza cases.”

“You were in the theater with Dr. Browning, weren't you? Yes. We had an ambulance going on to Rouen. We sent him with it. He didn't belong here, they'll manage his care better in Rouen.”

More disappointed than I could say, I nodded. “Thank you, Matron. If there is news of him, I'd like to hear it. I watched Dr. Browning attend to that leg. I'd like to know if the surgery was successful.”