Lost Among the Living

by Simone St. James

  “Not much, sir,” Martin replied quietly. “Though I believe he is officially missing in action, as Mrs. Manders has no official death notice.”

  Colonel Mabry appeared to think this over, then nodded. He turned to me. “I suppose it’s quite frustrating for you, as his wife,” he said. “But disappearances like your husband’s were unfortunately common. We have some several thousand men still missing in England alone, Mrs. Manders. The recent burial of the Unknown Warrior illustrates this exact point.”

  I nodded. The Unknown Warrior—the exhumed body of an unidentified soldier from a French battlefield—had been buried with great ceremony at Westminster Abbey the previous year, attended by royalty and thousands of mourners. I had sat in my flat alone that day, trying, like countless others, I was certain, not to imagine that it was my missing husband in that box, its solemn photograph in all the papers.

  “You will not understand everything you see in the file,” Colonel Mabry said to me, as if I were a child or a recent student of English. “But wherever I can give clarification, I will do so.”

  I took it from him and set it in my lap. Then I opened the slender file.

  The first thing I saw was Alex’s face. The photograph was clipped to the inside cover of the file—a small, square shot of him. He was dressed in uniform, his collar just visible in the close-cropped shot, though he was hatless. There were the familiar planes and angles of his features, the eyes that I knew were extraordinary dark blue ringed with black, the familiar, well-bred set of his chin. His lips were closed and set in a serious line and his gaze was carefully blank as he stared into the camera.

  “This is the photo from my husband’s passport,” I said.

  “Yes,” Colonel Mabry agreed. “It is standard procedure.”

  My eyes traveled the particulars of my husband on the page: height, six feet three inches; weight, fifteen stone; hair, dark blond; eyes, blue; age, twenty-three years. The file dated from 1915, when Alex enlisted, leaving him frozen in time, permanently twenty-three years old.

  I tore my gaze from Alex’s face and turned the page. Here was what I had been looking for: his war history. He had enlisted in February of 1915 and had been sent almost immediately into pilot training at the Military Aeronautics School in Reading. After eight months he’d gone to France for advanced training in Reims that seemed to consist of both classroom work and flight practice, both of which he excelled at. A note was written in pencil beneath the Reims record: “Skills very promising. Naturally suited for this kind of work.” The signature beneath the note had been blacked over with ink.

  After training, Alex was moved to the Western Front, where he spent most of the rest of the war. The record listed relocation to Soissons and Neuve Chapelle in 1916; and an extended period up and down the Somme in 1917, moving every four to five weeks. In every place he was assigned as a pilot, “for purposes of reconnaissance and battle, if engaged.” He seemed to have gone wherever the authorities in charge needed photographs or other kinds of intelligence information, his piloting skills reserved for close observation of the enemy rather than head-on battle.

  I studied his leave record. He had been given ten days’ leave in 1916—I remembered it well; it had been spring, several of the days unseasonably warm, and Alex had seemed intensely happy to be home in a way that had almost confused me. The war was still new to both of us, and we’d bumped through the first days of his leave like strangers until we remembered how to be married. His second leave, in early 1917, was when the camera arrived, and he had seemed more distant by then, more quietly weighed down by the things he’d seen.

  There was no leave listed for August of 1917, the month Franny had died. There was, however, a notation in the file.

  “What does this mean?” I asked, breaking the silence in the room and looking up at Colonel Mabry. “In August of 1917. There is a note that says ‘authorized travel.’”

  I turned the file toward the colonel for him to read, but even from several feet away he barely glanced at the writing on the page. “I’m uncertain of the details, Mrs. Manders, but the implication is that your husband’s superiors sent him somewhere for official reasons.”

  “But it wasn’t leave,” I said.

  “If the file doesn’t state that it was leave, then no,” the colonel replied. “Your husband was sent somewhere for a purpose, which in this case does not seem to have been recorded.”

  “Would ‘authorized travel’ have sent him to England?”

  “I would be very surprised if it did. Travel to England was strictly monitored during the height of the war, as you can imagine.”

  Martin was looking at the file over my shoulder. “That’s the month my sister died,” he said. “Alex was here then. At Wych Elm House.”

  “Was he?” Colonel Mabry said.

  I studied the colonel’s face, the even features, the salt-and-pepper eyebrows above impassive eyes. “How could he have been at Wych Elm House when he was not on leave?” I asked.

  “There’s one way, I suppose,” Martin answered before the colonel could speak. “That is, if Alex was sent somewhere on official business—and then came here on his way back. A sort of side trip.”

  “But it wasn’t authorized,” I said. “That would mean Alex took unauthorized leave. He would be court-martialed for desertion.”

  Martin seemed surprised I even knew such a thing. “That may be true, Cousin Jo, but not if he were granted a favor. Off the record, you see.”

  “Off the record?” I asked.

  “It might not be so,” Colonel Mabry interjected sternly. “But Mr. Forsyth is correct. It’s a possibility that could explain what’s in the file.”

  “It makes sense,” Martin said. “By then Alex was an officer with a very high flying record. He could have simply called in a favor.” His voice gentled. “So you see, Jo, it wasn’t the case that he took leave without telling you.”

  I stared at the file in my lap, appalled. No, Alex had not been granted leave without telling me. Instead, he had called in a special favor asking to make an off-the-books trip—to Wych Elm House, instead of home to me.

  Hans Faber, I thought. Who is Hans Faber?

  I could feel both men’s gazes on me—the colonel’s sharp and unwavering, Martin’s soft and concerned. I did not want either of them to see the pain on my face, so I kept my gaze in my lap and ran my finger along the page. Alex’s final leave had been in early February of 1918, and it had been three weeks long—the longest leave he’d ever been given. Even at the time I had known that it was a longer leave than most men were granted, but I had guessed it was a sop for a man who had been fighting so well for so long. Except for a strained shoulder and an infected hand, Alex had never even been sick enough to be out of the fighting.

  The rest of his war history was pitifully short. After his three weeks’ leave he had been sent back to Reims, where he had originally trained when first in France, for some kind of retraining. After leaving, he’d been sent to the airfield at Verdun, from which he had left on a mission and never come home. There was a notation in the file regarding his recovered plane, but it contained no details that hadn’t already been given to Martin in his inquiries. Alex had been alone. No one had witnessed the plane go down. His parachute was missing. He had not left any identification or indication of where he’d gone. He’d simply vanished as if he’d never been. His status was listed as “Missing in Action.”

  I closed the file—I did not turn the page to look at Alex’s face again—and handed it back to Colonel Mabry. “Thank you, sir,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “I appreciate your assistance.”

  For the first time, the colonel seemed a little unsure. “I realize it must be unsatisfactory,” he said. “But I hope it has answered some of your questions.”

  I nodded. “Yes, thank you.” I turned to Martin. “Perhaps it’s time to go.”

  As
we took our leave, Martin making more small talk with the colonel and me pulling on my gloves, I could feel the colonel’s gaze turn to me. He was no fool, Colonel Mabry. He knew I was holding back. “Would you like me to inquire with the War Office about your widow’s status?” he asked as Martin and I walked to the sitting room door.

  “Please don’t,” I said. “It isn’t necessary.”

  He did not argue, only gave me another penetrating look, as if he did not believe my impression of a quiet, cowed widow. But I revealed nothing more as we descended to the street and into the Forsyths’ motorcar.

  Martin seemed relieved as we pulled away. “I find the higher-ups rather intimidating,” he said. “He makes me glad I spent most of my wartime in the mud and not in an office, playing politics. I’m afraid I’d be no good at it. I’m sorry if I bored you horribly, Cousin Jo, but I felt I had to.”

  “You did just fine,” I said absently, watching the town of Anningley disappear from beneath the rim of my cloche hat.

  “It’s a bit of a disappointment for you, as he said. But I still think it was worth it, don’t you?”

  I could no longer speak, even to make polite talk. I kept my face angled away from him, my gaze out the window. Perhaps he thought I was grieved; in fact, I was angry. My eyes were burning and dry, and I was angrier than I could remember being.

  Alex had lied to me, and not just about his trip in 1917.

  The file from the War Office had told me more than I had let on. It said he’d gone to Reims in 1915; he’d told me he’d stayed in Reading that entire time. He’d never mentioned any advanced training in France. He had never told me of authorized travel for official business, or of asking a favor of his superiors to come to Wych Elm House. And after his three weeks’ leave in 1918, he had told me he was going back to the fighting, not into retraining at Reims. What had he been training for, and why?

  Why had he gone to great lengths to be at Wych Elm House? He hadn’t seen Dottie or the rest of the family for years by then, and Martin wasn’t even home. What had made him ask a special favor to come? How could it possibly be a coincidence that Alex had been at the house on the day that his cousin was flung from the roof?

  She has died, poor thing.

  What motivation could Alex possibly have had to murder his own cousin? Was it even possible the man I loved could have done such a thing?

  Could you? Did you? Was it you?

  And what about the other man who had died that day? Had Alex somehow been involved in that, too?

  I closed my eyes, shutting out the woods as they passed the window. Alex had lied to me; I was more than certain that Colonel Mabry had, too. It was not standard procedure to put a man’s passport photograph in his War Office file. And the note made next to Alex’s training record—skills very promising, naturally suited for this kind of work—had been signed by his commanding officer, the name blacked out. Except that even as a simple, foolish woman, I could see that the ink was fresh. Colonel Mabry himself had inked it over.

  Lies, lies, lies.

  “Jo.” Martin laid a gentle hand on my arm. “I know the past years have been very traumatic for you. But I think this meeting today can be useful. I think perhaps it may help you to finally let go.”

  I felt the muscles tense up my back, across my shoulders; felt my neck tighten and my jaw begin to grind. He was being kind and considerate, and in that moment he had no idea that I could have slapped him.

  “I have been living with my own grief for him,” Martin continued. “I loved Alex. But today has made me see that perhaps there are no answers. We may have to accept things, just as all the other families of missing soldiers have had to do.” He paused, and from the deepening of his breathing I knew that the day had exhausted his few resources. “Do you know, I found Franny’s death easier, ultimately, than Alex’s. Franny was sick, and she chose to take her own life. There is a sort of finality to that. Alex’s death just never felt final. Until today.”

  My eyes were like hot coals in their sockets, my temples pounding. I made myself open my eyes, made myself breathe. I should tell him. About Alex’s lies, about my suspicions that Frances had been murdered. About the photographs, the leaves, and the open door to the roof. I should tell him all of it. But Martin was already sick, exhausted, shouldering the burden of incessant pain and his addiction. I couldn’t open my mouth to form the words. And what if Martin knew more than he was telling me? This was my problem alone.

  My thoughts were halted when we pulled up the drive to Wych Elm House. Another car was here already—an expensive Daimler, sleek and black. I felt Martin tense at my shoulder.

  “Who is it?” I asked him.

  He did not speak. The gentle, concerned expression had gone from his face. He looked pale and stiff, his skin pallid, thin as tissue paper.

  I followed him as he got out of the car and entered the house. I did not remove my hat or my coat—I could barely keep up with him and forgot I was wearing them.

  We had walked into an occasion, like the day I had come home to find Martin waiting to be introduced to me in the small parlor—but today’s occasion was much grander than that. This one was in the large parlor, the formal room used by Dottie for meetings with her rich art clients. I had been in this room only as an invisible tea pourer, and I had never seen the rest of the family use it at all.

  The tableau in the large parlor now could have been a painting itself. On one side of the room, nearest the window, sat Dottie and Robert, Dottie in a fine suit over a formal blouse with a high lace collar, Robert in one of the more expensive pieces in his well-heeled wardrobe, his hair slicked back and his expression blank and obedient. I hardly recognized either of them—Dottie looked like she’d borrowed the Gibson Girl’s wardrobe, and her face was gentled, her posture subdued. Robert did not even look at me, and instead of sprawling on his chair, he sat like a well-trained dog, his hands in his lap.

  Aligned along the other side of the room were a man and a woman I had never seen before. She was middle-aged, pale, her ash blond hair mixed liberally with gray and worked into a formal knot on the back of her head. The man was obviously her husband, seated next to her in the chair mirroring Robert’s, mustached, with thinning hair and a paunch that strained his waistcoat. He, too, sat with his feet and knees together, only the reddish tinge of his neck betraying how uncomfortable he was.

  The center of this awkward tableau—and the focus of everyone’s discomfort—sat on the small sofa in the middle of the room, like the Queen of Sheba among her attendants. In this case the Queen of Sheba was a girl of approximately twenty-three, with a birdlike figure and wide gray eyes, wearing a blue-and-white shepherd’s-check suit and black Mary Janes, her golden-brown hair bobbed, its soft curls feathering her neck.

  I held back in the corridor, outside the door, watching. Martin barely paused, but strode into the room, still wearing his overcoat, folding his hat under his arm.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. I wondered if anyone else recognized the vibration of strain in his voice.

  “Martin.” Dottie rose from her seat, a warm smile on her face like no expression I’d ever seen on her before. “Here you are. We were just about to have some tea.” She turned to her guests. “I’d like you to meet Mr. and Mrs. Staffron. And this is their daughter, Cora.”

  I watched, invisible and forgotten, from the hall.

  Martin stepped into the room, and over his shoulder I could see the face of the blue-and-white shepherd’s-check girl, Cora Staffron. She raised her gray gaze to his and gave him a wide smile. She wasn’t a particularly beautiful girl—she had a thin and bony physique, a slightly blotchy complexion, and a long neck like a baby bird’s—but she had nice upturned eyes, and the smile she gave him was brassy and bold, yet somehow genuine, like that of a girl who could not be trusted not to break Dottie’s china.

  “This is my son, Martin,” Dottie said.<
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  “Well,” said the girl in a trumpeting voice that ricocheted through the room. “Aren’t you handsome!”

  I could not see Martin’s face from where I was standing. But I saw him take a brief, formal bow just before a maid brushed past me with a tea tray and closed the parlor doors behind her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Events moved quickly after the Staffrons arrived. They were acquaintances of Dottie’s through one of her art connections; he was a banker, the kind of new rich that was Dottie’s exact kin. Some of the wealthy aspired to marry their children to old titles, but not Dottie. All she wanted was more wealth to pile atop her own.

  They were on an indefinite visit, and they were installed in my corridor, Cora’s bedroom across the hall from mine and her parents’ at the end. Though we passed one another regularly, I spoke to the Staffrons but little. Mr. and Mrs. Staffron were polite and well bred; Cora was noisy and exuberant, her laugh too loud, her jokes just a shade too racy, her clothes too fast, her lipstick not quite the right color. She was friendly enough to me, but treated me like a schoolteacher she had to behave herself in front of. Considering she was only three years younger, it made me feel positively ancient. What Dottie thought of Cora’s dreaded modern bob or her pert ways—or of her social duties entertaining Cora’s parents—she did not say.

  I reported to Dottie every morning as usual, but after briskly assigning me a day’s worth of tasks, she would disappear with the Staffrons. I was left alone to type her correspondence and send it, as well as open the incoming mail—she had given me back this responsibility, now that she was no longer conspiring with the Staffrons in secret—and sorting it for her. I dealt with her telephone calls and made copies of her records, all in the library, my typewriter keys clacking into the silence.

  I slipped easily into my role as Wych Elm House’s forgotten inhabitant. My nights were as sleepless as ever, and it was a relief to be free of the responsibility to be friendly to Dottie’s art buyers. I was soured on the task since my meeting with Colonel Mabry. I brooded over the lies Alex had told me, the hopelessness of my situation, the memory of Robert’s hand on my face. I had not told anyone of that encounter—what purpose could it serve, except to muddy the family’s courtship of the Staffrons? I had already sunk Martin’s marriage prospects once; I could not do it again by making a complaint about his father while the Staffrons were here.