by Charles Todd
I thought at first the woman was being rude. But she walked into the dimly lit interior of the inn where I could just see a staircase leading upward and to one side, a tiny dining room down two steps. A potted palm stood next to the entrance to the dining room, and a table with fresh flowers in a green vase added a spot of color by the side of the stairs. Nice touches, but even these couldn’t eliminate the depressing air of the inn.
The woman returned shortly. “She’s in room seven. Just knock at the door.”
We thanked her and walked farther into Reception before taking ourselves up the stairs to the first floor. Number seven was at the end of the passage, and we knocked lightly, as we’d been told. My mother gave me a conspiratorial look, then faced the door as it opened.
Sabrina Morton had always been the prettier of the two Carson sisters, but in the late evening light she appeared to be the elder of the two rather than the younger.
“Come in,” she said, inviting us into a room looking upriver and set out as a sitting room. A door into a second room was open just a little, and inside we could see a bed and a crib. “I can’t think why you should wish to call on me. Did Valerie send you? Or was it Julia, having a sudden change of heart?”
“Neither, as it happens,” my mother said. “You weren’t at the memorial service for your brother, and we were sorry to have missed that opportunity to offer our condolences. You were fond of Vincent, as I remember.”
“Once upon a time,” she said.
“Yes,” my mother replied, as if Sabrina had agreed with her, then turned to me. “I think you remember Elizabeth? She’s a nursing sister, Vincent may have mentioned it. She’s currently on leave from France, and as we had a few days before she goes back, we decided to visit Cornwall again. I remember coming to Fowey as a small child. It’s hardly changed at all, has it?”
Sabrina greeted me coolly, then offered us chairs. “I can’t offer you tea as well. I’m afraid the restaurant has closed.”
“Thank you, but we dined at our hotel,” I answered, resigning myself to a difficult conversation. “It’s good to see you again, Sabrina.”
“Is it? I don’t recall a visit from you after my marriage.”
“You hadn’t invited us to the wedding,” my mother reminded her with a smile. “We thought perhaps you’d excluded us when you excluded your brother.”
“He was a hypocrite. Vincent. Brother or not. He could have made our lives a little easier after our father died by offering me my inheritance. He kept it instead, you know. My sister was given our mother’s inheritance as well—as the elder daughter, that was fair enough. I didn’t quarrel with it. But it was cruel to deny me anything. I can’t forgive him for that, and I couldn’t in good conscience go to his service when I felt as I do.”
“He knew what his father thought about your marriage. Perhaps he found it difficult to go against his express wishes.”
“He chose to do that. He didn’t like Will any better than our father did. And what had Will ever done to my brother? Or even my father, for that matter? He married me because he loved me, and I loved him. My father married for love. Vincent as well. Where’s the difference?”
The bitterness in her voice touched me. There was no polite way to point out that her choice of husband, however much she loved him, had not been quite the same as Vincent’s marriage to Julia. Or Valerie’s to her banker. They had come from the same circle, while William Morton had definitely not.
“I never met Will,” I said. “Do you have a photograph of him? I should like to see it.”
“We could never afford to have a family likeness taken,” she told me bluntly. “Even when he was leaving for France.”
“A pity. For your sake and your son’s.”
My mother said gently, “We came, Sabrina, because we remembered you as a child. What your father and your brother decided to do is not our fault.”
I thought then that Sabrina was going to cry. But she lifted her head and said, “You’ll go home and tell Valerie what I’ve come down to. Living with Will’s cousin in this inn that struggles to keep itself afloat financially. On a private soldier’s pay, I couldn’t contribute much to my keep, but I do what I can to help Constance.” She put out her hands, red and rough from a servant’s work. “Tell them about these too.”
“I have no intention of telling Julia or Valerie anything,” my mother retorted. “If they wish to know where or how you live, then let them come and see for themselves.”
There was a whimper from the bedroom. Sabrina said, “My son. I’ve just put him to bed. He’s begun to crawl, and I live in dread that he’ll fall into the river when I’m not looking. But I have nowhere else to go.”
It was self-pity, but as the lower doors to the inn must lead directly to that tiny docking area where the usual house would have a porch, such a tragedy could happen.
“Nowhere else? But what of Will’s family?” my mother asked.
“Will’s father and brothers live in the Welsh Marches, near Hay-on-Wye. They offered me a home, but I couldn’t accept. They were no happier than my own family when I married Will. If I must live on charity, I prefer to be here.”
The whimper settled into a sleepy grumble, and then there was silence.
Thinking to change the subject, I said, “How long have you lived here in Fowey?”
“Since just after Boxing Day. Where we lived in Woodstock, the owner of the cottage refused to give us any more credit. She kept most of our belongings as well. Except for the cradle. I wouldn’t let her take that. It was Will’s when he was a baby.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to bring up a painful subject.”
“You couldn’t have known.” She took a deep breath. “My father would tell you that I have made my bed and should lie on it without complaint. It would be easier if I didn’t have a child. I could find work, with so many men gone to fight the Kaiser. I could support myself. But I don’t want to leave him. He’s all I have now, and I would rather accept charity than put him in the care of strangers. Or leave him with Constance, because she’s too busy keeping the inn from going under to watch him.”
I repeated, unwilling to believe my ears, “All you have?”
“An actor is paid to act, not to fight the Germans.” She turned to look out the window. The port wasn’t visible from here. It was upriver, where the ships that once carried clay and other goods docked. “Do you know, I’d been so afraid Will might contract influenza. I wasn’t prepared, after all this time, for the telegram reporting he’d been killed. It seemed so terribly unfair, somehow. As if God had spared him the sickness because he was destined to die in battle.” The unshed tears fell now, and she let them fall.
My mother took out a handkerchief and handed it to Sabrina. She murmured her gratitude as she took it.
“You’re a widow?” I asked. “But—”
“He died two weeks before Vincent did. I’ll always wonder if my brother killed my husband. They say this sometimes happens, that scores are settled on the battlefield. If this is true, then God avenged Will, and someone shot Vincent.”
She broke down then, and there was no comfort we could offer. I was still shocked by what she’d told us. After a moment she said, “Please go. Please.”
We took our leave, and my mother embraced Sabrina. She resisted at first, and then flung her arms around her.
We were back in the passage when I thought of something. It didn’t really matter now. But still, I felt I should ask, if only to settle a point.
I stepped back into the room. “Sabrina. I’d like to know. What color were your husband’s eyes?”
Her voice was almost inaudible. “Blue. Palest blue, like ice. Except when he smiled for me. Why? What does it matter?”
“I was hoping perhaps your son had inherited them. To keep Will’s memory alive.”
She smiled through her tears. “He has.”
I thanked her and rejoined my mother.
We reached the stairs
and went down them. Constance was no longer there in Reception.
My mother said, “See if you can find an envelope or something in the desk over there, Bess, dear. I’d like to leave a little gift for the child.”
I did, searching through the stationery before finding a fresh one. But as I handed it to my mother, something fell on the floor, and I retrieved it to replace it amongst the other papers in an untidy stack.
And then I realized that the envelope on top was postmarked from France, and I opened it, telling myself that it was not snooping. But it was.
It was the letter from William Morton’s commanding officer, telling Morton’s widow how her husband had died—gallantly and without pain at the end, his mind on his wife and child, not his fate. That he had fought well for King and Country and inspired his fellow soldiers with his courage.
A standard letter, meant to make the grieving family feel that their sacrifice was not in vain, that their son or husband or brother had died as a man should, with courage and dignity.
No mention of the reality of dying in a filthy trench or alone somewhere in No Man’s Land, the rotting corpse brought in during the next collection of the dead and wounded. No mention of his fellow soldiers stoically watching as he took his last breaths or the orderlies racing to find and stanch the bleeding, the nursing sister shaking her head, accepting that he had died on the way to the aid station. None of the panic, the screams, the blood, the despair. Only comfort.
I looked at the signature, expecting to see Colonel Prescott’s name there. But a Colonel wouldn’t write a letter for a dying soldier. His Captain would, and this was duly signed by a Captain Forester, who may have been kinder because he knew Morton by sight and could even speak with some familiarity about how he had served.
I set the letter back in its envelope and put it in among the papers, then realized that the other sheets I held in my hands were copies of correspondence to a dozen or more charitable organizations for widows and orphans, begging for assistance. Sitting here at Reception, Sabrina had filled the empty hours writing these, swallowing her pride for her son’s sake. I could understand now how deep her feelings went against her brother for denying her what she felt was hers by right.
Her family had failed her, and it appeared that these organizations, overwhelmed by similar requests, were finding it hard to spread their funds thin enough to help everyone.
Sabrina had come a long way from the happy child racing through the orchard with her sister at her heels, the first week after we’d come home from India. Long curls flying out of their ribbons, no inkling of the future in store.
I put the papers back together as carefully as I could so that Sabrina wouldn’t have the added shame of realizing that we had seen them. Better by far to accept my mother’s gift for the child as it was meant, rather than wonder if it had been given out of pity rather than love.
The light still danced in the current as the river made its way to the sea, but the color had changed to gold as the sun cast long rays across the estuary. Upriver the shadows were already deep where the trees crowded down to the banks and shut off our view of the port. We stood there for a moment, looking down at the fortifications at the river’s mouth. They too were gold flecked, and I thought how lovely this setting was. And how much sorrow it encompassed.
My mother said, as we started back the way we’d come, “Well.”
I sighed. “It wasn’t Will Morton, was it? That letter from Captain Forester looked all too official, and there was the telegram as well.”
“No. It couldn’t have been,” she agreed.
“How awfully sad. Julia never mentioned that Sabrina’s husband had been killed. Nor did Valerie.”
“I expect she hasn’t told them.”
“We shouldn’t have come. We’ve only upset her.”
My mother said, “Yes, but we’re talking about murder, aren’t we? Better us than the police. Or the Army. They wouldn’t have been as kind.”
And that was cold comfort as we walked back to the gray stone church and then found our way in the gathering dusk up the twisting path back to the hotel. A small dog came out to a garden gate, barking ferociously, then jumping up to be greeted, his tail wagging madly. As I petted the furry head, scratching behind his ears, I thought about the child growing up on the river. Would he ever have a dog?
I couldn’t understand how the young officer I’d known in India could have denied his widowed sister some financial help. But then he himself had died only a short time after his brother-in-law. There had been no chance to do anything. Still, he must surely have known about the child and guessed what Sabrina’s circumstances must be. He could have written to Julia to make his wishes known. She would have carried them out, if he had. She would have done anything he’d asked. Even a small allowance would have made a huge difference in Oxfordshire and she could have kept the cottage.
For that matter, Valerie—with her inheritance from her mother as well as her father—who had visited Sabrina and must have seen the straits she was in with a new baby, could have done something to help.
I commented on this to my mother as we walked on.
“I expect everyone felt it was the Morton family who ought to step in, since Sabrina’s family had cut her off. And they did offer Sabrina a home, didn’t they? Perhaps Julia will have a change of heart, once the solicitors have finished and Vincent’s estate is settled. I’ll drop a word in her ear, without mentioning Cornwall. She has no child of her own, and she may be willing to consider the boy’s needs.”
But the boy was a Morton. Not a Carson. Would that make any difference?
As we reached the last few steps of the path up to our hotel, my mother took a deep breath and said, “Who killed Vincent? I’d have answered, Someone in his company who knew Morton and thought he and his family had been badly treated—if it weren’t for the fact that Vincent wasn’t shot and that his body was discovered some distance from the Front. Simple revenge isn’t that personal or clever.”
I had no answer for her.
“I’m very glad you’re home and safe,” she went on, putting an arm around my shoulders and drawing me to her in a brief embrace as we reached the tall white doors of the hotel.
Later I stood by the window of my room, watching the lights of boats plying the river. They couldn’t go beyond the fortifications, for the sea was probably mined, or a submarine might be lurking in the black depths farther out.
As they bobbed about far below on their mysterious errands, fishing or simply longing for another time, I asked myself the questions I’d put off until I’d said good night to my mother.
If it hadn’t been Will Morton who killed Vincent Carson and Private Wilson or had twice tried to kill me, then who was it?
If it wasn’t revenge for his treatment of his sister that had brought about Major Carson’s murder and all that had followed, what was driving this man?
There had to be a reason. But would any of us be able to find it?
CHAPTER TWELVE
WHEN I ARRIVED at the clinic, there were courtesies to observe before I could go and look for Simon Brandon.
First, the official visit with Matron to present my orders. She remembered me, and we talked about France for a few minutes, and then she passed me to Dr. Gaines. He welcomed me just as warmly and sent for tea.
“I’ve just made rounds. I could use a cup,” he said, offering me the only other chair in his narrow office. “Tell me about France.”
I tried to remember interesting surgeries or treatments I’d observed, because I knew that was what he wanted to hear, not how the war was progressing. The wounded in his care told their own tale of what was happening in the trenches.
And then Sister Masters was there to show me to my quarters and outline my duties. Once more with my experience I’d be serving in the surgical theater when needed.
It was after eleven o’clock by that time, and she suggested that I meet the rest of the staff at lunch. Some of them had been
here when I first came to the clinic, and others were new. As before, the staff was handpicked by Dr. Gaines, and we enjoyed a lively discussion about the patients and what I’d been doing in France. Half my mind was elsewhere, but I managed to hold my own from long practice. We were just finishing our meal when mercifully Sister Masters suggested that I take the next half hour to settle in. I rose from the table, took my leave of the others as I thanked her, and went up the main stairs.
I’d done this so often that it took no more than five minutes to unpack and stow my belongings where I could reach them quickly when needed. My mother had seen to it that my uniforms were starched and ready to wear, and I was grateful.
And then I sat on the bed and stared at nothing for another several minutes. Finally I got to my feet and walked out of my room. Now that the time had come I was almost afraid of what I was going to find when I left this sanctuary and walked down to the wards.
But it had to be done. I went down the steps, counting them as I’d done so many times during my routine duties, the count always helping me put one patient out of my mind and prepare me to address the next.
As I passed the doorway to the room where convalescents sat to read, play cards, or talk, I glimpsed Captain Barclay at a table writing what appeared to be a letter. Fortunately he didn’t look up. I had only a very little time in which to find Simon, and I didn’t want to call attention to what I was about to do.
Simon, I’d been told, was in the surgical ward in the back of the house where the library used to be. Most of the books had been removed for safekeeping, although a few volumes were left amidst the medical kit filling the shelves now. As I entered, I could feel the warmth of the sun on my face from the long windows that overlooked one of the gardens. A slight breeze lifted the thin curtains and blew lightly against my cap.
The sister on duty smiled and nodded to me. She believed I was there to familiarize myself with all the patients, and I let her take a moment to describe the conditions of her charges. But at this present moment, I was concerned most about just one.