Blood on Their Hands (Mystery Writers of America Presents: MWA Classics)

by Brendan DuBois

  “And I was at the railway station as well. I hope those answers are sufficient, General?” said the commandant, satisfaction plain.

  “For the moment, ma’am.”

  Another man—smooth, officious, somehow familiar— spoke up. “Was Miss Turnball troubled? Overwrought?”

  “She wasn’t unbalanced, if that’s what you mean.” Finn again, sounding more and more exasperated. “A little shallow, perhaps, a little silly, but not a lunatic.”

  “She did get all up in the air over that Times clipping,” offered Blake.

  “And came down again,” Finn countered.

  “Too right. You don’t kill yourself over a society do,” said Aussie. “So one of her mates got spliced to some posh fellow and is swanning about among the quality. A dead bore, if you ask me. Not worth a sausage.”

  “You never liked her,” shot back Blake as if stung. “Said you’d wring her blood—blooming—neck.”

  “Because she nearly ran me and my lot off the road. Bloody stupid thing to do.” I could practically see Aussie’s shrug. “But it don’t mean I was plotting to do her a bit of no good. Savin’ that for the Huns and their ruddy guns.”

  “I think I feel sorry for the enemy,” remarked the general.

  “Ta, mate,” said the gratified Aussie.

  “Turnip could be thoughtless, but she was as sane as any of us,” asserted Finn. “Unless you believe, Captain, we all are on the verge of running off the rails?”

  “It’s a dangerous and difficult job—” started the captain.

  “Perhaps we should be stowed away in a little ivory box in a high cupboard somewhere.”

  “Here, here,” chimed in the irrepressible Aussie. “You tell ’im, Finn.”

  “We’re not angels of mercy or delicate bits of porcelain. We have a job. Captain, the same as you. And we do it.” Finn took a deep, aggravated breath. “Look, Turnip did not crash her bus due to a fit of the dismals. If she had cracked, she would have chosen something more dramatic.”

  “Such as—?”

  “Wandering into the path of a convenient shell. Lord knows there are enough of them.”

  Finn was right. Although dying behind the wheel would possess a certain glamour to the parents back home, it would be insufficient for Turnip. Turnball, I reminded myself. Her real name. In our world, nearly every new arrival was rechristened with a shorter—and not necessarily flattering—form. We tended to forget the human being behind the amputated form...

  I closed my eyes. She had only been nineteen, and had lied about her age to the Red Cross to join up. “So handsome. So charming,” she had sighed about the officer she was secretly seeing under the nose of our hawk-like commandant. Fresh from glittering balls and tennis parties and sophisticated nightclubs, she believed life could once again be gay. Only two years her senior, I knew otherwise.

  “She was tired, poor cow,” remarked Aussie. “Like all of us. And everyone knew she was a crook driver. She missed the turnoff and hit the tree. Dead easy. It’s absurd that so many lives hang on a bit of ribbon.”

  “Ribbon?”

  “Marks the turnoff. It’s gone missing. Probably stuck in the mud like everything else.”

  “You said she nearly ran you off the road. How bad a driver was she?” asked the general.

  “Don’t you know? Christ.” Aussie was contemptuous. “You should leave the chateau every so often.”

  The commandant rapped out a reproof—the man was a general, after all, and Aussie’s behavior was unlikely to reap praise for either herself or the commandant.

  “Let her continue,” commanded General Ravenswood.

  There was a distinctive snort—Aussie, uncowed. “Turnip cracked her bus up a fortnight ago and sent five of our boys to the graveyard before their time.”

  “Accident?”

  So she had said. “It was an accident, Knox.”

  I held out a cup of Bovril, and she shook her head, lips compressing, almost turning green. “My tummy’s giving me the gyp.”

  A common occurrence among us, given our strange hours and even stranger meals. I ignored it, occupied with the more vital issue. “I don’t understand. There was a full moon. The road was clear. I checked that ambulance myself, just as you asked. What happened?”

  “It’s not my fault.” Her tone was petulant. “The road is pocked with shell holes.”

  “If you wore your glasses—”

  “I don’t need them, silly. They’re just for reading.” She shrugged, leaning closer to her mirror. “Anyway, it’s perfectly all right. I told the commandant a shell hit near me and knocked my bus off the road.” She giggled, fluffing out her curls. “She swallowed it, the stupid sow.”

  I felt sick, as if I had the gypy tummy.

  “They were bashed up pretty badly. They would have bought it in hospital, I’m sure.”

  My lips felt numb. “What about that man who did survive? He had two legs before the accident.”

  “Well, naturally I’m very sorry for him and all that, but I can’t concentrate with all that beastly screaming and moaning. Honestly, how am I supposed to drive in the pitch black with all that racket?”

  “Shock is hardly their fault, Turnip.”

  “They ought to have more self-control. They’re trained soldiers, aren’t they?”

  “Training means little if you’ve just seen your mate blown to bits.” A thought struck me. “How fast were you traveling?”

  Her eyes skittered from mine and she did not reply, absorbed in her reflection.

  “Turnip. How fast?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  I turned on my heel, marched by the chattering mess room, and headed for the wrecked Vulcan that had been dragged back to camp. On a hunch, I felt under the driver’s seat and produced a bottle. A slightly cracked, very empty bottle.

  “Just to ward off the damp,” said she, flushed, at my elbow.

  “You were drunk.”

  “For heaven’s sake, it’s only red wine. The Frogs practically are weaned on the stuff.”

  “They don’t drink and smash up their wounded.” I jerked back, slamming the door.

  “Are you going to the commandant?”

  “I won’t, if you move to day duty.”

  “Can’t be done,” she said airily. “Franklin’s been shipped home and Hills is in hospital with a septic thumb. We’re short-handed.”

  “Then you come out with me on your time off. We’ll drive the routes together.”

  “I’d like to see myself,” she sniffed. “I have better things to do in my precious few hours off.”

  “Then I’ll accompany you when I’m off.”

  “Oh, really. I’m not taking on a minder, for heaven’s sake. Too, too humiliating.”

  “Turnip...don’t you realize what you’ve done?”

  “How you do rattle on, Knox.” She cocked her dusky head. “I believe you’re jealous.”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “It isn’t. I see it all. I have a chap and you don’t.”

  “A married chap.”

  “You would say that. You want to spoil my romance because you don’t have one. Well, I won’t let you. He loves me, and I love him.” Her voice dropped to a purr. “And we don’t just have tea and sandwiches, don’t you know.”

  “Go on and sleep with the entire Royal Flying Corps if you care to,” I retorted. “What I care about are soldiers with mothers, sisters, and sweethearts who won’t be going home to them.”

  She pouted. “You used to be such fun; now it’s Granny Sobersides day in, day out.”

  “This isn’t a game, Turnip. I will tell the commandant.”

  “Go ahead. Tattle your head off. See what good it does you.” She plunged a hand into her kit bag, withdrawing a brightly colored scarf. “Do you think this suits me? I thought so in Camiers, but now I’m not so certain. It might do for Mother; she’s been agitating for a souvenir to show her club.”

  “Don’t change the subject.” />
  “Then spare me the sermon, Padre Knox, do.” She clasped my arm, wheedling. “You’re ever so much nicer than that. You’re like a sister.”

  I exhaled. “What do you want?”

  “I need your help again...”

  “Accident?” Aussie was saying. “Sure, you could call it that if an accident can be caused by her own vanity. She was shortsighted and wouldn’t wear her glasses. Just a matter of time before she killed herself, I reckon. At least she took no poor sod with her this time.”

  “Sir—” The commandant cleared her throat, sounding less assured than when I had confronted her. “Nothing to be done, Miss Knox,” she had said. “We are short staffed and new drivers won’t be arriving from England any time soon.”

  “You could borrow some drivers from Calais. Move her to a desk job—hospital—canteen—anything but behind the wheel.”

  “Calais is handling heavier casualties than we are. And her aunt is a prominent patroness of the Red Cross. Funds could be cut; questions would be asked—”

  “God forbid,” I snarled.

  “You don’t understand the situation. At home there is a vocal segment who question the wisdom and capability of female ambulance drivers. What do you suppose would happen if word got out about the wounded dying at the hands of Miss Turnball?”

  I was very still. “Are you saying the Red Cross would shut us down?”

  “Precisely.”

  “But you said yourself that we’re overworked and there are no replacements. What are the wounded going to do—hail a cab?”

  The commandant turned over her palms eloquently.

  “We’ve done good work—Aussie was even decorated.”

  “No one said life was fair, Miss Knox.”

  Brilliant choice, I reflected. Expose Turnip, and we all were on the block. Keep mum, and the wounded were at risk. “No. I suppose not.”

  “Influence is the ranking officer here, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, you’re quite right, Commandant. Influence is the key.”

  “I’m as aware of Miss Turnball’s connections as you are,” said the general, all steel, echoing my thoughts. “But I should have been informed. Two accidents are significant. It would tend to confirm what Miss Finlay has denied—someone who was looking for a way to die.”

  “Look here, mate,” interjected the unabashed Aussie, “If you really want to know about Turnip, you should talk to the driver outside. Turnip confided in her. Best in the unit. And before you ask the question. General, she was at Number Eight when Turnip bashed herself into potato and mash.”

  The voices murmured on. An officer emerged, straightening his service cap—a captain with a clipped mustache, clean chin, and shiny Sam Browne belt—the immaculate signs of a man well removed from the front line.

  I stiffened, dropping the smoldering stub of cigarette behind my back. Smoking on duty was not the done thing, especially by a woman. He paused, staring at me.

  “Why, Miss Knox. This is an unexpected pleasure.” The plummy male voice—no wonder it had sounded familiar. My mind raced as he strolled over.

  “Captain Blight—Brightman.” I bit back the near slip of “Blighty” and ground the forbidden cigarette under my boot heel.

  “I remember that Eton Garden Party. Can it be—five years ago? There were roses on your hat.” He smirked. “I pinched one of them for my buttonhole, do you know. And you wore a particularly fetching yellow silk frock.”

  With my hair now hacked off to discourage nesting fleas and the stained khaki uniform hanging from my ill-nourished frame, I was a faint shadow of that fashionable and complacent figure. Still, his eyes wandered over the curves of my bosom and my tightly belted waist as they had not dared to linger at the garden party with my vigilant brother in attendance. “And here you are doing your bit. Splendid. Much more useful than Somerville.”

  I swallowed sarcasm. More useful than he. At Oxford, I’d been favored for a First in English, whereas Anthony Brightman would barely escape with a Second in History. The dim Blighty, however, was entitled to a degree, while I, a voteless woman, was not. My brother, responsible for Brightman’s new and more fitting name, had scoffed at the irony, declaring, “All the boys will be left behind by your brains, Kath.”

  Far behind.

  His voice dropped. “I was sorry about your brother.”

  “Thank you,” I said woodenly.

  “Did you know we were at Cambridge together? Yes, I suppose you must; Geoffrey said you were close.”

  Close. An inadequate word that did not encompass impromptu and hilarious jaunts on his motorcycle; the patient, good-natured instruction behind the wheel of Daddy’s balky motorcar; the ready ear and equally sympathetic shoulder to cry on during schoolgirl crises. And I would never know if I had returned that boundless generosity even in part, or if he knew how much I had loved him.

  The smooth voice went on, oozing like treacle. “A good soldier, Geoff, very gallant. I could scarcely believe when we were posted to the same unit and I became his CO. He was fortunate to see more action than I. Served his country bravely.”

  I remained silent, my opinion about military intelligence best kept to myself.

  “Perhaps we can have tea together soon. There is a very jolly hotel in Hardelot-Plage.”

  “Yes, I know.” No doubt planning for after tea, the cheeky bugger. “It’s not possible. We re rather busy here, Captain.”

  “Such formality. There’s no need. The wife’s in London, you know,” he said confidently, as if I had never spoken. “A Lady-in-Waiting at the Palace. Safely away. Unless you’re thinking of your dragon the commandant. Strict segregation between the sexes and all that tosh.” He stepped closer to me, his fingers wandering down my sleeve. “You’re a woman of the world. Surely you know the old rules don’t apply here, Miss Knox?”

  The hand intruded on more than just my sleeve, and I met his gaze squarely. “Indeed I do. Captain Brightman. I think you knew Miss Turnball?”

  His eyes shifted. “We were—acquainted. Nice little creature. No one seems to know the cause of the accident. No witnesses. Pity.”

  So that was why he had accompanied the general—to put on a properly sorrowful countenance and ensure his name was not linked to the dead girl. “You must be so distressed,” I cooed. “She spoke of you so often.” My eyes bored into his, and his shifted again.

  “Er, quite. I—I believe she missed home a great deal.”

  “She did.” We all did. But home was a fairy tale now, a place of magical hot baths and faraway comforts and impenetrable ignorance, where war was noble and tidy. Not betrayal, not horror, not hopeless yearning for an only brother rotting in the ground with his comrades.

  I swayed. Captain Brightman grasped my arm, and my hand brushed against his breast pocket. “Are you all right?

  “Yes, thank you.” I straightened and stepped back. “I missed dinner. A momentary weakness.”

  “You should eat. Shall we go and—”

  “I cannot, Captain. Waiting for the call out.” To the trains and their inevitable cargo.

  “Yes. Yes of course. Well.” He took my hand and kissed it. His lips were damp. “It’s been a pleasure. Miss Knox. Katharine.” He lingered over my name. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

  Not likely, I reflected. How quickly Turnip was replaced. I pulled my arm free. “Goodbye, Captain.”

  With a puzzled glance at me, he walked off, no doubt accustomed to women fawning over an officer’s uniform. For them, I had only to look as far as the letters from old school friends who were busily awarding white feathers of cowardice to young men in civilian dress. Those fortunate ones, safely out of it. As Geoff might have been. I scrubbed my fingers against my sleeve.

  Aussie’s “Pommie brass” emerged from the depot, pulling on his gloves. My patience in the cold twilight rewarded, I tugged my uniform tunic into more regulation shape. “Excuse me, sir?”

  His grizzled face drawn, he snapped, “Who are you?”
/>
  “Katharine Knox. One of the ambulance drivers, sir.”

  “Oh. Right.” Then he stopped and examined me more intently. “Half a mo—not Sir Peter Knox’s daughter?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I’m blowed.” He grasped my hand warmly. “How do you do. He and I served together. Boer War.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Splendid on horseback. He had great panache then.” “Yes, sir. My brother Geoff and I thrilled to his stories.” Too much—the skirmish in France had seemed an easy passport to the adventure of the Transvaal. So Geoff had declared and I, as usual, had to follow where he led.

  “And Peter was a remarkably fine shot.”

  “He still is.”

  “Oh, does he still hunt?”

  “On occasion. He’s an engineer, sir.”

  “Building things instead of demolishing them. Fitting.”

  “He speaks of you with great affection.”

  “Does he?” The general brightened. “Good man. Knew his duty. You’re like him—straightforward, blue eyes, fair hair. Dashed good-looking, if I may. Yes. Doing your bit now, I daresay, just as Peter did.”

  “Yes, sir. I came out with Geoff, but he died at Ypres. Sniper.”

  His craggy face sagged—he who must have seen an endless roll of death, in both wars. “Sad business. Damn waste.”

  I warmed to his laconic but honest sorrow. “Thank you. General, about the girl—”

  He shook his head. “Strange. Received a message to come here—from your commandant, I assumed, but she tells me I was unexpected.”

  “I thought some of your questions sounded odd.”

  “Heard that, did you? Would have looked into the Turnball matter anyway. Niece of an old school chum who is now a Member of Parliament—wants answers.” He rubbed his chin. “That rather brash Australian has very definite ideas about the case—and my own shortcomings, I must say.”

  “Aussie’s a good sort, sir, and brave as a lion. She—”

  But he waved off my defense. “I saw the Military Medal pinned to her tunic. Unlike some of my counterparts, I don’t punish candor or transfer a good man for a frivolous cause. Your Miss Blake, however, may be an entirely different kettle of fish. If that girl doesn’t have something to hide, I don’t know who does. I can’t remember when I’ve seen such a shade of crimson.”