The Broken (Echoes from the Past Book 8)

by Shapiro, Irina

  “Discover anything?” Gabe asked when Quinn walked into the kitchen a few minutes later.

  She nodded. “The brooch is inscribed with the letter H. It must have belonged to Helen, the woman I saw when I first held the brooch in my hands.”

  “Why do you look so forlorn?” Gabe asked as he came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, his lips brushing against her neck. Quinn relaxed into Gabe as shivers of pleasure ran down her spine. She didn’t want to talk about Helen yet, but she needed to explain.

  “All the other people I’ve seen came long before. They’ve been gone for centuries. Helen might have died as recently as a few months ago, for all I know. It feels odd knowing that our lifetimes might have crossed.”

  “Yes, I can understand that. It feels more personal somehow.”

  “Exactly. I feel like I’m intruding on something private, like a peeping Tom. The child’s father or siblings might still be alive, and they might not wish to have its story told.”

  “I think whoever buried that unfortunate baby at the bottom of the garden gave up their right to privacy when they denied the child a proper burial, which they would probably not have done had its death not been the result of a crime. Whether they’re alive or dead, you will give this baby some measure of justice.”

  “Much good it will do it,” Quinn replied. Every time she thought of the tiny skeleton that fit into a container the size of a shoebox, she felt tears welling up in her eyes. “It’s long gone, its remains buried like those of a pet dog. There was no marker to even commemorate its existence.”

  “If the child’s parents were going to put up a marker, they’d probably have buried it in the cemetery, not in the garden.”

  Quinn shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. It was buried with care, with love. What in the world happened to it, and where are its missing limbs?”

  “I think we’d best shelve those questions for the time being. Dinner is almost ready.”

  “It smells good,” Quinn said with a smile. “You seem to have used every vegetable in the refrigerator.”

  “And cheese,” Gabe added. “To hide the vegetables from Emma.”

  “She’ll find them. She has a nose like a bloodhound.”

  Chapter 5

  May 1955

  London, England

  “Nurse Brent, I need your assistance,” Dr. Waterson called out as he walked by. Helen set aside the chart she’d just finished updating and followed the doctor at a brisk pace. He walked into one of the examining rooms, where a man was waiting patiently, his face greenish in the mercilessly bright light streaming through the window. His forearm was wrapped in what looked like a tea towel, which was soaked with blood. He wore the clothes of a laborer and his heavy leather boots were covered with mud.

  “Let’s take this off and have a look, shall we?” Dr. Waterson said as he reached for the bloody towel. The man winced, and Dr. Waterson immediately drew his hand away. “Nurse, let’s moisten this towel. It’s stuck fast to the wound.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” Helen said, and filled a small basin with warm water.

  She gaped at the nasty gash on the man’s arm once the towel had been carefully removed. Dr. Waterson examined the wound and gave the young man an encouraging smile. “You were very lucky, Mr. Edevane. It’s not very deep. We’re going to clean it, disinfect it, and apply a few stitches, and you’ll be as good as new.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Mr. Edevane replied. His color had improved somewhat during the examination, but he paled again at the mention of the stiches.

  “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Dr. Waterson said, clapping the patient on the shoulder. “Just a pinch, really. Nurse Brent, clean the area thoroughly,” Dr. Waterson instructed, and walked to the other side of the room to collect the supplies he needed to stitch up the arm.

  Mr. Edevane sucked in his breath when Helen touched his injured arm.

  “This won’t hurt,” she assured him as she began to carefully clean the area with warm water. She’d have to swab it with alcohol once she finished, but she decided to keep that information to herself for the time being.

  “Thank you, Nurse,” Mr. Edevane said. “You have a gentle touch. If you weren’t covered in my blood, this would almost be pleasurable.”

  Helen smiled and got on with her work. Flirting with patients was strictly forbidden by the ward matron, and she had no wish to get into trouble. She finished cleaning the wound, then moistened a ball of cotton with alcohol and quickly disinfected the area. Mr. Edevane’s sharp intake of breath didn’t surprise her, nor did the swear word that slipped between his clenched lips.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “That took me somewhat by surprise.”

  “Mind your language, young man,” Dr. Waterson said as he filled the syringe with the anesthetic. “This is nothing compared to the injuries our boys sustained during the war.” He gave Mr. Edevane a questioning look. He would have been old enough to enlist at the onset of World War II. “You did fight for your country, did you not, son?” he asked when Mr. Edevane didn’t immediately reply.

  “Yes, sir. I was lucky enough never to be wounded.”

  “Had a good war, did you?”

  “I suppose you could say that. I was in the Royal Navy, sir. The HMS Nelson.”

  “A fine ship. Saw her in the harbor once,” Dr. Waterson said wistfully. He had been too old to join up, but he’d fought his war on the home front, tending the wounded nearly round the clock without uttering a word of complaint.

  “Buck up then, sailor. This is naught but a scratch,” Dr. Waterson said with a smile.

  Mr. Edevane remained stoically silent for the rest of the procedure, grinding his teeth as Dr. Waterson administered the stitches. Helen watched the muscles in his jaw clench and felt sympathy for the man. Pain was pain, and everyone experienced it differently.

  “I will give you a note for your employer,” Dr. Waterson said once he’d finished. “You are not to return to work for at least a week. If the area should become swollen and hot, come back immediately. If not, I’d like to see you in a week’s time. Nurse Brent will provide you with clean bandages and some disinfecting ointment to take home. You are to change the dressing tomorrow, then again in two to three days, as needed. Your wife can do it for you.”

  “I’m not married, sir.”

  Dr. Waterson made a dismissive gesture. “Your mother, your landlady, your mate. Makes little difference as long as they clean their hands before touching the area and do a competent job. If you need assistance, just stop by the hospital. Any nurse will be happy to help you.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “Off with you, then.”

  Mr. Edevane jumped off the examining table and walked toward the door. “Thank you, Nurse,” he said softly before letting himself out.

  Helen disposed of the bloody water and washed out the basin, then deposited the soiled linens in the hamper and tidied the room before returning to her duties. The ward was nearly full, and she had a busy day ahead of her. After work, she’d have to stop by the shops and get something for supper. She’d be happy with a fried egg and toast, but her mother liked a proper meal. Helen hoped the butcher would have some chops left, but they tended to sell out by midafternoon.

  Maybe some sausages, then, Helen thought. It was nearly noon, and she was hungry, having had only tea and toast for breakfast nearly six hours ago. She’d brought a cheese and pickle sandwich for lunch, but as her stomach growled in displeasure, she wished she could splurge on some fish and chips. Maybe when I get my pay packet, she thought, and turned her mind to the task at hand.

  Chapter 6

  “There’s a patient asking for you by name, Helen,” Sarah said as Helen walked out of the linen cupboard with a stack of fresh sheets. “Here, let me have those.” Sarah reached for the linens in order to free Helen’s hands. Sarah wasn’t on her ward, but the two wards shared the linen cupboard and women’s lav, where Sarah occasionally snuck a cigarette.
The men’s lavatory was located some way down the corridor, closer to the doctors’ lounge. The doctors, who were all male, enjoyed comfortable leather armchairs, little tables with ashtrays, should they wish to smoke, and fresh tea, which they never had to make themselves.

  Helen made her way to the admissions desk. Mr. Edevane was standing by the window, gazing up the stairs expectantly. He smiled when he saw her. Having presumably come from home, he wasn’t wearing the clothes he’d worn to work. He was dressed in a dark-gray suit with a white shirt and a tie in shades of navy and aqua. His hair was neatly brushed, and he held a brown fedora in his hands.

  “Mr. Edevane,” Helen said. “Are you quite all right?”

  “Yes, thank you, Nurse Brent. It’s just that I couldn’t get anyone to help me with the bandage and I was wondering if you might…” He allowed the sentence to trail off and smiled guiltily.

  “Yes, of course. This way, please.”

  Helen led Mr. Edevane into an empty examining room and took out some cotton, alcohol, and a clean bandage. She carefully unwound the soiled linen and examined the arm. “It’s healing well. No infection.”

  “That’s a relief. I need to get back to work. The floor supervisor is not happy with me taking time off, even if the injury was through no fault of my own. Someone had left an exposed metal spike sticking out of the wall.”

  Helen finished securing the bandage and smiled at Mr. Edevane. “All done. I’m sure Dr. Waterson will give you the all clear when you come back next week.”

  “Nurse Brent, I hope I’m not being too forward,” he said as a telltale blush bloomed on his lean cheeks. “But I was hoping you might join me for a cup of tea. There’s a tearoom not far from here.”

  “Mr. Edevane,” Helen began, but stopped. She had been about to decline the invitation, but suddenly realized she had no good reason to turn down the offer.

  At twenty-six, she had not only been left on the shelf, as her mother liked to point out repeatedly, but she was covered with an inch of dust. Invitations from eligible men didn’t come often, and these days, her prospects were practically nonexistent. She met plenty of men in her line of work, but it was unprofessional to carry on with a doctor and an infraction punishable by dismissal if she flirted with any of the patients. The porters and the ambulance drivers never paid her any mind, always zeroing in on girls who were younger and had fewer inhibitions.

  Helen wasn’t the type of woman who let down her guard easily, and she didn’t go in for men who became overly familiar or tried anything the first time they took her out. She dreamed of a man who’d respect her, and treat her with kindness and consideration, not someone who’d expect her to go to bed with him at the earliest opportunity and then only call on her whenever he felt the urge. She didn’t want an affair, she wanted love—tender, loyal love, the kind that lasted a lifetime, not a fortnight.

  Helen sighed. Mr. Edevane was a nice-looking man in his mid-thirties, a widower or a bachelor, since he’d admitted to Dr. Waterson to having no wife. He’d been nervous to ask her; she’d noticed the anxiety in his gaze and the stiffening of his shoulders, as if he’d expected to be rejected. Why not have a cup of tea with him and see where it went?

  “My shift finishes at four,” she finally replied, an answering heat blooming in her cheeks.

  “I will meet you by the main entrance,” Mr. Edevane replied. “And it’s David,” he said shyly. “My name is David.”

  “Helen.”

  “That’s a lovely name. Well, I won’t keep you from your duties. Till four, then.”

  “Till four.”

  Helen looked at the watch pinned to her shirtfront. She had four hours to question the wisdom of agreeing to tea with David Edevane but decided to put him from her mind and concentrate on her work. There was no sense in second-guessing herself. It was just tea, after all. They might spend a pleasant half hour together or discover early on that they had little in common and make their excuses. Either way, it didn’t obligate her to anything. And she was lonely. She’d enjoyed several close friendships since enrolling in the nursing course and applying for the job at the hospital, but most of her friends had eventually married and left. Few women continued to work after getting married, and even fewer kept in touch with their unmarried work friends.

  Sarah was the only friend she had who still liked to go to the cinema or get a cup of tea on their days off. But their carefree outings would come to an end soon. Sarah had met her current beau, Albert, several months ago, when he came to read the gas meter in place of the man who usually covered Sarah’s street. The relationship had progressed swiftly, and Sarah was expecting a proposal any day now. If it came, she’d leave her position at the hospital, and Helen would be left all alone, a prospect she didn’t relish.

  “Nurse Brent, stop mooning about and return to your duties,” Dr. Waterson said, not unkindly, when he saw Helen gazing out the window.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” Helen mumbled, and scurried down the corridor toward her ward.

  Chapter 7

  June 2015

  London, England

  Quinn had just finished setting the table for dinner when the doorbell rang. Rufus, who’d been lying quietly beneath the kitchen table, jumped up and raced to the door, eager to sniff the visitor. He stood with his paws on the door, his tail wagging like a windscreen wiper. Even Alex turned his head toward the front door, displaying an awareness that made Quinn realize just how much he’d changed in the past few weeks.

  “Expecting someone?” Gabe asked as he handed Alex a sippy cup full of juice.

  “Not that I know of,” Quinn replied as she went to answer the door. She was surprised to find Logan on the doorstep, a knapsack slung over his shoulder. His normally spiky hair looked even more disheveled than usual and he looked tired and upset. He patted Rufus absentmindedly and gave Quinn a perfunctory peck on the cheek.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said as he stepped into the foyer. “I need a place to crash.”

  “Eh, yes, of course. We have a spare bedroom. Is everything all right?” Quinn wondered why Logan had chosen to come to her house rather than going to his mother’s, where he still had his own bedroom. Sylvia would be glad of the company, even if it was temporary.

  “I don’t want to have to explain things to Mum,” Logan said in response to Quinn’s unspoken question. “Colin threw me out.”

  “Colin threw you out?” Quinn gaped at Logan. Colin had said they’d had a tiff, but this appeared to be a lot more than that. “Want to talk about it?”

  “Can we talk later?” Logan asked quietly as Emma came down the stairs.

  “Uncle Logan,” she exclaimed. “Have you come for dinner? Daddy made pasta. He put all sorts of vegetables into it,” Emma added with distaste. “I don’t much like vegetables, but if they’re covered in melted cheese, I’ll give it a go.”

  Logan stole a peek at Quinn rather than answering.

  “Yes, Logan’s come for dinner, and he’s going to spend the night,” Quinn replied cheerfully, as if she’d known Logan was coming all along.

  “Why? What’s wrong with your house?” Emma asked with her usual directness.

  “Nothing. Colin is away, and I felt like a bit of company,” Logan lied smoothly.

  “Can we play a game after dinner?”

  “Sure. What kind of game?” Logan asked eagerly.

  “We can play beauty salon. You’ll be the customer and I will be the beautician,” Emma replied with a sly grin.

  “Oh, I see where this is going. Are you going to give me a makeover?”

  “You could use one, to be honest,” Emma said.

  “Emma,” Quinn said in a warning tone.

  “No, it’s quite all right. You are absolutely right. I’m ripe for a new look. Tell you what—we can play beauty salon after I have a chat with your mum.”

  “All right. But don’t forget. You promised.”

  “I will not forget. On my honor,” Logan added, and carried
his knapsack into the guest bedroom.

  Gabe graciously pretended Logan had been invited to dinner all along and served his creation with panache. He’d even made a salad.

  “Gabe, this is really good,” Logan said as he tried a forkful of pasta. “You’ve come a long way from making toast.”

  “I’m a man of many talents,” Gabe replied. “Not too bad, if I do say so myself.”

  “I can still taste the vegetables,” Emma complained.

  “Eat up. They are good for you,” Gabe replied.

  Emma made a face but continued to eat. Alex leaned forward in his highchair, staring at the pasta on Quinn’s plate.

  “I think Alex wants some vegetables,” Emma said. “He can have mine.”

  “Don’t worry, there’s plenty for everyone.” Gabe filled a small bowl with pasta and set it in front of Alex, handing him a plastic baby spoon.

  Alex was just learning to eat by himself, and the spoon would probably go unused as he scooped up the pasta with his hands, but it was worth a try. Alex instantly threw the spoon on the floor and grabbed a fistful of pasta, shoving it into his mouth. He chewed on a bit of broccoli, then fished for another piece, holding it up to his face for a closer inspection before putting it in his mouth.

  “I can’t believe he likes it,” Emma said under her breath, spearing a piece of broccoli and studying it as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh, well,” she said, and followed Alex’s example.

  Logan and Gabe kept up a lively conversation all through dinner, with Quinn chiming in occasionally so as not to be rude, but her mind wasn’t really on football or the film Logan was telling Gabe about. She wasn’t into science fiction, and Logan’s false cheeriness worried her. Quinn felt a wave of relief when the meal was finally over and Gabe took the children into the other room to give Quinn and Logan a chance to talk.