An Unmarked Grave (15 page)

“Did she ever send you any photographs? Of the happy couple?”

She frowned. “I never liked to display them. I didn’t want to annoy my father.”

“I’d like to see them. I don’t believe I’ve seen Sabrina since Vincent left Sandhurst.”

“I’m really not up to searching for them. Another time, perhaps.”

“Is he dark or fair? William? My mother thought she’d seen him in a play once. Molière? Or Sheridan, perhaps.”

“It was so hard to tell. They weren’t very good photographs, I’m afraid.” And she pointedly changed the subject, clearly not interested in her sister’s husband.

We talked about her pregnancy and her garden, and then it was time to take my leave.

When I met Captain Barclay in the pub where I’d left him, his first question was “Did you learn anything?”

“Only that she doesn’t wish to talk about her sister’s husband,” I said when we’d reached the motorcar.

“Not surprising.”

“But her sister has a child. A little boy, born sometime in the winter.”

Captain Barclay whistled softly. “This man Morton might not have fought for his wife, but he would for his child, wouldn’t he? And he’d have been furious with his brother-in-law for snubbing him. It must have seemed rather callous, I should think, to be met with a refusal to do anything for his family.”

Defending Major Carson, I said, “We don’t know that he did, do we? It’s possible that William Morton wasn’t satisfied with his offer.”

“That’s true,” Captain Barclay replied thoughtfully. “And there’s only one way to settle that—if your father is successful in discovering any provisions in the Major’s will. If he’s taken care of the wife or the child—or both—then Morton is out of the running.”

“I did ask Valerie if she had a photograph of her brother-in-law. But she’s feeling her pregnancy and wasn’t particularly interested in making the effort to find one. She didn’t seem to think any of them were very good, anyway.”

“What about the man’s old theatrical company? Did they have posters and the like? As you said in Rouen, eyes never change.”

“I don’t know if they still exist or how to contact them. Sabrina might have something of that sort. Or a photograph of her husband in uniform. Every wife wants one. In case . . .”

“In case,” he agreed.

A silence fell, and I found myself thinking about Simon again, all the way home.

When I told my parents about Sabrina’s child, they were surprised. No one had mentioned the boy to them. They were of the same mind, that if Major Carson had been murdered, his brother-in-law could have the best possible motive.

My father said, “It’s not like Vincent to be as vindictive as his father was. I don’t understand it. I’ll look into the will. I can be quite frank, I think, and ask the solicitors if the boy was provided for. If not, I can suggest that Julia might care to make amends.”

“I’m not sure she will,” I said, considering my conversation with Julia. “She doesn’t seem to be as fond of Sabrina as Valerie is. I wish I’d thought to ask Valerie about the will. She must have been there for the reading.”

“Hardly something you could bring up, without a very sound reason,” my mother said. “But getting back to what happened to Vincent, it’s possible that William Morton chose to badger him after the baby was born, and he wouldn’t have cared for that. Even if he’d already included his sister in his own will, he would have resented being pressed that way. And so the two of them quarreled, and Morton went away with the worst possible view of Vincent’s intentions. Morton was worried about his family, and Vincent had more than enough on his mind, keeping his men alive. They didn’t like each other to begin with. This could only have made matters between them even more tense.”

“She has a point,” Captain Barclay put in. “With a big push coming, Morton would have been anxious to know the matter was settled. Either one—or both—could have died. One of my men asked for leave to see his widowed mother. He wanted me to sign the request before we fought. I did, but he was killed in the second wave.”

“I must go up to London tomorrow,” my father said. “I’ll see what I can discover.”

Simon hadn’t been in the house, much to my surprise. What’s more, my mother had put me off when I had asked to go and visit him in his cottage. She was also rather vague about his condition.

And so when my father took the Captain off to the clinic the next morning and my mother went to see a woman who had lost her husband at Passchendaele, I slipped out of the house and walked through the back garden and the wood to Simon’s cottage.

It was small but comfortable, and it had suited him well. Filled with well-read books and memorabilia from his years in the Army, it had a masculine air that I’d always found pleasant.

Coming up the walk, I kept an eye to the windows, expecting him to see me approaching and pretend not to be at home. My mother was right; men were often not very good at waiting to heal, impatient and eager to be about their business again. And I suspected that he probably wouldn’t be pleased to have me know he had not taken as good care of himself as he should.

I tapped at the door, waiting to be admitted. But he didn’t answer the summons or come to the door. I tapped again, in case he was sleeping, and when he still didn’t open the door to me, I was angry enough to open it myself, and standing on the threshold, I called his name.

“There’s no use in hiding,” I added. “I know you’re here.”

But my voice echoed in the cottage, and I knew it must be empty. Simon wasn’t there.

Disbelieving, I walked in and searched. The bed was made up, there were no newspapers neatly stacked by the table where he ate his meals, and when I looked in the wardrobe, I saw that his valise was gone.

Frightened, I went out of the cottage and shut the door behind me before almost running back to the house.

When my mother came in an hour later, I was waiting for her.

“Where is Simon?” I asked. “He’s not here, and he’s not in the cottage. What is it you’re keeping from me?”

She set down her basket, her expression suddenly kind, and I had the most dreadful premonition.

I wanted to cover my ears or tell her not to answer my question. But she was already saying the words, and there was no way to stop them now.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

M
Y DEAR, HE’S
been very ill—”

“I was there when he was brought in, I know how serious his wound was. I thought—I was told you were nursing him. I took that to mean that he was here, or at the cottage.”

“He did come here when he was well enough. He signed himself out of hospital and a driver brought him to Somerset. But there was infection, you see, and his arm—we thought for a time he would lose it. Dr. Gaines cleaned it as best he could, but Simon is still running a fever. He doesn’t always remember where he is.”

“Dr. Gaines? Then Simon is at the clinic.”

“Yes, but he specifically asked—I wasn’t to tell you.”

“Why did he sign himself out of hospital? He knew the risk he’d be taking.”

“There was some pressing matter he had to deal with. He came here to use your father’s telephone. He didn’t have access to one in Portsmouth. Too many ears, he said.”

I remembered his urgent need to reach England, and how I had given him morphine to keep him quiet. Biting my lip, I considered all the possible outcomes of gangrene.

“I’m going to Longleigh House.”

“Bess, is that such a good idea? Simon—”

“I’m a nurse, Mother, I am very good at what I do, as Dr. Gaines himself told me. I could be able to help. Can Father pull a few strings? I need an interim posting there while my situation is being considered. I can’t walk in and ask to be allowed to help with a single surgical case.”

“Yes, I’m sure he can see to that. If not, then I’m sure Dr. Gaines will be able to arrange it.” She started toward the telephone closet, then stopped. “If it’s any consolation, I think you’re doing the right thing. Simon made me promise, you see. And I don’t break promises to Simon Brandon lightly.” She turned on her heel and left me standing there.

Several hours and countless telephone conversations later, I was told to report to the clinic on Wednesday morning at nine. That was two days away. I didn’t know how I was to keep myself from pacing the floor into the night.

I found my mother in the kitchen, scrubbing the tabletop while our Cook stood there frowning at her, tight-lipped and clearly troubled.

I said, “We’re going to find Sabrina Morton. I don’t know how we’ll manage it, but we will.”

Her face brightened. “I believe your father left her direction on his desk. He hadn’t decided to give it to you.”

“Why not?”

“I think he was worried about this business with Major Carson. That you might discover something speaking to her that would take you back to France. Darling, Simon is fighting for his life, and that nice Captain Barclay has reinjured his leg. Your father is looking for some way to keep you safe. Until then, he wants you to stay in England.”

I remembered that arm around my neck in the darkness as I was about to wash my face. And the way the wing of that motorcar brushed against me in Rouen. But I said resolutely, “I don’t need protection. Dr. Hicks and his people were keeping an eye on me. They would again.”

“You might not be posted there next time. And your father has learned that you weren’t expected in Ypres at all. Once you left the security of Dr. Hicks’s aid station, you were vulnerable. And you said yourself that he believed the message was completely genuine. He could be wrong another time as well.”

Dr. Hicks had done his best for me, but he was overworked and exhausted like the rest of us. He couldn’t be expected to ward off every danger.

“Then let’s go speak to Sabrina.
She
can’t do me any harm, and we just might learn something that would put an end to this frightful business.”

And so it was that we found ourselves on the road to Cornwall. I’d thought that Sabrina lived in Oxfordshire, but my father didn’t often make mistakes, and if he said Cornwall, then Cornwall it was. Because of the distance, we had planned to stay the night.

We drove through Devon, crossed the Tamar, and set out across Cornwall to the seaside village of Fowey, which actually sat above the river for which it was named. Taking a room at the Fowey Hotel, we had dinner there on the charming terrace overlooking the estuary where the river met the sea.

Afterward, as the evening was fine, we walked down toward the harbor. Unlike other harbor towns, Fowey had very little flat land along the riverbank for a settlement to grow, and so it was built upward, a maze of gardens and paths and houses and cottages cheek by jowl and leading ever downward until we reached St. Fimbarrus Church, and from there it was only a few steps to the water.

The clerk at the hotel had told us that The Mermaid Inn was along the water, and more accessible by boat than by foot. But we strolled along the river for a bit and watched the ferry plow toward Polruan across the way, and then saw the sign for The Mermaid. A narrow walkway bridged the gap from the small restaurant where we stood to the entrance to the inn, and led up steep stairs to the doorway. From there I could see just below where boats could tie up.

The inn had seen better days, thanks to the war and the fact that many of the men who brought their own boats or yachts to this place were now fighting in France.

There was a woman behind the desk who watched our approach without enthusiasm, as if she knew we weren’t looking for lodgings. I moved slightly ahead of my mother and said pleasantly, “I believe Mrs. William Morton lives here?”

“And who would be wanting her?” the woman asked, her voice neither friendly nor unwelcoming.

My mother, just behind me, answered the query. “Mrs. Crawford and her daughter, Sister Crawford. We knew her brother and her parents. Since we were in Cornwall while my daughter is on leave from her duties in France, we felt we ought to pay our respects.”

The woman regarded us for a moment, then said, “I’ll see if she wishes to receive you.”

I thought at first the woman was being rude. But she walked into the dimly lit interior of the inn where I could just see a staircase leading upward and to one side, a tiny dining room down two steps. A potted palm stood next to the entrance to the dining room, and a table with fresh flowers in a green vase added a spot of color by the side of the stairs. Nice touches, but even these couldn’t eliminate the depressing air of the inn.

The woman returned shortly. “She’s in room seven. Just knock at the door.”

We thanked her and walked farther into Reception before taking ourselves up the stairs to the first floor. Number seven was at the end of the passage, and we knocked lightly, as we’d been told. My mother gave me a conspiratorial look, then faced the door as it opened.

Sabrina Morton had always been the prettier of the two Carson sisters, but in the late evening light she appeared to be the elder of the two rather than the younger.

“Come in,” she said, inviting us into a room looking upriver and set out as a sitting room. A door into a second room was open just a little, and inside we could see a bed and a crib. “I can’t think why you should wish to call on me. Did Valerie send you? Or was it Julia, having a sudden change of heart?”

“Neither, as it happens,” my mother said. “You weren’t at the memorial service for your brother, and we were sorry to have missed that opportunity to offer our condolences. You were fond of Vincent, as I remember.”

“Once upon a time,” she said.

“Yes,” my mother replied, as if Sabrina had agreed with her, then turned to me. “I think you remember Elizabeth? She’s a nursing sister, Vincent may have mentioned it. She’s currently on leave from France, and as we had a few days before she goes back, we decided to visit Cornwall again. I remember coming to Fowey as a small child. It’s hardly changed at all, has it?”

Sabrina greeted me coolly, then offered us chairs. “I can’t offer you tea as well. I’m afraid the restaurant has closed.”

“Thank you, but we dined at our hotel,” I answered, resigning myself to a difficult conversation. “It’s good to see you again, Sabrina.”

“Is it? I don’t recall a visit from you after my marriage.”

“You hadn’t invited us to the wedding,” my mother reminded her with a smile. “We thought perhaps you’d excluded us when you excluded your brother.”

“He was a hypocrite. Vincent. Brother or not. He could have made our lives a little easier after our father died by offering me my inheritance. He kept it instead, you know. My sister was given our mother’s inheritance as well—as the elder daughter, that was fair enough. I didn’t quarrel with it. But it was cruel to deny me
anything
. I can’t forgive him for that, and I couldn’t in good conscience go to his service when I felt as I do.”

“He knew what his father thought about your marriage. Perhaps he found it difficult to go against
his
express wishes.”

“He chose to do that. He didn’t like Will any better than our father did. And what had Will ever done to my brother? Or even my father, for that matter? He married me because he loved me, and I loved him. My father married for love. Vincent as well. Where’s the difference?”

The bitterness in her voice touched me. There was no polite way to point out that her choice of husband, however much she loved him, had not been quite the same as Vincent’s marriage to Julia. Or Valerie’s to her banker. They had come from the same circle, while William Morton had definitely not.

“I never met Will,” I said. “Do you have a photograph of him? I should like to see it.”

“We could never afford to have a family likeness taken,” she told me bluntly. “Even when he was leaving for France.”

“A pity. For your sake and your son’s.”

My mother said gently, “We came, Sabrina, because we remembered you as a child. What your father and your brother decided to do is not our fault.”

I thought then that Sabrina was going to cry. But she lifted her head and said, “You’ll go home and tell Valerie what I’ve come down to. Living with Will’s cousin in this inn that struggles to keep itself afloat financially. On a private soldier’s pay, I couldn’t contribute much to my keep, but I do what I can to help Constance.” She put out her hands, red and rough from a servant’s work. “Tell them about these too.”

“I have no intention of telling Julia or Valerie anything,” my mother retorted. “If they wish to know where or how you live, then let them come and see for themselves.”

There was a whimper from the bedroom. Sabrina said, “My son. I’ve just put him to bed. He’s begun to crawl, and I live in dread that he’ll fall into the river when I’m not looking. But I have nowhere else to go.”

It was self-pity, but as the lower doors to the inn must lead directly to that tiny docking area where the usual house would have a porch, such a tragedy could happen.

“Nowhere else? But what of Will’s family?” my mother asked.

“Will’s father and brothers live in the Welsh Marches, near Hay-on-Wye. They offered me a home, but I couldn’t accept. They were no happier than my own family when I married Will. If I must live on charity, I prefer to be here.”

The whimper settled into a sleepy grumble, and then there was silence.

Thinking to change the subject, I said, “How long have you lived here in Fowey?”

“Since just after Boxing Day. Where we lived in Woodstock, the owner of the cottage refused to give us any more credit. She kept most of our belongings as well. Except for the cradle. I wouldn’t let her take that. It was Will’s when he was a baby.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to bring up a painful subject.”

“You couldn’t have known.” She took a deep breath. “My father would tell you that I have made my bed and should lie on it without complaint. It would be easier if I didn’t have a child. I could find work, with so many men gone to fight the Kaiser. I could support myself. But I don’t want to leave him. He’s all I have now, and I would rather accept charity than put him in the care of strangers. Or leave him with Constance, because she’s too busy keeping the inn from going under to watch him.”

I repeated, unwilling to believe my ears, “All you have?”

“An actor is paid to act, not to fight the Germans.” She turned to look out the window. The port wasn’t visible from here. It was upriver, where the ships that once carried clay and other goods docked. “Do you know, I’d been so afraid Will might contract influenza. I wasn’t prepared, after all this time, for the telegram reporting he’d been killed. It seemed so terribly unfair, somehow. As if God had spared him the sickness because he was destined to die in battle.” The unshed tears fell now, and she let them fall.

My mother took out a handkerchief and handed it to Sabrina. She murmured her gratitude as she took it.

“You’re a widow?” I asked. “But—”

“He died two weeks before Vincent did. I’ll always wonder if my brother killed my husband. They say this sometimes happens, that scores are settled on the battlefield. If this is true, then God avenged Will, and someone shot Vincent.”

She broke down then, and there was no comfort we could offer. I was still shocked by what she’d told us. After a moment she said, “Please go. Please.”

We took our leave, and my mother embraced Sabrina. She resisted at first, and then flung her arms around her.

We were back in the passage when I thought of something. It didn’t really matter now. But still, I felt I should ask, if only to settle a point.

I stepped back into the room. “Sabrina. I’d like to know. What color were your husband’s eyes?”

Her voice was almost inaudible. “Blue. Palest blue, like ice. Except when he smiled for me. Why? What does it matter?”

“I was hoping perhaps your son had inherited them. To keep Will’s memory alive.”

She smiled through her tears. “He has.”

I thanked her and rejoined my mother.

We reached the stairs and went down them. Constance was no longer there in Reception.

My mother said, “See if you can find an envelope or something in the desk over there, Bess, dear. I’d like to leave a little gift for the child.”

I did, searching through the stationery before finding a fresh one. But as I handed it to my mother, something fell on the floor, and I retrieved it to replace it amongst the other papers in an untidy stack.