An Unmarked Grave (8 page)

“You’re alive. I had to see it for myself,” he said. “Your mother, bless her, is a rare lady.”

Laughing, I commanded him to put me down.

Behind me, an English officer said angrily, “I’ll have you on report for that, Sergeant.”

Sergeant Larimore set me down, turned to him, and said blandly, lying through his teeth, “She’s my English cousin, sir.” And then leaning closer to whisper in my ear, he said, “I’m that glad you’re alive, my lass. I couldn’t contemplate a world without your shining face. Now I know you’re safe, I must report to my unit. I’ve been on leave without permission for the past two days, watching for you.”

And he was gone, disappearing into the crowded quayside before I could say a word or ask him who had told him I was even sailing to France.

It must have been my mother. The American didn’t know about Sergeant Larimore.

“Cousin, indeed,” snorted the officer behind me.

“Alas, sir, the black sheep,” I replied. With that I nodded to the ship’s officer and walked sedately off
The Mermaid
and into Rouen.

I was back in France at last. As I made my way toward the American Base Hospital, where I was to meet my convoy, I could hear the guns in the distance. Someone jostled my shoulder, apologized in rough French, and another man, appearing to be in a great hurry, brushed past me, nearly causing me to drop my valise. I realized all at once how vulnerable I was, alone in a city of this size. I hadn’t really taken thought to the danger I might be in until now, where I was surrounded by people on their way to market or the port or the waiting trains. I didn’t know the face of my enemy, if he was that. But it occurred to me that I could disappear here, and even my father, with all his authority, couldn’t find me in the muddy bottom of the river.

I was glad to see my next transport waiting just beyond the port—an ambulance packed with supplies to replace the depleted stocks of aid units closer to the Front. The driver was someone I didn’t know, a taciturn man who told me his name was Sam and we were late already, Sister, so don’t dawdle, please, Miss.

I took the seat beside the driver, my valise tucked into a tiny space in the back, and we set out, steadily moving north as the roads, the traffic, and the terrain allowed. I asked what news he had of the war, and he said, “The Germans are winning all along the line. That’s what it feels like, Sister, when I drive the dying here.”

It was a bleak assessment, and I hoped that it was wrong. The Americans were supposed to be turning the balance toward the Allies. We fell silent and I watched the trains of mules and guns and columns of troops making their way toward the shooting, and the line of wounded being transported to the rear in Rouen. There had been heavy rain the day before, according to Sam, and the roads were a morass. We bumped and jerked and skidded over them until my head was beginning to ache from all the jolting. There was nothing for it but to endure.

At length we were close enough to the trenches that in the darkness I could actually see the muzzle flashes. The noise was deafening. When we reached the aid station, I could pick out the long line of wounded standing or lying on stretchers outside the nearest tent, and a doctor with a haggard face looked up anxiously as he heard the rumble of the ambulance coming in, and then shouted to me, “Hurry!”

There was no time to find my tent or change my clothes. I left my coat and valise in a corner, borrowed an apron from someone, and began to sort the cases as they arrived. The driver was offloading supplies, and hands were reaching for bandages and septic powder almost as quickly as they were unpacked.

Hours later, when I was finally replaced, I walked out into the pale light of another dawn.

Working those long hours had cost me dearly, for my parents were right, I wasn’t at full strength yet. The clinic had been almost too easy, with its regular hours and quiet evenings. And now, too tired to sleep, I nursed a cup of tea in the cool of sunrise and considered the problem of finding the elusive Colonel Prescott.

I could hardly go about asking officers who came to the aid station if they had served under him. I knew too well how quickly word got around.

Whoever he was, how could he have known when he wrote that glowing letter to Julia that Major Carson was dead, unless he had had something to do with whatever had happened? Why else would he have written it, except to allay worry at home? It had sounded genuine enough, compassionate, sympathetic. And of course it had had to sound that way, in order not to arouse suspicion. After all, Julia Carson had the regiment behind her, and my father, once its Colonel, as well. If the Major simply disappeared, questions would be raised.

And then there were the men under the Major. What had
they
been told?

I was to have my answer to that a few days later.

We had been busy all morning and well into the afternoon. Then there were a few blessed minutes of grace, and I went to my quarters to change my bloody apron for a fresh one when a woman’s voice called my name. I turned to see Diana hurrying toward me.

Because our own homes were scattered across England, four other nurses and I had taken a flat together in Mrs. Hennessey’s London house, converted to flats for the duration of the war. A widow, Mrs. Hennessey was strict with her young ladies, and it was a comfort to know that we were in good hands when one of us arrived late at night, tired and thankful not to have to find an hotel or face a longer journey elsewhere when we had scarcely twenty-four hours of leave.

Diana threw her arms around me, crying, “I can’t believe it’s you! Bess? We were so worried. When your mother wrote to say you were recovering, I was afraid to open the letter for two days.” She scanned my face. “Still a little tired, I see. I was afraid you might come back too soon.”

I held her at arm’s length. “You’re absolutely blooming yourself.”

She blushed a little. “Bess, wish me happy! I’ll be married this time next year. I wasn’t sure you’d seen the announcement in the
Times
.”

“But that’s tremendous news. I wish you both a glorious life together. You deserve it.”

“Thank you. I’m so grateful you didn’t want him for yourself. You could have had him, you know.”

I laughed. “Diana. The instant he saw you, I was forgotten. Love at first sight, if ever I witnessed such a thing. And how are the others? Mrs. Hennessey?”

“She is flourishing, Mary is back in France after her bout with influenza, and the others are due for leave any day now.”

“I’m so glad.”

“Your family? My dearest Simon?”

It was a long-standing joke between us. Simon sometimes took her to dinner when I wasn’t in London, and Diana swore he did it to make me jealous. And I could see that she thoroughly enjoyed those invitations. Perhaps more so than she had been willing to admit until another man had come into her life. “They’re well, thank goodness.” I hoped it was true in Simon’s case. I was still waiting for word.

We exchanged news of other friends, and then Diana said, “Wasn’t Major Carson in your father’s regiment?”

Surprised to hear her bring up his name, I replied warily, “Yes, indeed. In fact, I called on Julia Carson, just before I returned to France.”

“What I’m about to tell you won’t be for her ears, but the Colonel might wish to know. There’s a whisper going around. That he’s deserted.”

She was using the present tense. As if she hadn’t heard that Vincent Carson was dead. My shock must have been reflected in my face. “I—I can’t imagine such a thing. Major Carson? No, there must be some mistake . . .” I let my voice trail off, encouraging her to go on.

“The story I overheard was that he was pulled from his sector for a special assignment and never made his rendezvous.”

“Good heavens.” It was all I could think to say. Collecting my wits, I added, “He—he’s such a very conscientious man. There’s even talk that one day he’ll follow my father as Colonel. I can’t think what would cause him to desert.”

“Yes, well, you know how gossip is. The only thing I could think of was shell shock, and that he has no idea who or where he is. I met him at that dinner party your mother gave just after war was declared. If he hadn’t already been married to Julia, I’d have set my cap at him.”

“The two of you would never suit,” I said drily, grateful she’d changed the subject.

“True. Well, I must drive an ambulance to Rouen. The man who should be doing it collapsed two hours ago. Pneumonia. And then I have ten days’ leave. I could fly to Dover at the very thought.”

I said quickly, “Could you carry a message for me? If I was quick about it? I don’t want it going through the censors.”

“A love letter? Bess, who is the lucky man? I’d heard there was an Australian in your life. Is he history now?”

“This is to Simon. I have to get information to him and have been racking my brain to find a way.”

“I have less than two minutes.”

“Yes, of course.” I ran to my quarters, scrabbled in my valise for pen and paper and an envelope, then scribbled what Diana had told me on the sheet. There was no time to reread it. I sealed it in the envelope and wrote the direction on it, praying that he would be at his cottage to receive it. If he wasn’t, my parents always collected his post in his absences, so that no one would realize he was away so often.

Breathless, I hurried back to Diana, gave her the letter, and watched her drive off with her usual care for the patients in the back, one of them the regular driver.

Quickly changing, I went back to my duties, regretting only that Diana and I had had so little time together. I’d have liked to hear more about her wedding plans and remind her that I would like to be included in the wedding party.

I was dazed with fatigue when I finished my shift, and collapsed on my cot, falling into a deep sleep.

Toward morning I dreamed that I had gone into the shed where the dead were taken to look for Major Carson, anxious to find his body before the charge of desertion was brought against him. Certain that if I could show his broken neck to his commanding officer, I could clear his name. But what I found instead was Private Wilson hanging there, his body already limp in death, his face gorged with blood, making him nearly unrecognizable. I’d had to peer at him, and as the corpse swung at the end of the rope, his hand touched me and I screamed.

Sister Colter said, “Really, Bess, you told me to wake you at six.”

I came awake with a start, looking up at her. “I’m so sorry,” I managed to say. “I must not have heard you calling me.”

“You were so deeply asleep you wouldn’t have heard a cavalry charge,” she agreed, and was gone, leaving me to wash my face and put on my uniform.

I was still shaken by the dream as I gulped a cup of tea, then hurried to deal with the line of men waiting for attention.

There was still no response from Simon by the end of the week, and I wasn’t sure where he was. A letter had come from my mother, letting me know that everyone was well, and there had been no mention of Simon being away so long. Either he was at home and safe, or she was being circumspect.

And then the next morning as I walked into the surgical tent, I saw his tall figure just ahead of me.

Simon was making his way down the row of severely wounded men, stopping at each cot, speaking quietly to the men who were conscious, simply looking down at the ones who were not. When he reached the end of the line, he turned back and saw me.

According to my mother, both Simon and my father visited the wounded often, and without fanfare, wherever they happened to be.

There was something about both men that made them popular wherever they went, and their compassion for the ill and the dying was infinite. They had been soldiers with impressive records themselves, but it went beyond that. War seemed to forge a brotherhood that made someone like Captain Barclay claim he was healing even when it was a lie. Even when he knew that going back to France might well end in his own death.

I watched as Simon had a word for each man, making one or two of them smile, and he offered comfort to those who were suffering in grim silence.

I waited until he came up to me. Nodding, he said, “Outside?”

I followed him into a dusk lit by artillery flashes. Once or twice, I could see bursts of machine-gun fire. He turned his back to that, saying, “I must be brief. I’m supposed to be in Dover. I got your message. It seems that orders came down from HQ to send Carson as liaison to the French forces. He must never have reached the meeting with his opposite number—but the odd thing is, whoever that was, he never reported Carson missing. What’s more, no one can be certain where the order originated. The signature is a scrawl.”

“That explains how his murderer got to him, doesn’t it?” I responded softly. “Once out of the lines, following a guide he didn’t know, he could have been lured to his death. But why? Why kill Major Carson?”

“There are bodies and wounded men everywhere. No one notices one more.”

“Private Wilson did. And was killed because of it.”

“I want you to make a list, as comprehensive as you can, of everyone who was in and out of that aid station.”

“Simon, do you realize how impossible that is?” I expostulated.

“I don’t mean the dead and dying. Orderlies who were there for a week or more are not likely candidates either, and a Sister couldn’t break Carson’s neck. He was too strong, too tall.”

“Private Wilson would have known such things.” I shut my eyes. Searching faces in my memory. After a moment I shook my head. “I may not have seen him. This killer has no face so far,” I said finally. “I’ll keep trying, but it’s a needle in the proverbial haystack.”

“And possibly the only lead we’ll have.”

He touched my shoulder in a comradely gesture. “Take care, Bess, whatever you do. I don’t want to have to explain to your mother how it was you got hurt.”

And then he was gone, disappearing into the night.

When the next ambulances went south with wounded who could be moved, I asked if I could be the nurse in charge. Dr. Hicks looked at me, said, “You could use a few hours of respite,” and it was arranged.