by Charles Todd
Assault on a Sister with the intent to rape was not unheard of, though mercifully rare.
It appeared that Private Britton’s connection with the cushion was slim indeed.
The letter that arrived from Mrs. Ashton only confirmed what Sergeant Lassiter had found out for me.
I don’t recall anyone by the name of Britton. Nor is that name on the list of the dead. If he’s related to someone on that list, I’d have no way of knowing. I did ask Mark, and he said he thought it was familiar, but he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps someone he knew in France? Alas, there have been so many.
She was right, an officer would have had hundreds under his command, many of them killed in their first week at the Front. Many officers had told me that they could remember every face, each name. Others swore they could not.
The rest of the letter was a recounting of efforts to visit her husband and to find evidence that would free him. Sadly, in neither case had she or Mark been successful.
I set the letter aside with a heavy heart. Sleepwalker or not, it appeared that Britton had no connection to Cranbourne. And we still had no idea why Sister Morris had been attacked.
Much to my surprise, I encountered Sergeant Rollins again when I took a convoy of wounded back to the field hospital. He’d been brought in with a badly blistered arm and face where he’d pulled men out of a burning tank. They too were being cared for, their red, peeling faces oozing fluids and their eyes dazed from the pain.
Rollins was in a hurry to rejoin his men, but the doctor insisted on keeping him for a few days. I’d heard much the same argument before from other patients, but as I passed by the burn ward, I’d recognized his voice.
The doctor beckoned to me to come in and help him put salve on the wound, and I saw recognition in Rollins’s eyes as I came forward.
This wasn’t my ward, but when a doctor summons a nursing Sister, she answers that call without question.
I didn’t speak to the patient, keeping my attention on the arm I was working with. The burns weren’t as deep as those of the others, but infection always lurks close by when the skin is open.
I finished lightly bandaging the arm, just enough to protect it, and a Sister appeared with something for his pain. But Rollins refused it, glaring at both of us as if we were personally responsible for his situation.
Dr. Fields said, “Nonsense, take the powder, Sergeant. You’ll be out of here all the sooner if you don’t fight us.”
After a moment Rollins took the cup of water into which the other Sister had stirred the powder and swallowed it down, grimacing a little at the end.
“All right, Sister,” Dr. Fields said to me. “Get him into bed. He can have a normal diet as long as he isn’t running a fever. But I want to know if he does.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, and pulled back the sheet on the cot, for Rollins to swing his feet underneath. I thought at first he intended to sit up, but he thought better of it, and gingerly stretched out on the bed, edging the arm onto a soft pillow.
The other Sister turned away, following the doctor to the next bed. I too prepared to go back to my own patients, well aware that the ambulances were waiting to return to the forward station as soon as I’d logged them in.
Rollins reached out with his good hand and caught my wrist. His grip was so strong it hurt, and I turned at once to face him, prepared to call the doctor back if I had to.
“You spoke to my sister,” he said in a fierce whisper that wouldn’t carry.
“Of course I did. I’d seen you, you were safe and well. I thought it would give her a little peace.”
“You told her I’d refused to help the Ashtons.”
“Yes, I did. I had the feeling she was quite pleased about that.”
“You shouldn’t have drawn her into that business.”
I shook my head. “She was already drawn into it. She’s quite vocal about her feelings, is your sister. And she encouraged another witness to step forward. One who has no qualms about telling what she saw.”
It was clear he hadn’t heard that bit of news.
“There was no other witness.”
“Miss Rollins claims there was.”
“Damn it. I was there. I ought to know.”
“That may well be, but the police seem to be delighted with the news.” I felt a surge of excitement, thinking this information might make him change his mind about his own testimony. But I should have known better.
He released my wrist and lay back against his pillows. “She’s a fool to get involved,” he said. And I realized then that his concern was only for her. “It could cause trouble in the end.”
“Why should you care? You don’t want to help.”
But he didn’t answer me. He lay there, staring up at my face while his mind was busy elsewhere. “Who came forward?” he asked then. “Who was it?”
“A Florence Benning. Her sister is the widow of George Tate. Perhaps she’s lying.”
I took a chance then, and asked a very different question. “Was it Private Britton who tried to kill you? I’d like to know, you see, because he also tried to kill me.”
That got his attention straightaway.
“I didn’t see who attacked me. Why do you think it was Britton?”
“Because he’d been brought in with a case of trench foot. And one of the other Sisters saw him coming back to his bed afterward.” I made no mention of sleepwalking.
He digested that, then asked, “Why should he care, one way or another?”
“Do you know him?” I asked, with an effort keeping the eagerness out of my voice. But he caught it anyway.
“You’re lying,” he said with something like contempt in his face. “It’s a trick, that’s what it is. Go away.”
“You still refuse to help the Ashtons?” I said, ignoring his words.
“Why does everyone think I can save them?” he demanded querulously. “For all you know my testimony will damn them.”
And he closed his eyes, effectively shutting me out.
One of the ward Sisters was standing in the doorway, beckoning me. I had to go.
But I said softly before I left, “Still, someone wants you out of the way. I’d be careful if I were you.”
Turning, I walked away, and I didn’t look back to see if he was watching me.
By the time I’d reached the forward aid station, everyone there was abuzz with excitement.
Someone had nearly brought down the black German aircraft. Three witnesses had seen it streaking for home with dark smoke billowing out of the engine. And a Yorkshireman had come forward to say he’d fired the shot that hit it.
It was the second time the aircraft had been hit by ground fire. The pilot appeared to lead a charmed life.
Still, the Yorkshireman was vociferous in his certainty that it was his shot. But there was no proof that the aircraft had crashed. For all anyone knew, it had made it safely back to its airfield once again. Or to another, where it could land and make repairs.
And witnesses agreed, however reluctantly, that the pilot was still alive, because it was evident that he was still in control.
There was much debate over the Yorkshireman’s claim. Even the seriously wounded in hospital asked us if we’d heard any news. As if HQ would inform us first. All the same it was good for morale, and we let the arguments rage around our ears as the pros and cons were weighed, and the question of whether or not the reward should be given to the Yorkshireman was hotly debated too.
The general feeling was, the reward was still to be won.
In the midst of all this uproar, Simon appeared, bringing me a letter from home and reminding me that I hadn’t written for some time.
“Is there any news about Philip Ashton’s trial?” I asked.
“Nothing has changed, as far as I know. Your father has looked into the matter agai
n, but there’s nothing in Sergeant Rollins’s earlier statement that condemns or exonerates Ashton. In fact, he didn’t mention him at all. Which can be taken to mean he didn’t consider Ashton as a suspect at that stage.”
“At the time, he couldn’t have known that Mr. Ashton would be accused. He was only asked about acts of sabotage.”
“You’re right. But the woman who has come forward now is hard to refute. She was in a house closer to the mill. Rollins might not have been in a position to see her, although from there she could have seen what Ashton was doing, even though his back was to everyone on the other side of the Cran. Still, the question is, why didn’t she speak up in 1916?”
“It means if she gives evidence, he’ll be convicted. I spoke to Sergeant Rollins again. But he isn’t interested in helping. He’s made that clear enough.”
“It doesn’t bode well for the Ashtons, does it?” Simon asked.
“Will you do something for me?” I told him about the pillow that was used to smother Sister Morris, and about Private Britton. “Sergeant Rollins seemed to recognize the name, but he also appeared to think this man had nothing to do with Ashton or his own shooting.”
“He could have met him in France, Bess.”
“Yes, I know, but all the same, I’d like to learn more about him. If only to eliminate him from any list of suspects.”
“I can’t promise you I will learn anything about a pillow,” he said with a smile, “but I’ll look up Britton’s whereabouts. You do know, of course, that there may be more than one man by that name.” And then he was gone.
When I had a moment, I read the letter from my mother. It was the usual chatty missive, and for a few minutes I could hear her voice and see the faces of those at home. The Vicar was planning a Thanksgiving Service if the war ended, and there was a feeling that the news could come at any moment, even though it was still only rumor. The last of the apples had been picked before the weather changed, and my mother had helped dry slices for winter pies and sauces. The frog in the pond at the bottom of the garden hadn’t been seen for more than a fortnight, and it was thought he had hibernated deep in the mud at the bottom. And there had only been two cases of influenza reported this autumn, both of them on one of the outlying farms.
I finished the letter and returned it to its envelope. Somerset seemed a very long way away. With a sigh, I put the envelope in my correspondence box and went back to work. For the wounded and dying, the war’s end wouldn’t come soon enough.
To everyone’s chagrin—most particularly the Yorkshireman’s—the black aircraft returned two days later, flying low and catching a half dozen new recruits out in the open.
I accompanied a convoy back to the base hospital—this time without the attentions of the black aircraft—and found Matron waiting for me when I got in.
“Sister, you’re taking wounded back to England. I’ve sent a runner for your kit. We have a number of very bad cases. They’ll need further surgery when they reach London. That’s why we’re sending an experienced nurse with them. Make your report about the men you’ve just brought in, and as soon as your kit arrives, we’ll load the ambulances for Calais.”
I settled my patients and then with Matron visited the men who would be traveling with me. Gray-faced, their eyes barely registering my presence, they lay in drug-induced stupors. We went over their histories, where they were wounded, what had been done, and what the prognosis was: in most cases, grim.
When the ambulances pulled out of the hospital, they moved with care, trying to avoid the worst of the ruts, keeping a steady but gentle pace when we reached the main road.
Mercifully the ship was in, and I was able to arrange immediate transfer of my cases, handing the second officer the forms Matron had already completed.
I knew this man—Lieutenant Harcourt—and together we watched as the orderlies unloaded each stretcher and brought it aboard with great care. My seven cases were not taken below decks but to the former salon of this ship. It would save them a painful jostling. Ten more such cases were brought in from another base hospital, and I recognized the Sister in charge. We had worked together many times before.
The rest of the wounded were brought aboard, and as soon as the last of the ambulance drivers and orderlies had stepped ashore, ropes were cast off and we began to move slowly out into the roads. At first the gentle movement—it was a clear, calm day—seemed to be comforting to my patients, but the increasing roll began to take its toll. I had to be watchful, to be certain they didn’t vomit and breathe it in. A very real danger for anyone lying on his back and helpless.
We made it to Dover without losing anyone, and I stood there, watching my patients being carried off to the waiting ambulances that would see them on the London train. Lieutenant Harcourt, once more standing beside me, his duties done for the moment, looked down.
“You’re tired, Bess. Get some sleep if you can in London.”
“I’ll try,” I promised, and he bent down to kiss my cheek as I made to follow the last man off the ship.
“Stay safe,” he said, and was gone.
I’d met such good men while serving with Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service. And lost a good many friends as well. It was the cost of war, of course, but now I wished them safe at home at last. Lieutenant Harcourt had a fiancée in Oxford, and the Captain had recently been blessed with his third child, a little girl. A future, if God granted them one.
Boarding the train, I ran into Diana, another one of my flatmates, who was also bringing patients back. We only had time for a brief embrace and exchange of news, and then we were busy with our charges.
Diana was not staying in Canterbury. She was taking the next available train back to Dover, where her fiancé was stationed at Dover Castle.
When I arrived in London, my charges were carefully offloaded and taken once more to waiting ambulances, and I was occupied for nearly three quarters of an hour with Matron from the London hospital taking charge of their care. I was pleased to hand them over alive—there had been a very good chance that I would lose at least one on the homeward voyage. That done, I collected my kit and started toward the exit from Victoria Station.
And there, to my surprise, stood my mother and the Colonel Sahib, waiting for me.
No end pleased, I greeted them and was swept up in my father’s arms, with a jubilant “It’s time you were here in London. I was beginning to think that it was Major Ashton’s charms keeping you in Canterbury.”
“I had very ill patients this trip. They’re to be treated here in London. But how on earth did you know I’d be here, and on this train? There hadn’t been time in Dover to telephone you.”
“I’ve been reduced to bribing the Royal Navy,” my father said, laughing.
My mother added dryly, give me a huge hug, “That nice Lieutenant Harcourt sent us a telegram. We only just had time to jump in the motorcar and drive like madmen to London.”
“How kind of him!” I exclaimed as my father took my kit from me, and we began to walk toward the waiting motorcar.
They took me first to Mrs. Hennessey’s so that I could wash my face and leave my kit before going to a late supper somewhere.
That was the plan. Only it didn’t work out that way.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MRS. HENNESSEY HEARD footsteps in the hall, and peered around her door.
“Bess, dear!” she exclaimed, and then saw my parents just behind me.
“Hallo, Mrs. Hennessey,” I said cheerfully. “Is anyone else here? My father has volunteered to take my kit up to the flat for me. Is that all right?”
Mrs. Hennessey was very strict about the good names of her young ladies, as she called us. No male above the age of seven was allowed to go up the stairs, not even my father, not even Simon (whom she credited with saving her life not so very long ago).
She
stood there in her doorway, looking flustered and confused.
“Is everything all right?” She looked over my father’s shoulder. “Is it that nice young man? Simon? Has something happened?”
It was our turn to stare.
“Simon?” my mother asked quickly.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” my father put in at almost the same time.
I went to her and took her hands. “What is it?” I asked, trying to keep the alarm from my voice.
She gestured over her shoulder to her sitting room. “I didn’t know—it came not ten minutes ago. I was afraid to open it.”
I walked past her into the sitting room and saw a telegram lying on the tea table.
I picked it up. It was marked URGENT, and it was addressed to me in care of Mrs. Hennessey.
I went back out into the entry and held the telegram up for my parents to see.
All the while my mind was busy. Simon was in France. Had something happened to him? But if it was Simon, surely the War Office or the Army would have contacted my father at once . . .
“Open it,” the Colonel Sahib commanded.
I tore it open and looked first to see who had sent it.
“It’s from Diana,” I said in surprise. I went back to the message, reading it aloud.
“Went to Canterbury to dinner. A Philip Ashton attempted suicide this morning in his cell. Felt you should know. Is this the Ashton you treated in France?”
Depend on Diana to remember the name of an attractive man. She had met Mark when she had brought wounded to hospital, and she had told me later that he was the perfect match for me. She had made a face at me when I pointed out that he was engaged to be married.
Diana, happy with her own future, was delighted to arrange the affairs of others.
But this wasn’t Mark. It was his father. What had happened?
I looked up at my father. “I must go,” I said. “I must find out if this is true. Mrs. Ashton must be out of her mind with worry.”
The Colonel Sahib frowned. “I can’t drive you. I’m taking the train—er—north tomorrow morning. I left my luggage at my club. Still, a train will get you there faster. I’ll see what I can do.”