The Shattered Tree

by Charles Todd

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I must go. I’ve kept Captain Barkley waiting much too long. But please, if you change your mind, you have only to ask.”

  “Thank you. There is an obligation, you see. I must do something about it.” She leaned her head back against her pillows, exhausted.

  Captain Barkley was standing by the waiting taxi, and he started forward at once as I came out the door of the hospital.

  “What was so secretive that I couldn’t be present?” he asked.

  “I don’t know that it was secrets I was after, or some feeling for what had become of Jerome. I didn’t think she would talk as freely with you there. We are both women, and both nurses. That counts for much, since we can’t really call ourselves friends.” I held up a hand as he started to interrupt me. “She was upset over Jerome Karadeg’s death. He died a suicide, and she feels she’s to blame for that because he was accused of nearly murdering her and there was nowhere to turn. She’s a nun, this weighs on her. And she wants to attend his funeral service. She’s just not up to it, Captain. I tried to make her see that it was foolish even to consider traveling to Brittany.”

  He was taking my arm, guiding me across the street to the taxi. “She’s a strange woman,” he said. “I’ll admit I don’t know how to read her.” As he opened the door of the taxi for me, he added, “It’s not her fault, you know. Shell shock is the very devil to deal with. I’ve seen it at the Front, firsthand.”

  We were close to Belle-Île when he said, “I must ask. This Frenchman you’ve been searching for. Have you learned anything more about him?”

  I remembered what Marie-Luc had called him. A monster.

  Yet French Army records didn’t show a Lieutenant by the name of Philippe Moreau. It was a common enough surname. Who was this man?

  An image came back to me.

  Bending over a shivering officer on a stretcher, reaching for his pocket as I examined the remnants of his uniform for a name. Instead, I found where a name patch appeared to have been ripped out of the pocket.

  I’d wondered from that night in Base Hospital Three if this man had actually been German, masquerading as a Frenchman.

  Marie-Luc had served in Belgian hospitals, nursing men who had been in the forefront of the fighting in 1914, who had watched their country come under German control.

  The driver could hear my answer. If he understood English.

  I said, “Would you care for a cup of coffee, bad as it might be, when we reach Belle-Île?” I longed for a cup of tea, but this was France.

  The Captain started to speak, glanced at the driver, and smiled. “Yes, I’d like that, Bess.”

  We got down at the gates to the courtyard, and Captain Barkley turned to pay the driver. He waited until the taxi had driven away, then said, “There’s a little café not far from here. Maybe that’s best.”

  We walked the distance in silence. My side was aching as we sat down, and I waited until the coffee had arrived before speaking.

  And then I said, “This man—it’s wise not to give him a name in such a public place—may well be many things, none of them wrong. On the other hand, he could be someone dangerous, and neither the French Army nor the French authorities know where to find him. He could be a spy, a saboteur, using a false name. Or he could have escaped from the Germans and not yet found a way to cope with what he’s suffered.”

  The Captain sat there, stirring his coffee, listening.

  I took a deep breath. “My father would have found some of the circumstances of his rescue rather suspicious. He would have made it a point to learn just who this stranger was. Matron, in Base Hospital Three, didn’t feel he was a threat. She was tired, overworked, and unwilling to take time from her other patients to look into this man’s past. And yet when he was sent on to Rouen, such questions about his history didn’t go with him. Rouen in turn allowed him to finish his convalescence in Paris. But why hasn’t he sent word to the Army that he’s alive and safe? And why don’t they have a record of him?”

  I was prepared for Captain Barkley to make light of what I’d just told him. When he didn’t, I realized then that he had his own reasons for being interested. But he was a Canadian officer, not French. He could have turned his own suspicions over to someone here in Paris, and forgot Lieutenant Moreau.

  Why hadn’t he?

  All this was going through my head, and when there was silence across the table from me, I knew my sense that there was something more to this business must have been right.

  He was still toying with his coffee spoon, drawing little diagrams on the tabletop with the tip of the bowl. Thinking. When he spoke, I wondered if he’d been taking that time to choose his words.

  “I’ve heard my French colleagues talk. Sometimes they seem to forget I’m there. They feel rather strongly that there was someone who was guiding or at least reporting on the shells that the Paris Gun was sending into parts of the city. He could very well have lain low for a time after it stopped firing, and then tried to make his way back to his own lines before he was found out and shot for spying. He could very well have been from the Alsace region, with a command of German and of French, so that he could pass as either. The thing is, no one knows. Paris has had its own spy fever—there was even Mata Hari, for God’s sake. This one could be real or it could be hysteria.”

  “What do you think?”

  He sighed. “There’s not enough evidence either way to go to the authorities about Moreau, is there? Supposition, a handful of facts. My instincts tell me this should be left to the French. If he’s here, they’ll find him.”

  But would they? Would they even have a place to begin looking if they didn’t know what we knew?

  I was tired, in pain, and I recognized the fact that he was right. We mustn’t throw Philippe Moreau to the hounds if there was even a chance that he was innocent. And yet—and yet.

  He paid the waiter and we left, finding a taxi to take us to the Hôtel de Belle-Île. I was grateful, not wanting to walk.

  We were just pulling up at the entrance to the hotel when I saw something white in the lengthening shadows by the door. All at once I realized that it was the sail-like cap of one of the nuns from the hospital.

  Captain Barkley handed me down from the taxi, and I hurried toward her.

  “Are you looking for me? My name is Crawford. Sister Crawford.”

  The nun smiled at me. “I had just been told you weren’t in. Sister Marie-Luc’s fever has risen alarmingly. I think there’s something on her mind. When I asked her how I could help, she begged me to find you, telling me that she had been wrong to send you away. Mother Superior felt that Marie-Luc will rest more easily if you come back and put her mind at rest.”

  I was surprised that a nun had been sent to tell me this. But I turned at once to Captain Barkley. “I must go back to the hospital.”

  He hailed the taxi in time to prevent it from driving on, and we got back inside, the nun sitting by me as Captain Barkley got in beside the driver.

  When we reached the hospital, I discovered that Marie-Luc’s fever had soared shortly after I’d left. Before she’d been moved to the private room. She stirred restlessly on her cot now, as if in pain, her face flushed and shivers racking her body.

  “We’ve put a poultice on the part of the incision that is the possible source of infection. And we’ve cleaned it with antiseptic powder. Still, I fear the infection is spreading too quickly. We have sent for the doctor,” the nun in charge of the case told me. “Quite frankly, I’m worried.”

  I went forward to the bedside, sniffing a little for any sign of the smell of infection, but there was none.

  “Sister Marie-Luc? It’s Bess Crawford. You wanted to see me?”

  She didn’t seem to hear me. I went on talking to her for a time, and finally she opened fever-bright eyes and stared up at me.

  “Sister Crawford?”

  Her eyes were narrowed, as if they were bothered by the light of the lamp on the table, but it wasn’
t very bright at all.

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “I was wrong. I’m so sorry. You must do something for me. I’m not going to live, and what I know will die with me.”

  “I’m told the doctors believe you’ll recover. That they have caught the infection in time.” I wasn’t sure of that, but I’d known cases where patients were so certain that they wouldn’t live that they died anyway. And there were cases where a patient had no hope at all, and somehow managed to live. State of mind was as much a part of treating patients as the medical care they were given.

  “All the same, I can’t be sure. Sister Claire could be wrong. My things. In the basket by the window.”

  Her clothing had been cleaned and mended and hung in what passed for a closet, a narrow alcove with a curtain that could be drawn across the opening. Her rosary and her ring and her shoes were in the basket I could see from where I stood.

  “Keys. Do you see them?”

  She was agitated now, pushing herself against the next round of fever.

  Crossing to the basket, I looked inside. In the bottom was a small brass ring with several keys on it. I picked it up and brought it to her.

  She fumbled with the keys, finally picking out one that was rather old-fashioned. “Here. The key to the house of my old governess. Go there. Bring me back a black lacquer box. Japanese. A gift to her. I don’t know where she kept it. I didn’t look for it after she died. I thought—it was safer where it was. Please. Go now.”

  I said, “I don’t know if Captain Barkley can borrow a motorcar, but we’ll find a way.”

  “He must,” she said, her hands grasping my own so hard that it hurt my fingers. “It’s my fault that Jerome is dead. I didn’t tell the whole truth, and this is my punishment. Don’t you see? Please! Help me.”

  “What truth? What should I be looking for?” I asked.

  “No. Bring back the box. I beg of you. I must see to this myself. If I am dead, you must take it to the Karadegs. No one else.”

  She had been determined to go back to Petite-Beauvais on her own, but she was too weak. And somehow, as she grew more and more agitated in her frustration, her fever rising with her state of mind, she blamed herself for what had happened.

  Across the bed, the nun in charge looked up at me, waiting for me to agree. I could read the urgency in her eyes.

  “Yes, all right, I’ll see what I can do,” I said hastily.

  “Bless you, bless you.” Marie-Luc lay back against her pillows, exhausted now.

  I stayed a few minutes longer, but she said nothing more, lapsing into that semiconscious state of the very ill. I turned and walked out.

  Sister Claire, who was in charge of her care, followed me out of the room, shutting the door softly behind us.

  “There is something on her mind, it won’t allow her to rest. I have asked if she wishes to see a priest, but she only shakes her head.” She bit her lip. “I hope I am not betraying a trust by telling you this. One of the other ward patients had a visitor shortly after you’d left. Her son, given compassionate leave. But his voice frightened Marie-Luc, and she became very upset, until one of the Sisters brought him over to her. She claimed he wasn’t the same person as the owner of the voice, and I thought she was going to climb out of her bed to look around the ward. But he was the only visitor. He was very concerned for his mother, and this was too much for him. He was only nineteen, and he broke down when Marie-Luc called him a traitor and warned us that he was going to kill all of us. It was a very bad moment, you must see that. I was very grateful that this room was ready so quickly.” She paused. “What is she afraid of, do you know? Or perhaps I should ask, who?”

  “It’s rather tangled,” I answered. “The police believed the person who attacked her was the son of friends of hers, a young man she’s known for ages and is—was—trying to help. She’s adamant that he didn’t attack her. The police were searching for him, and found him in the river. I think she blames herself.” I was about to add that I was beginning to think she knew who attacked her, that this was part of her sense of guilt, when I remembered the policeman who had questioned me. The less I appeared to know just now, the better.

  “Yes, when one is ill, and feverish, the mind plays tricks. Poor woman. I will keep an eye on her. As for this box she wants so desperately, it will worry her less when she is well enough to find it for herself.”

  “Yes, Sister, thank you.”

  She had a kind face, soft and caring, but she was also competent and well trained. I would have liked to help bring down Marie-Luc’s fever, to be sure she would be all right, but it wasn’t my ward, she wasn’t my patient. And so with a nod, I left.

  “Can you borrow that motorcar again?” I asked Captain Barkley as I rejoined him. “I’ve promised to go back to the village for Marie-Luc, and I don’t think she’ll rest quietly until I do. Her fever is high, they’re treating her for infection, just as we were told, but I think it goes much deeper than that.”

  “A motorcar? At this hour?” He glanced at the sky. It would be dark in another quarter of an hour. “Do you think this is really important enough to try to do tonight?”

  “I do.” I longed for my own bed. I was tired, and my side hurt madly from all my exertions. The last thing I needed was a drive into the countryside. “I hesitate to go by taxi. We have no idea how long this search will take. Marie-Luc says she doesn’t know where the box she wants might be hidden. But surely it shouldn’t be too difficult to find—the cottage isn’t large, and she really didn’t look for it.”

  “I’ll take you back to the clinic, then see what I can do.” He looked closely at me. “You’re tired, Bess. Are you sure you ought to do this? There’s tomorrow.”

  “I’m rather curious about this box. I’d like to find it.” I could feel the key in my pocket, under the handkerchief I kept there.

  He took a deep breath. “I’ll do what I can.”

  Poor man, I thought as he helped me into a taxi. I also didn’t trust him. He might be as eager to find this box himself, to see what it contained.

  Chapter Nine

  An hour later the Captain called for me at the clinic, and with pillows and cushions to protect my side, we set out. If it was dark in Paris, it was even darker in the countryside.

  The headlamps of the motorcar were dimmed as well, and although traffic was light, the road was not well defined, and we seemed to go at a pace that was just short of creeping along. Captain Barkley swore under his breath several times as we hit a puddle of water that concealed a very deep hole, and I feared for the axle.

  It was going on nine o’clock when we found the first turning, and we wove our way through dark villages where unseen dogs barked at our passage, and an occasional curtain twitched or door opened to see what was afoot. Having lived in the shadow of invasion for so long, the inhabitants of these villages were wary.

  Captain Barkley paused as we reached the outskirts of Petite-Beauvais.

  “We can’t just drive up to the cottage and unlock the door. Should we at least speak to the priest and tell him what we’re about?”

  A good question.

  “I’m not sure how much we should tell him.”

  He said, “She’s in hospital after a surgery, and there’s something from the cottage that she would like to have.”

  I was dubious, but it was better than being taken up for housebreaking.

  “Yes, all right.”

  He drove on to the rectory, and we found Father Robert just bringing in wood for the morning fires. He stopped, lowered the barrow he’d been pushing, and watched us approach. His face cleared when I called to him, and dusting his hands together, he came forward to greet his guests.

  “What brings you back to us?” There was wariness and welcome in his voice.

  “An errand of mercy,” I said as we followed him into the house. “You must know Sister Marie-Luc. She was here recently. The woman who looked after her when she was a child lived here in the village, until her
death a few days ago.”

  He had ushered us into the sitting room and was about to turn up the lamp when he looked across at us.

  “Yes?”

  It was a rather odd response, but I soldiered on.

  “Sister Marie-Luc has been in hospital and she asked that we come here and look for a keepsake that would be of comfort to her. And we agreed. Her fever has risen dangerously. We are hoping this might help, a little.”

  “This is a surprise. She was quite well while caring for her governess. Not the dread influenza?” There was concern in his voice now.

  “Unexpected surgery,” I said, “with signs of infection taking hold. The nun in charge of her ward is worried.”

  “I’ll pray for her tonight. Meanwhile, I’d be happy to take you to the cottage, but I’m afraid I don’t have a key. And I hesitate to break down the door.” He didn’t add that he wasn’t quite sure about us or our story, but it was there in his face: an uncertainty and unease.

  I smiled. “She has given me her key. It won’t take long. We must return to Paris tonight.”

  In the distance the familiar thunder of the guns resumed. It had been quiet as we drove north.

  Father Robert raised his voice slightly, although it wasn’t necessary. I thought it was habit, years of listening to the sounds of war and unconsciously trying to drown them out. “Fräulein Theissen was a very private person. I don’t think she would care to have you going through her house.”

  Fräulein Theissen. One of the popular German governesses the French had employed to teach their children the language of their age-old enemy?

  “I’m sure she would make an exception for the sake of her charge. I expect she left the cottage to her?”

  That was a good move on Captain Barkley’s part. It wouldn’t have been possible to leave it to any surviving family in Germany. Not in wartime.