by Charles Todd
Matron had established herself in what had been a small morning room, and I remembered the pale lavender walls and a white coffered ceiling. Filing boxes still occupied all the free space, and the breeze from the open windows stirred papers on the desk. Matron looked as harried as she had on my last visit.
“Miss Crawford. How nice to see you again. Do sit down. May I offer you tea?”
“Thank you, no. I must make the next train to Portsmouth. I’ve come to speak to Lieutenant Evanson.”
I realized suddenly that something was wrong. She had turned her head to look out the window as I was speaking, her gaze on the small gazebo in the garden. Then she turned back to me with an expression I instantly recognized.
“I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you—we lost Lieutenant Evanson six days ago.”
I started to speak, but she held up her hand.
“He’d been very depressed since the death of his wife. Despondent might be the better word. We did all we could. And then on Tuesday night, we found him in his bed, dead. Somehow he’d managed to purloin a scalpel, we don’t know exactly where or how. And he’d cut his own throat. It was the only death he could manage with his bandaged hands. Even so, it couldn’t have been easy. But he was determined, you see.”
I knew my face must be mirroring the expression on hers. Horror. Loss. Grief. And there was something more in her eyes, a sense of guilt, as if somehow she should have prevented his death. I sat there, stunned, and after a moment, she nodded, as if she understood what I was feeling.
I managed to say the proper things even as my mind struggled to accept what had happened. It was inevitable, given how much he loved his wife. What else was there to live for, without her, without a face or hands that resembled human features and fingers? And yet it was sad beyond words.
Why hadn’t Inspector Herbert told me? But then he couldn’t have known I was coming here. Still—
A brief silence fell. Then I asked the difficult question. “Who told him that his wife was dead?”
“His sister came down. It had to be done, of course. We couldn’t have kept it from him. He’d been asking for her, you see. But we thought—he seemed to take the news as well as could be expected. He just stared at the wall and said nothing. He was very quiet for the next week, although he asked on two occasions if the police had made any progress in their search for her killer. Afterward, we realized he was simply biding his time. We kept an eye on him, well aware of how much—how important she was to his recovery. As soon as he’d arrived at Laurel House, he’d asked one of the staff to write to his wife, to tell her that he was back in England and how much he looked forward to seeing her. When she didn’t come, he wrote to his sister asking if Mrs. Evanson were ill. His sister had hoped to spare him the news until he was stronger, but that was not to be. Mrs. Melton had no choice but to tell her brother the truth.”
Even as he was dictating his first letter, it was too late. According to the police, Marjorie Evanson had left her house early to set out on the journey that would take her to the railway station and then to her death.
“He did inquire of the doctor if it would be possible for him to attend the funeral service. I needn’t tell you it was out of the question. We asked our chaplain, Mr. Davies, to sit with him that day, and offer what comfort he could. I spoke to Mr. Davies that evening as he was leaving, and he felt that Lieutenant Evanson seemed reconciled to his loss. I wasn’t convinced, however, and kept an eye on the lieutenant anyway.”
So much for Mr. Davies’s powers of observation. Still, he was undoubtedly the village priest, and had very little experience in suicide watches. There was something else to be considered. Lieutenant Evanson was trained as a pilot, taught to bury everything that might distract him from the intense concentration required to handle his aircraft and face a very aggressive enemy. He could well have concealed his intentions by drawing on that same training.
Remembering, I said, “What became of the photograph he carried with him?”
“The one of his wife? That was odd, you know. We had suggested that it be buried with him. It had meant so much to him. But his sister wouldn’t hear of that. She left it on his bed when she came to collect his few belongings. That seemed so—so cruel to me, somehow.”
I interpreted his sister’s decision to mean that she had learned about the pregnancy, even if she hadn’t told her brother or anyone else here at Laurel House.
Matron opened her desk drawer and took out an envelope. She passed it to me. “I kept it. I really couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.”
I took the envelope, but didn’t open it. I could feel the edges of the thin silver frame through the brown paper. “I understand. I’d have felt the same. I nursed him for days. This was his anchor. Perhaps someone in Mrs. Evanson’s family might care to have it later. What a pity.”
“Yes, in spite of his burns, he was doing quite well. And he was a lovely man. You must have seen that too. Never complaining, never thinking of himself. No trouble…”
She took a deep breath, a middle-aged woman who had seen so much suffering, and yet still felt the tragedy of this one man’s death. Her hair was turning gray, and there were dark circles under her brown eyes. I thought she had lost weight since I’d seen her last.
“Well. You have made this journey for nothing. But I can tell you that the other patients you brought us have done better than expected. Still, when the winter rains begin—” She shook her head. I knew what she was dreading, the stress of days of dampness on damaged lungs.
“Thank you so much for seeing me, Matron. It must have been difficult.”
“Yes, well. Sometimes talking about things helps. And you knew Lieutenant Evanson too.”
She rose to walk with me to the door. “You are looking tired,” she commented. “How long have you been in France?”
“Since late January. Before that I was on Britannic when she went down.”
“Ah, yes, I recall. And you’re going back to France now?”
“I’m told to report to a small hospital just outside St. Jacques.” Which sounded more grand than it was. St. Jacques had all but ceased to exist, muddy ruins in the midst of fields that no longer grew anything, even weeds. “A forward dressing station,” I added. “Though it calls itself a hospital.”
She nodded. “Two of my nursing sisters have spent some time in France. They are very good at improvising.”
We had reached the main door. I smiled. “We often have no choice.”
“This is your driver?” she asked, looking out at the motorcar by the door. “I wish you a safe journey, my dear. If you—should you find that Mrs. Evanson’s family would like to have that photograph, do let me know. It will set my mind at ease. I believe the obituary listed Little Sefton as their address. Sadly, that’s not all that far from here, but it might as well be on the moon. They never came to visit, you see.”
And then I was on my way to the train, my leave nearly up, and France waiting for me across the Channel.
At the railing of the ship, staring out at the water as we passed out of The Solent and into the Channel, I found myself thinking that whoever had murdered Mrs. Evanson had killed her husband as well, just as surely as if he’d held that scalpel to the lieutenant’s throat. Two victims—three if one counted the unborn child.
I found it hard to put Marjorie Evanson out of my mind. Perhaps because I’d first seen her through her husband’s eyes as he held on to life amid great pain so that he could come home to her. Not to her as a murder victim or disgraced wife but as his anchor.
I had kept the photograph with me. Of course there was no time to find the direction of Mrs. Evanson’s family and post it to them, but remembering her sister-in-law’s emotional response as well as Matron’s comment that they had never visited, I felt I ought to ask their wishes before sending it to them.
And in the weeks ahead I often caught myself looking for a face I was certain I would recognize, every time I saw an officer wearing the u
niform of the Wiltshire regiment.
It had become a habit.
CHAPTER THREE
I WAS HARDLY back in France—a matter of a fortnight—before we were given leave. It was unexpected, but the little dressing station in St. Jacques was too exposed and was being moved to another village. A fresh contingent of nursing sisters was assigned to take over there.
First, however, we were to escort a hundred wounded back to England. It was never easy, and on this occasion, even though our convoy moved at night, we were strafed by a German aircraft, racing down our lines with guns blazing and then swinging around behind the lines to find other targets of opportunity. Ambulances were clearly marked, so there was no excuse for the attack. The wonder was, only three people were wounded and no one died. I couldn’t help but think the pilot had intended to frighten us rather than kill us. If that were true, he’d succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.
The weather had changed by the time we reached the coast, and on our crossing there was a storm that turned the rough Channel into bedlam. We were all seasick, patients, nurses, orderlies, and doctors, and probably half the crew if they were honest about it. I’d sailed from India to England and never met a storm like this.
My stomach agreed with me as I ran to the railing for the third time.
Then it was back below, cleaning sheets as best I could, washing faces, swabbing the decks. By the time we reached Dover, I could have kissed the quay from the sheer joy of having dry land under my feet once more.
Dover Castle was a familiar sight looming above us, half hidden in the clouds, its walls dark with rain. A friend was on duty there, but I didn’t catch a glimpse of him. We were pressing on, for the sake of the worst cases, and pulled into London late in the afternoon. A watery sun greeted us, the worst of the storm well behind us.
I was relieved of my duties there, and after seeing the train on its way again, I took the omnibus to the corner of our street and walked down to the flat I shared with friends.
None of them was at home, but there were signs that Mary might be on leave again as well, and I left her a note before taking a leisurely bath and falling into bed. It was Thursday evening, and I’d have enjoyed dining out if I hadn’t been so tired.
Mary came in later, bringing me a cup of tea and a plate of cheeses and biscuits that she’d just received from home. She was small, British fair, with rosy cheeks and dimples. The soldiers adored her, wrote poems to her blue eyes and curls, and flirted outrageously with her, but her heart was in the Navy, the first officer on a cruiser.
“You can’t sleep away your leave,” she said cheerfully. “How long do you have?”
“Ten days,” I said, stretching and yawning. “I thought I might go home for the last half of it.”
“Your parents will be delighted.” She paused, then said, “I’ve heard stories. Was it a bad crossing?”
“Very bad. I thought I would never be able to swallow food again. Now I’m ravenous. Tell your father how grateful I am that he is in the cheese business. I haven’t had a Stilton this good since the war began.”
“And these are the leftover bits. Think what it would be like to have half a wheel to ourselves.”
Laughing, we caught up on news, chatting among the biscuit crumbs, and then Mary said something that nearly caused me to choke on my tea.
“I’ve an invitation to spend the weekend with friends. A house party in the country. Would you like to come?”
“It would make a nice change. Do I know them?”
“I don’t believe you do. It’s the Melton family. But I think you convoyed Serena’s brother home from France. Lieutenant Evanson. He killed himself not long ago, had you heard? Serena’s husband will be coming home after a fortnight somewhere he can’t talk about; it’s his birthday, and she wants to do something nice to celebrate—here!” She reached out to pound me on the back as I turned red from coughing.
I cleared my throat and said politely, “Surely this is a family occasion—she wouldn’t care to have strangers hanging about.”
“The truth is, nearly everyone they know is somewhere else—in France, at sea, in the Middle East. She told me I could bring one of my flatmates with me, if I cared to. She wants it to be a gay weekend, no sadness to mar it.”
I thought of the envelope with Marjorie Evanson’s photograph still sealed in it. I’d carried it through France and now it lay in the top drawer of the small chest under my window, where I’d put it when I unpacked. It was Mrs. Melton who had decided that it shouldn’t be buried with her brother. I thought I’d guessed why, but both Matron and I had felt it was—wrong. I really shouldn’t go to this house party.
On the other hand, I hadn’t had any news about the search for the killer. Perhaps I could satisfy my curiosity without causing any trouble.
“Yes, all right. If she’ll have me. But it might be best if we don’t say anything about my having nursed her brother. It could bring up—painful memories.”
“If you don’t mind, then I won’t.”
Which is how I found myself on a crowded train to Oxford-shire, with malice aforethought.
The house where the Meltons lived was within walking distance of the station. We arranged to have our valises brought there by trap and set out on foot. It was a lovely day, and the dusty scents of summer wafted from the front gardens of the small village of Diddlestoke, and then from the pastures and fields that surrounded us as we reached the outskirts. Another quarter mile, and we could see the gates of our destination.
Melton Hall was a charming old brick house with a central block, spacious wings to either side, and a small park through which the drive meandered on its way to the handsome Pedimented front door. Two small children ran out to greet us, the girl taking my hand and the little boy clinging to Mary’s.
“Niece and nephew,” she said over their heads, and I nodded. “On Jack Melton’s side. Serena told me they’d be leaving before dinner.”
We were greeted in the marble foyer by Serena Melton herself, and I was most interested in my first impression of her. Tall, dark, and rather elegant, she embraced the shorter, fairer Mary, then held out her hand to me. “Elizabeth! I may call you Elizabeth, may I not? We are so pleased you could come.”
I hadn’t met Lieutenant Evanson before he was burned, and so I couldn’t judge the likeness between brother and sister.
And then she was leading the way up the stairs to our room, which overlooked the east gardens. Over her shoulder, she was telling us about her plans for the grand celebration and then, while we washed away the dust of travel, she was asking me about my family, expressing interest in the exotic places where my father had served, and then wanting to know about my work in France.
“I hear it’s frightful to be the first to deal with the severest wounds. My brother was badly burned. I was never so shocked as I was when I saw him the first time. They were changing his bandages, and his skin was raw and weeping. It was all I could do to keep myself from showing what I was feeling, that he could have been a complete stranger.”
“I hope he’s continuing to heal,” I said, though Mary cast me a sharp glance.
“Alas, he didn’t survive,” Serena Melton answered, her eyes filling, and I made appropriate noises of sympathy. I could see how much she cared for her brother. In her shoes I might have felt the same about Marjorie Evanson. After all, it was Marjorie’s betrayal of her husband that had led to his suicide. Sometimes in cases of sudden death, people needed someone to blame. Or blamed God.
Taking a deep breath, Serena added, “I was never so grateful than when they found that Jack was good at numbers, and assigned him to break codes instead of carrying a rifle. He was furious, but as I told him, one martyr to the cause in a family is enough. If he can protect a convoy or warn of an attack, he saves hundreds of lives. Surely that’s more useful than slogging through France in the hope of killing a few Germans. I don’t know why men think that they aren’t doing their part if they aren’t up to their knees in
mud and frightfully cold and hungry and tired.”
We followed Serena down the stairs. She and Mary were having a conversation about a mutual friend serving in the Navy, and exchanging news about him. Then we were in the kitchen, where she was supervising the main course for dinner. Serena said proudly, “I got my hands on a roast. Don’t ask how! It nearly cost me my virtue and my firstborn. But it’s Jack’s favorite.”
From the oven came the most tantalizing aromas—beef, I was sure of it. After a quick look at her prize, and a few instructions for the cook, a Mrs. Dunner, Serena whisked us out to the north terrace where her husband was sitting with several other guests. There she made the introductions.
Captain Truscott, Lieutenant Gilbert, and Major Dunlop were Army of course, while Jack wore his naval uniform with panache. I thought perhaps that he was making up, a little, for not having war stories to tell, for he worked in the Admiralty in Signals. He looked particularly handsome, regular features, his hair only lightly touched with gray, and his eyes without that haunted look one so often sees among men who’ve served at the Front. Still, there were lines in his face, and I had the feeling that he knew more about the war than most, and carried different burdens because of it.
I realized very quickly that everything happening outside this household had been set aside for the weekend. Talk ranged from past shooting parties in Scotland to the Thames regatta. Any topic would do that didn’t remind us of war and death and destruction. We laughed at stories that weren’t really funny, made no mention of absent friends, and pretended to be happy and lighthearted. Other guests arrived in the next hour, but none of them was a certain officer in a Wiltshire regiment. Not that I’d expected him to be here, he was no doubt still in France. But Marjorie Evanson must have met him somewhere, in just such a social setting. It was entirely possible that someone would mention him. Remember Fred? Serving with the Wiltshires? We had a letter from him last week…
Of course he could be a complete stranger. Someone Marjorie met in London and never introduced to anyone she knew. That was surely the safest way to conduct an affair. But people don’t fall in love with safety in mind. Sometimes risk must be half the excitement of a secret affair.