11 June 1917
Ypres
My dearest love,
I’m very tired today, as I am every day, it seems, but also exhilarated by the finish of the last terrible battle. It’s the not knowing, I suppose, of when it will end. And exhaustion seems to eat the very marrow of my bones when I remember that we have won this battle but not the war (– yet).
During those weeks, there was a near-constant flow of men arriving on stretchers, crying out in pain, crying for their mothers, crying for their friends. Each one had to be cleaned and dressed with bandages as best we could. More often than not we had to hope that the holding of their hands helped as much as morphine. The doctors could never get around the men fast enough to administer the drugs.
But! You mustn’t worry about me, my dear. At my time of life, I know that I’m lucky to have had the years I’ve had, and I’ve seen enough not to be too shocked. I do feel terribly sad for the young; these sights and sounds cannot but make them cynical, and that’s if they live.
Perhaps it’s me that’s the cynic, as the men show such bravery and courage, despite everything. You get to know some of them really quite well, the business of nursing being such an intimate one. I don’t mean physically, though there is that, of course. It’s more that one knows what they are thinking because they tell you; the truth of their thoughts burst spontaneously out of their mouths. The officers may be good at small talk in the drawing rooms of Mayfair, but here they get to the point. There is no time to waste when it comes to letting one know what they need. We even read their letters to their mothers and their own dearest loves, not because we are snooping but because we’re writing the letters for them. Their stories make your heart break.
There is a lad here that we’ve all become rather fond of, Roland Lucknor, an officer, who is very gentle. He has had gas poisoning and the initial effects were terrible, but we’re hoping he’s improving enough now to recover fully in a few weeks. Of course, he has been cast very low by it all. He’s a sensitive man and not at all suited to the war (as if anyone was). We talked for a long time when he first came in. Roland told me that he signed up almost as soon as war broke out, determined to do something good for his country and make his father proud. He told me he hasn’t seen his father since he was fourteen years old, and then only for a single evening (his father is a missionary in Africa). His mother died when he was nine years old and he hadn’t seen her for four years before that, so has no memory of her. He has a godmother in England he adores, who he stayed with in the school holidays, but she has lost her mind and no longer knows who he is. So I’m very much afraid that he feels there is little to live for. Sister Mary and I spend our time telling him to cheer up and reminding him of good old Blighty and all the marvellous things waiting for us when we get home: cauliflower cheese, long walks in the hills, a pint of ale. The trouble is, it starts to make us feel homesick.
For all the men, the shock and terror of the fighting here is overwhelming: the constant noise of the shelling; the sleep deprivation night after night; the cold and wet of the mud, despite the summer; the painful reminders of home when letters and parcels arrive; the sickness; the loss of their friends … There is nothing normal, nothing reassuring about daily life here.
And yet, one carries on, putting one foot in front of the other, moving forwards. I think only about the things that need to be done, the mechanics of the nursing, the organising of the sisters’ rotas and so on. We are lucky because we are rewarded by the men who do get better. Just the sheer fact of their being alive is enough to make us happy, though they give us plenty of gratitude, too.
I’d better end here, my dearest. Please write and let me know you are well. I expect I shall be at this address for a few more weeks yet. I do not know when I will manage some home leave.
Most tender love,
Flo
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The next morning Louisa and Nancy had time for only the briefest exchange of words, in which Louisa said little but that she had calmed Roland from his bad dream. She urged Nancy not to say anything to him. It would only shame Roland to know, she said, and Nancy agreed.
As it turned out, there was little opportunity for Nancy to talk to Roland in any case. She told Louisa later that over breakfast he had said to her that he was on his way to Paris as he had a desire to see some of his old friends from before the war. He didn’t know, he confessed to Nancy, if they would still be there but he had a longing for the streets of the Left Bank, the smells of the Seine and a glass of absinthe. When Nancy had asked what that was, he had laughed knowingly, and she complained to Louisa that it was yet another question to which she was considered too childish to know the answer. Yet Louisa felt sure she had seen him watch Nancy affectionately, when he thought that she could not see him.
After breakfast, he and Lord Redesdale had gone to sit out on the terrace that overlooked the sea for a cup of coffee and a cigarette. Louisa was down at the far end of the garden, pinning out some washing to dry in the balmy sea air when she heard the most terrific shouting. This was not an unusual sound when coming from her master, but to her astonishment, this time it was Roland who appeared to be standing up and agitated, shouting and waving his hands about, while Nancy’s father remained in his chair, looking deeply apologetic and upset. Before she had had time to gather up her basket and get out of sight, Roland had vanished and was not seen again. Lord Redesdale remained under a cloud for the rest of the day.
There were only a few days remaining of their time in Dieppe and there was a rush to do favourite things ‘for the last time’ – the final mouth-watering croissant, the final paddle in the sea, the final exotically bitter cup of coffee – so it was not until they had reached London, where the Mitfords had decided to stay for a couple of nights on their way home to make further arrangements for Bill’s funeral, that Louisa thought to telephone Guy about what she had now determined was a new development in the Shore case.
She had not discussed it with Nancy, feeling that the girl’s propensity for stories was not an advantage in a situation like this. Instead, she went off alone to find one of the new telephone call boxes in Piccadilly and, pennies in hand, dialled the operator and asked for the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway Police at Victoria station, crossing her fingers as she did so that Guy would be there.
Thankfully, he was soon summoned, but the conversation was stiff, largely due to the fact that he was far from alone as he stood by the telephone at the reception desk.
‘Miss Cannon,’ he said formally after taking the telephone from the smirking police officer who had picked up the call, ‘I hope there is no trouble?’
Louisa sensed his discomfort and sought to reassure him. ‘No, none,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to call but I thought I must because … I think I may have discovered something important in the Shore case.’
There was a pause and Louisa thought she could hear a slight quickening of his breath. ‘What is it?’ he said.
‘It’s someone called Roland Lucknor. He’s an officer that Nancy met at a dance. We knew that he was at Ypres when Lord Redesdale was there; they were in the same battalion, in fact, though he said that he didn’t know Lord Redesdale at the time, only knew of him.’ She stopped and took a breath. It was important to get this right.
‘Yes,’ said Guy, ‘go on.’ He was impatient, aware of others trying to listen in.
‘Well, Nancy asked him once if he knew Florence Shore, as a nurse in the war, and he said no. But a few days ago, he came to stay with the Mitfords in Dieppe, on his way to Paris, and he woke in the night screaming. Nancy heard him and got me to go into his room—’
‘You went into his room in the night?’ said Guy before he could stop himself. He heard someone stifle a laugh in the background. ‘Sorry, what happened then?’
‘He was sweating and crying; it was awful. I don’t know if it was a dream or that thing soldiers got in the war …’
‘Shellshock?’ said Guy.
<
br /> ‘Yes, something like that. It was awful because his eyes were open but I don’t think he was aware of what he was saying or even that I was there. I calmed him down and then he said, more than once, “Thank you, Nurse Shore”.’
‘Nurse Shore?’ said Guy. ‘Are you certain?’
‘Quite certain,’ said Louisa, and then heard the pips go. Hurriedly, she put more coins in. ‘Are you still there, Guy?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Why did he deny knowing her if he did know her?’ said Louisa.
‘I don’t know,’ said Guy, ‘but I agree, it doesn’t look good for him. Can you find out anything more?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Louisa. ‘He comes to the house now and then. I think he’s doing some sort of business deal with Lord Redesdale. Perhaps we should ask him if he knows Stuart Hobkirk? Supposing he was the accomplice?’
‘I think we need to be careful about making those kind of connections before we’ve spoken to him,’ said Guy, as much trying to tell himself not to get too hopeful at this turn. ‘Nurse Shore will have tended to many men and we can’t suspect each one.’
Feeling dismissed by Guy, Louisa decided she would investigate Roland herself. If he was a danger to either Nancy or Lord Redesdale, she’d want to know first and protect them from him. The only question now was one of opportunity.
CHAPTER FORTY
Troubled by Louisa’s telephone call, the case had come rushing back to Guy. He’d put it to one side for a time, not knowing how to go any further, and now this chink of light made him wonder if he could pursue it again.
Talking it over with his mother one night on the front steps, he had even told her the shocking revelation from Stuart Hobkirk. At this, she persuaded him that he should go and see Mabel Rogers.
‘That poor woman,’ she said, as they enjoyed the last of the day’s sunshine and drank tea, while his brothers were in the pub. ‘Those war nurses were a rare breed, as brave as any soldier, and no one ever talks about them. You don’t see them in the parades, do you? And after all that, she lost the only thing she had – the promise of a comfortable future with her friend.’
‘You don’t know that,’ said Guy. ‘She might have lots of friends. Lots of other things to do.’
His mother shook her head sadly. ‘I do know,’ she said. ‘Trust me, she was away at war for years. There’s not many’d understand her and what she’s been through. She’ll have little money and be lonely. You ought to go and see her. She’d most likely appreciate a hand of friendship.’
Guy knew Mabel lived at Carnforth Lodge on Queen Street in Hammersmith as the matron there, as it had been stated during the inquest and he still had the notes in his little book. Not long after the conversation with his mother he realised the address was only a short bus ride from work he’d been sent to do at Paddington station, so he decided on the spur of the moment that he would go to see the nurse.
At once he saw that his mother had been right. Carnforth Lodge was a dilapidated, depressed building on the side of a busy road. The windows and net curtains were clean, a sign of its proud inhabitants, but the columns on the side of the front door were black from smoke. Its poverty was painted across the front in large letters, like a newspaper headline: Hammersmith & Fulham District Nursing Association Supported by Voluntary Contributions. The last two words had been painted smaller to squeeze them on to the frontage. Bang next door was the Six Bells pub – as unlikely a pairing as a nunnery and a butcher’s. How strange that Florence Shore, who had money, had chosen to live here.
Guy pushed open the front door and found himself in a dim hall. There was a sign for a porter’s office on an open door and Guy knocked on it gently.
‘Yes?’ called out a man’s voice.
Guy stepped in. The man was sitting in a wooden chair beside a rackety table, drinking out of a mug. He didn’t stand when Guy came in but merely looked up.
‘What can I do for you?’
He looked familiar, though it took Guy a minute to work out why. He was the man who had been holding Mabel Roger’s arm at the first inquest.
‘I’m looking for the matron, Miss Mabel Rogers,’ said Guy.
The porter put his mug down. ‘On what business?’ he asked.
‘It’s personal,’ said Guy.
The porter took in Guy’s uniform and raised his eyebrows. ‘Is she expecting you?’
Guy thought this rather impertinent of a porter, but if he had been the man at the inquest, he was probably a good friend of Miss Rogers. Perhaps after Miss Shore’s death there had been a few unwanted people calling in, the type that liked to clutch at the edges of morbid events.
‘No,’ he admitted, ‘but I won’t stay more than a few minutes.’
‘Right, I’ll show you in,’ said the porter.
He led Guy down the hall and gave a firm knock on a door. They heard, ‘Come in, come in.’ When they entered, Mabel was behind a desk, bent down, looking through one of the drawers.
Muffled, she said, ‘Be with you in a moment. Can’t find my—Oh, there they are.’ She sat up, holding a pair of fabric scissors triumphantly. Her face soon changed. ‘Who are you?’
‘Apologies for startling you, Miss Rogers,’ said Guy. ‘I’m Guy Sullivan. I’m with the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway Police.’
The room was unfussy and clean. There was a small pot of fuchsias on the mantelpiece and a faded rug on the floor. Mabel herself was something of a stark contrast to her surroundings; her dress hung limply on her frame, her long face bore not a trace of having ever expressed a pleasantry in its life and her wispy hair was pulled back in a severe bun.
‘You can go, Jim,’ she said to the porter, who nodded but looked reluctant to leave. He left the door open slightly. ‘What can I do for you?’
Guy sat on the chair that faced her desk. Was it his imagination or was it measured a little lower than was standard? He felt himself distinctly beneath Miss Rogers’ gaze. ‘Oh, well, nothing, actually, Miss Rogers,’ said Guy. Not for the first time, he hadn’t quite thought through a decision. ‘I came to offer my condolences to you about Florence Shore. I know it has been some time but …’ He trailed away, aware that it sounded rather inadequate.
Mabel gazed out of the French windows to the garden beyond. Two hens were pecking at the grass. ‘I think of Flo every day,’ she said. ‘We will not be at our ease until we know what happened.’
‘Yes,’ said Guy. He took a pause, thinking through how to do this as tactfully as possible. ‘I know the two of you were old friends—’
‘For more than a quarter of a century,’ said Mabel.
‘I wanted to let you know that although things appear to have come to a stop, I am still working on the case.’
‘Are you? If you’ve come to interview me, I must say, I really don’t—’
‘No, no,’ Guy was anxious to reassure her. ‘Not at all. I know you have given statements in court. Though I did wonder if perhaps you had heard of someone called Roland Lucknor?’
‘I don’t mind telling you, Mr Sullivan, that I have lived through two wars but I found the death of my dear friend far more distressing than anything I saw in Africa or France,’ said Mabel, standing up from behind her desk. ‘Please, I must ask you to leave now.’
Guy was horrified to realise that Mabel was on the verge of tears. ‘I only wanted to give you my sympathy,’ he said, ‘a hand of friendship. To let you know that Miss Shore hasn’t been forgotten. I’m determined to find the man that did it.’
Mabel closed her eyes briefly. ‘That man didn’t only kill Flo; he killed me, too. I have nothing to look forward to any more. Thank you, Mr Sullivan, for your kindness. It means a lot to an old lady like me.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Louisa’s chance to investigate Roland came rather sooner than she had expected, as it turned out. Not long after their return from France, Lady Redesdale’s father died. Even Nancy had been moved by the death of Tap Bowles.
‘We
didn’t see him much but he was awfully funny,’ she said. ‘And now he’s died in Morocco he’s going to be buried there, so no funeral for us.’
Lady Redesdale had worn mourning for the appropriate time but there was little question that the family’s circumstances had improved somewhat.
‘I’ll say there was a generous inheritance,’ said Mrs Stobie gleefully. ‘I’ve been asked to order all the good cuts from the butcher’s and some special delicacies to be sent up from Harrods.’
Even Mrs Windsor went about with something that approached a smile on her face, which Nanny put down to the new linens that had arrived.
It wasn’t much longer after the money had made itself noticed that news reached Louisa that Roland was coming down to stay for a night as part of a house party. Further evidence, said Mrs Stobie, that there were fruits to be enjoyed. Louisa was more concerned that Roland’s acceptance of the invitation was rather more directly connected to the family fortune. If he meant to have some of it, she would have to stop him. Not that she had any idea how she was going to do this.
Nancy, meanwhile, was as thrilled as ever at the idea of seeing him. ‘Whatever that row with Farve was about, it must be over,’ she said. ‘Neither of them would say anything to me, of course.’
‘Yes, I suppose,’ said Louisa, though she worried it was either money – wasn’t it always, as Nancy herself had said – or something more sinister, somehow connected with Florence Shore. Surely Lord Redesdale didn’t have anything to do with it? She shook the idea out of her mind.
Naturally, when Roland arrived, she saw little of him, as he was with Lord and Lady Redesdale and the rest of the guests in the drawing room, before changing for dinner and joining them. Nancy had been asked to the dinner too, which she took as an encouraging sign that her parents must not only suspect something of a romantic nature between the two of them but even supported the idea.
The Mitford Murders Page 20