To Love a Traitor (15 page)

Chapter Eighteen

Of course, with that wretched drinks party still going on downstairs—with
Pevensie
downstairs—there was nowhere, absolutely nowhere, to go. The other bedrooms were empty, of course, their nighttime occupants busy making merry below. But George could hardly invade someone else’s privacy. What would Jimmy or Agnes think, were they to come upstairs for a pocket handkerchief and find him moping in their room?

Downstairs, nowhere would be safe. George hid himself in the shadows on the upstairs landing, listening to the noise of laughter and chattering that came up from below.

Even in his cell in Winchester, in the dark of the night when all noises had seemed sinister and freedom a lifetime away, he’d never felt so alone. He’d ruined everything. Worse, he’d hurt Matthew badly. If only he’d been able to explain… God, would Matthew ever listen to him again?

The sound of a footstep upon the stairs jolted him out of his miserable thoughts. It was Matthew’s mother. George froze, then decided the only thing for it was to brazen it out. He took a deep breath, and started down the stairs. He would simply nod at her in passing, and—

“George, dear, I was just coming to look for you and Matthew. Is everything all right?” Her face was full of concern.

It almost broke him. “I…” George tried to think of some plausible lie—then thought to hell with it. Wasn’t it lies which had landed him in this position to start with? “I’m afraid I’ve upset Matthew rather badly. I’m so very sorry.”

She gave him a long, considering look. “Then perhaps I’d better go to him.”

George nodded and made to carry on down the stairs, but a gentle hand on his arm stopped him. “Of course I’ve no idea what it’s about, and I wouldn’t dream of prying. But I’ve found most things don’t seem so bad after one has taken a little time to pause and reflect. Cool heads see more clearly.”

“Thank you,” George said, although he wasn’t at all sure this was one of those things.

Mrs. Connaught smiled and went on her way up the stairs.

“Please look after him,” George blurted out to her retreating back.

She didn’t answer, which was really only what such an absurd entreaty deserved.

Left now with no choice but to carry on downstairs, George considered for a moment escaping to shiver in the gardens until all the guests had gone. But damn it, that was a coward’s course. Squaring his shoulders, George stepped once more into the throng. Pevensie, thank goodness, had his back turned, and George was able to walk up to Matthew’s father without interruption.

“May I… May I please borrow your study, sir? I’ve a rather important letter to write.”

The reverend, who had been talking to a stout lady in crimson, turned to give him a gentle smile. “But of course, dear boy. Here, let me take you there and make sure you have everything you need.”

“Thank you, but that’s really not—” George found himself being escorted whether he willed it or no, and once arrived at the study, provided with notepaper, pen and ink. He was then left discreetly to himself.

George sat for a moment in the reverend’s comfortable chair, surrounded by the tools of a sermon-writer’s trade: Bible commentaries, theological tomes and, more whimsically, books of quotations. Then he took up his pen.

Dear Matthew,

I hope I’m still allowed to call you that. You’ve every right to throw this in the fire without reading it, but please, I beg you, let me explain.

When I first came to live at Mrs. Mac’s, I was suspicious of you, it’s true. You see—and damn it, I’m explaining this all wrong. You think I’ve been lying to you all along, but it hasn’t been like that, not really. Almost everything I’ve told you has been true. It’s just that I haven’t told you everything. Even my name—George—is mine by right, although it’s my second name.

It all started with Hugh’s fiancée, Mabel. She of the lavender notepaper…

George wrote a brief, factual account of the stories that had first aroused Mabel’s suspicions, and the further evidence Sir Arthur had found about the dog.

So yes, I did suspect you at first. But that was before I knew you. I’ve been certain for ages that you could have had nothing to do with it. I should
never
(he underlined it twice)
have allowed our friendship to progress so far had I still thought you might have betrayed my brother.

Please believe me

most affectionately and sincerely yours,

George

He blotted the letter carefully, folded it and placed it in an envelope. Then he left the study, intending to slide the letter under Matthew’s door. In the time it had taken him to write it, however, the party had broken up. The guests had all departed, leaving only Matthew’s brothers to give George curious glances as he made his way to the stairs.

There, he met Matthew, on his way down in the company of his mother. Matthew looked tired and sad, but there was determination in the line of his jaw. “George—”

“Please just read this,” George interrupted, thrusting the letter at Matthew, who took it hardly seeming to know what he was doing. Before Matthew could say anything that couldn’t be unsaid, George fled upstairs to the bedroom. Kicking off his shoes, he threw himself down on his bed.

He didn’t bother to undress. Even exhausted as he was, sleep wouldn’t be coming tonight.

Chapter Nineteen

George hadn’t imagined he would be able to sleep a wink, much less all night, but somehow, when next he opened his eyes, light was falling through the curtains. It was morning.

And Matthew was there. Sitting upon the other bed.

George sat bolt upright, dislodging the blanket he didn’t remember pulling over himself. “Matthew?” he asked, his voice rough and cracking.

Matthew’s face was unwontedly sombre, and there was something haunted about his eyes. He hadn’t yet shaved, and wore yesterday’s clothes. Had he been awake all night? Guilt surged anew in George’s breast.

“I read your letter,” he said.

George searched his friend’s face anxiously for any sign of forgiveness, but all he could see was worry. “And do you understand? Matthew, please believe me, I—” He broke off at Matthew’s convulsive gesture.

Matthew paused, then looked straight at him as he continued. “You were right to suspect me.”

“You mean you…” George couldn’t finish. His heart was ice-cold and felt like it was about to shatter.

Matthew’s eyes widened. “No—Lord, no.” He tried to smile, but it was a pitiful affair. “This isn’t a confession of guilt. I just meant, on the evidence you had.” He took a deep breath. “And on the evidence you didn’t have too. I need to talk to you about Donald. My friend in Ypres,” he added, as if George could possibly have forgotten.

“Go on,” George said, not understanding at all.

“You remember I told you we’d quarrelled?”

George nodded.

“It… The damnedest thing is that it wasn’t a quarrel at all, not really. It was just that something happened which rather put a barrier between us.” Matthew picked at a loose thread on the bedspread on which he sat. “When I was injured, that night before I was supposed to go on patrol with Captain Cottingham… Lord, I joked about it, didn’t I? I told you I’d caught a bullet in the leg, and it saved my life?” He looked unhappier than ever.

George nodded, pricklings of unease making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “You weren’t to know,” he said, leaning forward but hesitating to bridge the gap between them.

“Wasn’t I?” Matthew swallowed. “You see, the bullet in my leg… It came from my own gun.”

“Good God—you shot yourself?” Had he been wrong about Matthew after all?

But then why would Matthew tell him this? No, it couldn’t be. He’d trust Matthew with his life.

“No. Good Lord, no.” Matthew took a deep breath. “No, it was like this. I had an errand to run back by the Field Ambulance where Donald worked, and a little time to spare, so of course I went to see him. I swear it wasn’t I who mentioned the patrol. It was Donald who brought the subject up—of course, it was the talk of the trenches, old Jerry being taken in by a few twigs and leaves.” He paused. “Donald…didn’t approve. He said it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard of, sending us over the top in daylight, and he hoped I’d never be mad enough to volunteer for such a thing.”

“And he realised from your reaction you’d done just that.” George guessed.

Matthew nodded and picked again at the bedspread. He’d made the loose thread a good deal worse; Mrs. Connaught was going to be frightfully cross with him, George thought irrelevantly. “He was horrified. He begged me not to go. But I could hardly back out. I told him that. He got really quite angry. I don’t know how to explain it. I mean, it probably sounds quite reasonable to you, that he should be worried about me, but it really didn’t seem so at the time. It was the strength of his reaction. It seemed
un
reasonable.” He looked up, his face a picture of misery.

“Unless…. Unless he knew what was going to happen.”
Knew
that if Matthew went over the top in daylight, he would die. Because he knew the Germans had been forewarned. “What happened?” George asked urgently, his voice hoarse and unnatural.

Matthew closed his eyes briefly. “Donald said if I was going into such terrible danger, he wanted to check my gun was in order. I told him not to be ridiculous, of course I kept my gear in good condition. But he insisted. And like an idiot, I gave it to him.”

“And…it went off in his hands?”

Matthew nodded. “I…I thought it was an accident, of course. But we’d still both have been in deep water if we’d admitted what had happened. So Donald persuaded me we should say I’d been hit by a sniper.” He looked near to tears. “I didn’t like it, but what could I do? He was in a terrible state.”

“And afterwards?” George demanded, climbing out of bed to take Matthew by the shoulders. “Did you realise he was a traitor?”

“No! I swear it, George, I didn’t. Perhaps I should have… But I
knew
him. I…was fond of him.”

Loved him
, George interpreted, with a stabbing pain in his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was for Matthew—or for himself. “So what came between you?” he had to ask.

“Donald… He got it into his head somehow that I suspected him of wounding me deliberately.”

Oh God. Because a man with a guilty conscience
would
fear that. “And did you?”

Matthew looked up, his eyes entreating. “I didn’t want to. And I swear—George, please believe me, I never suspected him of acting out of any other motive than concern for my safety. I certainly shouldn’t have said anything about it to anyone else. But…it was such an odd thing to happen. And he
had
been so very adamant that I shouldn’t go on that patrol, do you see?”

George nodded slowly. He did see, only too well.

“And I shouldn’t suspect him of being a traitor even now,” Matthew went on. “Only…there’s more. The dog you mentioned—the one in the report?” He broke off and took a couple of deep breaths. “That was Scout. Remember I told you we used to take him for walks in the woods? Donald’s dog.”

“Oh Lord.” George couldn’t help himself. He wrapped his arms around Matthew, who was now weeping openly, and held him close. His heady relief at this evidence of Matthew’s innocence was tainted with the knowledge of how dreadful it must be for Matthew to know that someone he’d loved had betrayed his comrades to their deaths.

After a long moment, Matthew gave a loud sniff and pushed George away. “Terribly sorry. I’m afraid I’m making you quite damp.” He fumbled in his pockets.

George guessed what he was searching for. “Here, take mine,” he said, handing over his pocket handkerchief. “I think it’s more or less clean.”

“Thank you.” He wiped his eyes, blew his nose and appeared a little more composed. “Lord, we make a pair, don’t we? All crumpled and disreputable from sleeping in our clothes. You’d think pyjamas had never been invented.”

“You did sleep, then? I felt I’d been rather letting the side down, snoring away up here while you were all alone in the dark.”

“I wasn’t alone. Mother sat up with me—jolly decent of her, seeing as I wouldn’t even tell her what was the matter. She came up to check on you at one point.”

“Oh. I wondered who I had to thank for this.” George indicated the blanket that had been draped over him when he’d woken. “But did you sit up all night?”

“We both fell asleep in our chairs, in the end,” Matthew continued. “Goodness knows what the maid thought, poor girl, when she came in to light the fire.”

“I’m so sorry,” George began. “To put you through all that—I should have been open with you from the beginning.”

Matthew frowned. “How could you be? For all you knew, I was a rotten traitor. For all you know for sure,” he added, sounding unhappy once more, “I might still be one.”

“Don’t be absurd. Of course you’re not a traitor. I knew it even before you told me about Donald.”

“But you
don’t
know it,” Matthew said earnestly. “Not for certain. Everything I’ve told you—you have only my word for it, don’t you see?”

“It doesn’t matter,” George urged desperately. “I believe you.”
I love you
, he wanted to add.

“You say that now. But…there will always be some doubt in your mind—there
has
to be—and you’ll wake up some night in the small hours, perhaps with me lying beside you, and wonder. I couldn’t bear you to think me the man responsible for your brother’s death. For all their deaths—and Lord knows how many others.”

“Never,” George insisted—but damn it, Matthew was right, wasn’t he? George imagined himself explaining it all to Mabel, who didn’t know Matthew at all. Would she be convinced that Matthew was telling the truth?

And—although he didn’t like to admit it, even to himself—doubts
might
creep in to George’s mind as well. After all, Matthew had had all night to come up with a plausible story…

God, this was a wretched business.

“We need to find Donald,” George said firmly. If nothing else, he’d have great satisfaction in delivering his brother’s murderer to justice.

Except—they’d hang him, wouldn’t they? If they didn’t make him face a firing squad. Could George really be responsible for that? After he’d sworn no man would ever again die at his hand? For one horrid moment, he saw, vivid as day, the man he’d shot all those years ago at the hunt. How he’d kicked and writhed, both hands to his stomach, as if to hold in the blood…

But then how had Hugh died? It could have been much like that, for all George knew.
Yes
, he decided savagely. For Hugh, he could do it.

But… What would it do to Matthew to see the man he’d loved hang? Worse, if there were a trial, would it come out that Matthew and Donald had been lovers? That wasn’t to be thought of. But it made George sick to think of him getting away with it scot free.

“Do you know what happened to him after the war?” he asked impulsively. Perhaps he’d been caught already, in some other act of treachery—but no, if that had been the case, surely Sir Arthur would have known, damn it all to hell.

Matthew shook his head. “No. I haven’t seen him since I got this, actually.” He waved the stump of his right arm in illustration. “He was sent home on leave not long after we’d quarrelled. Then Passchendaele happened, and I got shipped back to Blighty, by which time, as far as I know, Donald had gone back out there. I did write when I was well enough, but I never got a reply.” He looked up. “But I do know where his people lived. His sister, at any rate. They had a house together in a village called Ashwood, in Kent. I don’t know the address, but I don’t suppose it’s a very big place. We could ask around.”

“Do you want to?” George asked cautiously. “The chances are—if he’s even there to be found—he won’t admit to anything. We wouldn’t be any further forward than we are now. It’d still just be your word against his—and damn it, Matthew,” he exploded, seizing hold of his friend’s shoulders once more. “I
do
believe you. I’d trust you with my life.”

“But you see,” Matthew said helplessly, “I trusted Donald.”

His eyes, gazing into George’s, were full of hurt. Something twisted in George’s chest. “You trusted us both, and we both lied to you, didn’t we?” He gave a bitter laugh. “At least, I did. I suppose we still don’t know about Donald. Maybe he really was just worried about you, and there was nothing sinister about the dog at all.”

“That’s why I have to speak to him. I have to know. And… If he did betray us, perhaps he was forced into it somehow? Or perhaps he did it out of free will, but regrets it now?” The hurt turned to determination. “We have to at least make the attempt to find out.”

“But when? We have to be back at work after tomorrow.”

“Then we’ll go tomorrow. Mother won’t mind, not when I tell her it’s important.”

“But your brothers…your sister… I’ve already ruined a good portion of your holiday for you.”

“There’ll be other holidays. And in any case, no, you haven’t.” He raised his hand to gently stroke George’s face. “You’ve made it rather special, in fact.”

George could hardly speak. It didn’t make sense, that Matthew would still want him—not now that he knew everything. It didn’t make sense, and it couldn’t be true, but Matthew’s arm was still around him, and Matthew’s breath was still warm on his skin, and there was affection in his tones, and hope, not scorn and revulsion.

“I thought,” George choked out, “I thought you were angry with me. For lying to you.”

Matthew shook his head. “Not once I read your letter.” He made a sound that was almost a laugh. “I think, had I been you, I should have been suspicious of that Connaught fellow myself. I don’t blame you for keeping things secret from me—how could you not, in the circumstances?”

With a sobbing breath, George turned into Matthew’s embrace, flinging his arms around his friend. They clung to one another for a long while, then George felt Matthew draw back. “Come on. We need to make ourselves presentable. And go and borrow Father’s Bradshaw.”