by Tessa Arlen
“Yes, I took his basket over to him.”
“And then?”
“Then I came back to the house.”
“At what time?”
The girl’s eyes slid to the left and then to the right and then fixed themselves firmly on her face. Here we go, thought Mrs. Jackson, here’s the first lie.
“I forgot to wind my watch, Mrs. Jackson, so I can’t be sure of the time.”
She let that one go for the moment. It would be easy enough to check with the cook. Both Fuller and Ellis had developed a ridiculous infatuation for Captain Bray in the last few weeks, but it was nothing she thought she need worry about, it was mostly all in their heads. It gave them something to giggle about and whisper over to one another; all part of having to rely on immature young women for the war effort.
“And after luncheon, what did you do then?”
“Fuller and I cleared the table in the officers’ mess and when everything was washed up we put away all the china, then it was time for us to take a ten-minute break. After that we were both scheduled for nurses’ training with Sister Carter.” Mrs. Jackson felt a momentary flash of pity for Sister if she had to rely on these two girls in a nursing emergency.
“Did you come back to the house directly from the kitchen garden after you gave Captain Bray his luncheon?” As she circled back to Ellis’s delivering the captain’s luncheon basket she watched the girl’s eyes fill with tears. “There is no need to cry,” she said quietly. “Come now, did you speak with Captain Bray when you took him his luncheon?”
“I called out a good-morning.” Her voice faltered. “But he didn’t say anything or turn around, he just carried on with his digging.” Mrs. Jackson tried for more patience. The captain was indifferent to everyone, men and women alike, even if the women were young and pretty.
“Did he turn round, or wave, or anything?”
“No.” Her eyes skittered off to a far corner. Silly little thing, thought Mrs. Jackson and smiled at the ineffectual fibbing.
“How did you know it was Captain Bray then?”
“What?”
“He was in uniform and his back was to you. So how did you know it was him?”
The young woman was so disconcerted by this question that she simply stared at Mrs. Jackson with her mouth open.
“Because of the color of his hair,” she recovered herself, and her voice was defiant. “He wasn’t wearing his cap; he never does in the garden when it’s sunny. His hair is ever so, was ever so beautiful.” She choked up and groped for her hankie. “Dark gold, like ripened barley.” Ripened barley? Oh good Lord above, Mrs. Jackson thought, was I ever this gormless at twenty?
“For someone as young and energetic as yourself, Ellis, it probably takes all of ten minutes to walk from the scullery door of the hospital to the kitchen garden.” The girl bowed her head, a complacent smile acknowledging her youthful energy. “And since you did not stop to talk with the captain it would only take a few minutes to put the basket down on the bench, under the walnut tree, wouldn’t it?” From her dismayed expression, Ellis evidently didn’t like this accurate summation of her minutes. “And another ten minutes to walk back to the house. So if you left at eleven o’clock you must have been walking back into the kitchen to help Cook at exactly twenty-three minutes past eleven.”
Ellis dropped her eyes to the carpet, lips pressed tightly together.
“Is that a yes, or a no?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure about this, Ellis, that you were back in the kitchen by twenty past eleven?” The girl started to nod, thought better of it, and said, “Yes, Mrs. Jackson, I am quite sure.”
“Very well then, Ellis, that will be all. Off you go, and start setting the table for dinner in the officers’ mess, please. I will be along when I have finished talking to Fuller.”
Ellis opened the door and there sitting on a chair in the corridor was her best friend, Mary Fuller. Mrs. Jackson saw Ellis give her friend a meaningful nudge with her shoulder as Fuller came into the office.
“Good evening, Fuller; just give me a moment please.”
Mrs. Jackson got up from her desk and stood in the window looking out at the darkening evening as she thought through Ellis’s version of her trip to the kitchen garden. When she turned back to the young girl sitting with her hands in her lap, she thought Fuller had the rather complacent look of a cat. Her small round face was turned up toward her, large clear eyes serene, mouth relaxed in a faint smile.
“What time did the cook send you over to the kitchen garden this morning to pick beans for luncheon?” The girl’s expression became even more catlike in its inscrutability; she blinked once or twice and answered without hesitation, “It was midday, perhaps a few minutes after.”
“So you went over to the kitchen garden and arrived there at what time?”
“It only takes me about ten minutes. So it must have been about twelve-fifteen. I had a lot of beans to pick and Cook had told me I had to be back by a quarter to one.”
“So what time did you get back to the kitchen?”
“I was back when Cook told me to be back, at a little before a quarter to one. We topped and tailed the beans, and Cook had them ready by the time the soup was eaten.” Mrs. Jackson remembered that the beans had been perfectly prepared when they were served and there had been plenty of them. She paused before she asked her next question so that her voice was without a trace of doubt as to the veracity of Fuller’s bean-picking expedition.
“Did you happen to see Captain Bray in the kitchen garden while you were there?”
A pale smile and the girl put her head on one side. There was considerable competition between Fuller and her friend Ellis for the captain’s attention it seemed. “Of course I did.” There was no “of course” about it, the bean rows were at the top end of the garden and between them and the bottom of the garden where the captain would have been digging were rows and rows of raspberry canes, and if she was in that corner of the garden, the grape pergola would have completely obscured the line of sight from the bean terrace down to the root-vegetable section at the far end of such a large area. It was as if she had voiced her doubts aloud, and Fuller smiled again. “I met Captain Bray in the kitchen courtyard when I arrived. He was sharpening his spade in the potting shed. He followed me into the kitchen garden. I told him I was in a rush and he helped me to pick beans. He was ever so nice, he’s always nice to me,” She smiled and then her face crumpled and she put her hands over her eyes. “How could anyone have done something so terrible to him?” There was no drama here, just shock and grief. Fuller struggled, and Mrs. Jackson stood up and patted the young woman on the shoulder. “He was such a sa-sad man. I know he was missing some of his marbles, but he was always so nice to me.” She looked up as Mrs. Jackson made soothing there-there sounds. If what she is saying is true and she left the kitchen courtyard to be back at the kitchen by a quarter to one, Captain Bray had been alive at about half past twelve.
* * *
Before she turned in for the night Mrs. Jackson decided to have a word or two with Major Andrews. Right from the moment the head medical officer had walked through the door of the hospital nearly ten months ago, something had clicked between them. Nothing that made things difficult or embarrassing, there was none of that kind of silliness. Mrs. Jackson prized her independence and was proud of her status as a single working woman, despite the many delightful letters she exchanged with Ernie Stafford, who was presently in uniform with the War Graves Commission somewhere in France—somewhere with an almost unpronounceable name.
What’s the name again? “Auchonvillers?” She tried the name out loud and wondered if that was how it was said. She had looked it up on the map in the library. Ernie had mentioned in his last letter that his move to Auchonvillers meant he was closer to the Boulogne docks and he hoped to be granted some home leave for Christmas.
“Auchonvillers,” she said again, as she crossed the echoing cavern of the great hall, her f
ootsteps loud on the marble floor.
“Ocean Villas, did you say, Mrs. Jackson?” Corporal West, the younger and livelier of their two male orderlies, came out of Major Andrews’s office and, guessing in which direction she was headed, stood to mock attention and held the door open for her. West was a pleasant and easygoing man in his late twenties, an especially skilled male nurse. He came from the East End of London and had all the outgoing charisma of a self-assured cockney. He was openly adored by the professional nurses for his ability to remain good-natured and even-tempered in the worst situations, as well as for his smooth, well-barbered appearance: neatly trimmed hair and perfectly clipped mustache as worn by the American moving-picture heartthrob Douglas Fairbanks.
“Is that how it is pronounced? I was wondering. Some of these French towns have such odd-sounding names.”
“Horrible place that Ocean Villas, that’s what the soldiers call it by the way. They’ve seen more misery there than in all the rest of northern France—barring the other Somme battlefields and of course Wipers.” She smiled at the soldiers’ slang for the French town.
“Ypres?”
“Spot on. I hope no one in your family is in Ocean Villas, Mrs. Jackson.”
“Just an old friend but he’s not in the fighting.”
“Doctor, then, I expect?” he said, pushing for more information. Before the war Mr. Stafford had been the Talbots’ landscape gardener and had been of great help to her with one or two of her ladyship’s inquiries. But it would be the last thing in the world she would ever tell the gregarious and extremely inquisitive Corporal West, whose other attractions for the female staff included his love of gossip.
“He is with the War Graves Commission, well behind the lines.” Mrs. Jackson stuck her head around the door of the doctor’s office. “Do you have a moment, Major Andrews?”
A gray-haired man with the stooped shoulders of a scholar looked up from his desk. He stood up, took his pipe out of his mouth, and waved her into the room. “Mrs. Jackson, please come in. What a pleasant surprise at the end of a perfectly dreadful day.”
She thought the hospital’s chief medical officer looked more tired than usual, his plain, long horsey face was pale, and his coarse hair lifted in a double cowlick at the crown, giving him a permanently harassed appearance when he was one of the calmest men she had ever come across. She took a seat in the chair opposite his desk and placed a stack of requisition forms in front of him for his signature.
“I was wondering how our officers were doing, sir, any ill effects after this afternoon?”
He picked up his pen and signed the first form without reading it. “Phipps has withdrawn; he’s still in shock. It’s too soon to say for Martin and Fielding. Men who have been in combat rarely show emotion when one of their number is killed. But they are at home now in England, in a hospital where they believe they are safe, and Captain Bray was not killed in action, he was murdered. I expect Sister Carter and our orderlies will have a long night with some of them—especially Lieutenant Phipps. We might consider recalling Nurse White from home leave.”
“Do you think Captain Bray was liked by the other officers, sir?” She had become used to the fact that there was rarely a question that this considerate man would not try to answer, if the questions were honest ones. If he thought she was intruding on patient confidentiality he would say so.
“Not actively disliked. They steered clear because he was so withdrawn. They rather admired him, I think. His war record was remarkable. No one doubted his courage or his dedication to the men in his company, so he had everyone’s respect. But I am not sure how much they liked him.”
“I am a bit worried about Inspector Savor.” If she had had an older brother, or a brother at all, she liked to imagine he would have been like this quiet, reserved man who had such a capacity for understanding and such enduring patience. She never felt at ease with most men, except perhaps for Mr. Hollyoak, whom she had known for half her life, and Ernie Stafford, for whom she might or might not have particular feelings.
“You mean his rather contemptuous attitude? Yes, I think that’s just a cover-up for his sense of inadequacy; he has rather an inferiority complex. Most policemen have a bit of a chip on their shoulders, unless they are really good at their job. The chief constable is a nice old codger though.” He laughed. “He appears to be instinctively intelligent, straightforward, and well meaning.”
“Whereas Savor might be a bit of a bully, sir.”
He signed the last form and put his fountain pen down on the surface of the desk. Pushing back his chair, he folded his hands behind his head and considered for a moment. “You are concerned about his interrogation of the hospital staff and our patients?”
“Yes, I suppose I am, sir.”
“I wouldn’t worry, I am sure our staff can handle him. You should sit in on a Medical Board when they are ‘interviewing’ our patients to see if they are ready to return to duty, or if they are avoiding being sent back. If they can withstand those verbal drubbings, Inspector Savor and his snide belligerence will be a walk in the park.”
She wondered if it would be a walk in the park and felt a flash of dislike for the inspector. She had heard him say to his sergeant as she had left the drawing room, “Won’t take us more than a minute to flush out our killer, Sergeant, they are all doolally”—he had tapped his temple—“even the ruddy doctors.”
“The inspector will finish talking to the staff tonight. He’ll start on our officers tomorrow. What room do you think I should put him in?” The major believed that surroundings affected mood: harmony created a sense of serenity, and clutter and chaos had a disruptive effect on his patients. He had insisted that the rooms the officers slept in were simply furnished and painted in the soft, muted colors found in nature. Green was a favorite with the major.
He laughed. “What about the old garden room, such a nice view of Captain Martin’s late summer perennial bed. If it is a pretty day it will be warm in there and if we sedate him with a nice luncheon he will be less aggressive—any chance of steak-and-kidney pud?”
She reached across the desk and gathered the scattered forms into a tidy pile. “A good solid luncheon and with the afternoon sun warming his back our inspector will be as nice as he can possibly be, sir.” She got up from her chair and then something else occurred to her. “Were you and Captain Pike with the cider detachment officers all morning? I mean right up until luncheon?”
He shot her a thoughtful look. “Yes, and if they were waiting for either one of us, Sister Carter gave them their physical checkups. All three of them were in the medical wing with Captain Pike, Sister Carter, and myself right up until we all walked over to the officers’ mess for luncheon, except Phipps.” She turned her head, perhaps a little too quickly, and noticed his faint smile before he continued. “Phipps went off to the orchard at about half past twelve—he wanted to get a start on apples for the pressing. I am afraid he will be at the top of Savor’s list.”
She didn’t like this idea at all. “But Lieutenant Phipps is such a slight lad and Captain Bray stood well over six feet; it would have been hard for Phipps to have hit him on the top of his head.”
The major tapped his forefinger twice on the arm of his chair. “Aha,” he said. “So that’s your thinking is it? But if Bray was bent over, or crouching to pick up potatoes?” He seemed so at ease with this discussion that she immediately asked another question.
“Might Lieutenant Phipps have been hallucinating, sir, and not known what he was doing?”
“Anything is possible, but it is highly unlikely that Phipps was hallucinating. Our inspector had better watch out, Mrs. Jackson, I can see your interest is piqued.”
She wished him good night and hurried away. Major Andrews was a sharp one, and if she was going to get to the bottom of this situation she would have to be more discreet and work quickly. The War Office inspection and Medical Board review were at the end of the week.
Chapter Six
It was a preoccupied Clementine who changed into her evening dress and walked down to the drawing room half an hour before dinner. But she was pulled out of her introspection when she met Mr. Edgar Bray. The man who got to his feet by placing a heavy walking stick between his knees and pushing himself up with it was one of the most beautiful beings she had ever seen. She turned to the butler to give herself a moment to cover her surprise that Edgar Bray was such a stunningly handsome man. “We will eat dinner as soon as his lordship joins us, Hollyoak,” she said, and then, her composure recovered, she gave her full attention to their guest.
“Good evening, Mr. Bray, I am Clementine Talbot. I am so sorry that Ralph and I were not here to welcome you. Oh please do sit.”
He bowed his head in greeting and then lowered himself back into his chair and set his stick against its arm. “Not at all, no apology necessary. Lady Althea and Lord Haversham gave me tea, and we had a pleasant time comparing the delights of my native Cotswolds to the rolling hills of the Chilterns. Thank you so much for inviting me to stay with you, Lady Montfort. Elizabethan houses not completely ruined by our grandparents to bring them up-to-date are a charming rarity, and Iyntwood is a perfect jewel of a house.”
Not only is he the most handsome man I have ever seen, but he is quite charming. Clementine looked into a face that bore all the hallmarks of beauty in a man. From the high crown of Edgar Bray’s well-shaped head and his smooth high forehead to his classic jawline, his face was almost flawless. Dark straight brows, expressive and intelligent hazel-brown eyes, a straight strong nose that prevented him from looking too pretty, and a firm mouth that was neither too thin nor too full in the lip. He was of a good height, and his impeccably cut suit fitted him well across his broad shoulders. The only thing that prevented absolute perfection was that his right leg was turned at an almost forty-five-degree angle toward his left, which ever so slightly skewed the overall balance of his bearing. But it does not mar his beauty at all, she thought, and with all the young men in Britain these days with missing limbs, even with his crooked leg he has such presence. She also noticed that when he was not smiling, as he had been since she had come into the room, his mouth in repose turned down a little at the corners, pulled there by two deep lines from the edges of his nostrils to the corners of his mouth. The two deeply scored lines gave his beauty a truly human cast—otherwise she felt she might be overawed by his resemblance to a Greek god.