A Bitter Truth (22 page)

“I had a feeling that someone killed my brother. Or I should say, shortened his suffering. I don’t know who it was. I thought for a time that it was either Eleanor, unable to watch him die so slowly, or her brother, because he knew how hard it was for her. I even suspected George, because they were in the room alone for some time, and it was possible that Alan asked him to help him die.”

“Dear God,” I said, and could think of nothing else to add.

“I know. I said nothing. There would have been no point in involving the police. I looked at it as a kindness. Something I myself should have thought to ask my brother. But I loved him and I didn’t want him to die. Selfish of me, but there it is.”

“But you should have said something after George was killed. It could have been important. Instead you let Davis Merrit take the blame because you didn’t like him.”

“No, that’s not true. I was jealous of him. What’s more, I was trying to shield my mother. I couldn’t let her know what I suspected.”

“Be that as it may, we’ve strayed from the subject,” I said, not wanting to take this any farther. “I can’t tell you where to find this child—” I’d nearly slipped up and called her Sophie.

“Can’t—or won’t.”

“I expect we came to Rouen on the same errand,” I said. “There is a house of nuns here with no children in their care, and another on a street not far from here where there are children. I’ve spoken to both of them. I’ve seen the children in their care. She isn’t one of them. You can go there yourself, if you like. Or I’ll take you there.”

“Is this the truth?”

“The absolute truth,” I answered.

He swore. “All right. I believe you. I should have done this a year ago. It’s my fault. And now she’s somewhere in France, and we may never find her.”

“Then all your problems will be solved.”

“No, not all of them,” he said wearily and pulled some coins from his pocket, tossing them on the table. “I’ll see you to your motorcar.”

I rose as well and walked with him to the door. Outside the rain was coming down in earnest, and over its noisy patter I could hear the guns at the Front, and from the river, the sounds of a boat coming up the Seine to the dock, its whistle carrying on the damp air.

Roger Ellis took my arm and led me across to the Major’s motorcar. He turned the crank and then came to my door.

“I didn’t kill George. Either to keep my secret or to avenge Alan.” The rain was cascading off the brim of his cap now.

The shelling to the north of us was getting heavier. In the flashes of light, the Butter Tower was spectral against the sheets of rain falling from the black sky.

“Oddly enough, I think I believe you,” I said.

But even if I did, I still wasn’t sure I trusted Roger Ellis.

I think he must have read the shadow of doubt in my eyes. His hand on the door clenched, and then he said, “All right. Go on.” He gestured to the gun flashes. “They’ll be needing you soon.”

“Yes. Good-bye, Captain Ellis.”

And I drove away, leaving him there, wondering if I’d done the right thing.

Chapter Thirteen

I
reached Calais in time to meet the Major as he came out of the port and strode down the busy street, looking this way and that. He smiled as he saw me, and hurried over to where I’d put the motorcar.

“On time,” he said approvingly. “Thank you, Sister.” He ran his eye over the bonnet and the wings, as if searching for dents or scrapes. Then he laughed as he saw me watching him. “I brought this motorcar over to France in the summer of 1914, and I was in Paris when the war began. I stored her in a house in Neuilly, and came home to enlist. She was still there when I got back three months later. I’d heard that the French Army used even the Paris taxis to ferry men to the Marne, when the Germans first broke through. God knows they could have used her too.”

I laughed too, and thanked him as well. We drove back through the shattered landscape and the rutted, rain-soaked roads to report to my sector. As Roger Ellis had predicted and the shelling had foretold, they needed me desperately.

After quickly changing into a fresh uniform, I hurried to take my place, sorting the long line of wounded into manageable units—the walking wounded, the seriously wounded, those needing immediate attention, and those who were dying, for whom nothing could be done. The sounds of machine-gun fire, rifles, and the booms of the shells were deafening.

Yet from the surgical ward behind me I heard a burst of the same maniacal laughter I’d heard once before, only this time cut short with a curse.

Ten minutes later, directing the stretcher bearers, stalwart Scots with grim faces, to follow me with the chest wound they’d brought in, I saw another stretcher being brought out of the surgical ward. Even though he was pale and groggy, I recognized the Australian Sergeant.

He saw me as well, blinking to clear his vision as he peered in my direction. The morphine was taking effect. He grinned and did a very poor imitation of that same laugh.

He must have noticed the surprise on my face.

“Kookaburra,” he said. “It’s a bird, love.” And then he closed his eyes and lay back.

I took his hand. “I found her,” I said, leaning down to whisper in his ear. “Thank you. You made it possible.”

I couldn’t be sure whether he’d heard me or not. And my chest wound was in need of urgent care. I walked away from the Sergeant and found the tired, overworked doctor waiting for me.

My chest wound survived and was sent down the line for further treatment. I had very little time to think about anything after that as the level of severe wounds rose. It was another ten hours before I was relieved, and I walked wearily back to my quarters, falling into my cot to sleep heavily.

The next morning I was back at work, and the next. And finally, as the flow of wounded slowed with the desultory sounds of firing from the Front, I could take a deep breath and massage my aching shoulders and the small of my back.

I found one of the ambulance drivers who had taken patients back to the main dressing station. He smiled, his eyes bloodshot and strained, as weary as I was.

I asked if my chest wound and several other very difficult cases had survived, and he told me they had reached the next station alive. That spoke well for the immediate care they had received here. “And the Aussie Sergeant?”

“He wasn’t doing well. I’m sorry, Sister, we did our best. But his breathing was ragged when we got him there.”

I thanked him and let him go to a well-deserved rest.

A day later when I ran into an Australian officer in consultation with an English Major as they stood in the entrance of a tent out of the fierce wind that had begun to blow across the flat, decimated landscape of war, I walked up and begged their pardon for the interruption. Then I turned to the Australian officer and asked, “Sir, what is a kookaburra?”

He glanced at the English Major and smiled. “It’s a very large kingfisher. Very striking bird. When half a dozen of them gather in the trees, you can’t hear yourself think. Its call is something you won’t forget, once you’ve heard it.” The smile faded. “You haven’t treated Sergeant Larimore, have you? It’s his signature, so to speak.”

“Yes, sir, I have. He was brought in a few days ago. I was just speaking to the ambulance driver. He said the Sergeant wasn’t doing well when he arrived at the main dressing station.”

“A pity, that. He’s a good man, one of the best.”

I thanked him and walked on.

There was no time to return to Rouen. The next fortnight was busy, and besides, I’d just been given leave. I couldn’t ask for more so soon.

I found three soldiers from my father’s old regiment and put out the word that I was concerned about an Australian Sergeant named Larimore who had been under my care.

Word came back that he’d been taken to Rouen and sent on to Boulogne for transport to England. And then someone else reported that he had died before he reached Rouen.

I could feel the tears in the back of my eyes.
Such a waste,
I thought.

I was still feeling low from the shock of that, when I received a visit from Matron. She came in with a frown between her gray eyes, and I did a hasty review of my sins, for I thought she was angry about something.

Instead she asked, almost with distaste, “Sister Crawford, have you been involved in a murder inquiry in Sussex?”

“Yes. Before Christmas. A guest in the house where I was staying was found dead.”

“I see. It appears that your presence is required at an inquest being held next week. We’ve been asked to approve leave for you to give testimony.”

“I was with Mrs. Ellis when we were searching for the missing man, and we were the ones who found his body.”

“Yes, I see. Then I shall approve this request for leave. Five days should be sufficient? We’re really short staffed, and you are one of our most experienced nurses.”

“I don’t know what is sufficient, Matron. I’ve had no news since the first inquest was adjourned while the police proceeded with their inquiries.”

“Very well. I shall ask for five days, with the understanding that if more time is required, the police can give you a chit explaining why it was necessary to remain longer than that.”

“Thank you, Matron.”

And she was gone. Official word of my leave came down the next day, and I asked if I could be sent home via Rouen, as I’d like to look in on patients there.

To my surprise, the request was granted. And then I learned why when I was given orders to accompany a train of severely wounded men to Rouen for further care.

It proved to be an arduous journey, and I lost one patient before we pulled into the station in Rouen. Stretcher bearers and orderlies and ambulance drivers helped us take the wounded out of the train and ferry them to the race course.

There I found a very orderly receiving station, although what had been a five-hundred-bed hospital had soon expanded to thirteen hundred or more. The American nurses were quiet and efficient, and soon my charges were dealt with.

I had just signed the paperwork when I heard off in the distance that wild laughter. Cracked and weak, but undeniably Sergeant Larimore’s kookaburra.

I said, “I know that sound.”

An American nurse rolled her eyes. “I declare, he’s the most impossible man.” She wore pince-nez glasses and had a soft voice that reminded me a little of Devon.

“It’s a bird. Like a kingfisher. An Australian bird.”

She considered me, doubt clear in her face. “I live by a river. I’ve seen kingfishers most of my life. They don’t make any sounds like that.”

“No. May I see him? I’m so glad to know the Sergeant is still alive.”

She weighed the possibility that I had a romantic interest in an attractive man. I could see the thought passing through her mind as she debated whether to allow a visit.

“I was the sister who took the shrapnel out of his shoulder the first time he was wounded,” I added helpfully.

“Ah. Sister Crawford. He’s done nothing but compare everything we do to your skill and dedication. I’m delighted to meet this paragon at long last.”

I could feel the warm blood rush into my face. “I’m so sorry! I expect he was being cheeky.”

“Indeed.” She looked in the direction the sound had come from. “I must tell you, he’s not out of the woods yet. He had such a fever when he was brought to us—that was almost three weeks ago—and he was out of his mind the first few days. You will find him much changed. There’s still the possibility of pneumonia. But he insists on getting out of bed and walking about. He even disappeared into Rouen two days ago. When he was brought back, he claimed he’d been delirious and didn’t know what he was going. It’s difficult to keep him quiet. Perhaps you can persuade him to be more sensible.”

She pointed to a tent in the third row, the first one in the tidy white line. The contrast with the forward dressing station where I’d been working was very evident. And I even caught a glimpse of the X-ray machine that had saved so many lives.

I went down to the race course and located the tent in which Sergeant Larimore was once more making his raucous call.

Walking through the flap, I said in my best imitation of Matron’s voice, “That will do, young man. There are other wounded in this Base Hospital, you know. Show a little consideration for them.”

He turned his head to argue with me, recognized me, and grinned. “So they finally brought you here,” he said. “I was on them about you often enough.”

“So I heard,” I said. “Nurse Barlow was disappointed that I didn’t walk on water.” I nodded to the nurse who had just completed his bath and waited while she took the used water out to dump. It also gave me an opportunity to come to terms with the change in the man I remembered as tall, vigorous, and healthy.

His face had been pared down to the bone, and his body seemed thinner under the sheet and blanket. A ravaging fever could do that. He was wearing the blue hospital suit the Americans issued to all patients, and it appeared to fit well enough. I thought perhaps his own determination was healing him faster than medical care at this stage.

The Sergeant tried to stand up, and I pushed him back down again. “I shall be sent home in disgrace if you take a turn for the worse on my account,” I told him firmly.

“Yes, well, I’d heal faster if I could move about. Lying here day after day, I can’t regain my strength. I walk when they aren’t looking, and that’s helping. I thought in the beginning they were sending me home—I heard them talking about Boulogne when I was awake enough to understand what was going on. That’s where the ships leave for Down Under. I’m damned if I’ll let them do that. My men need me more than Australia does.”

I thought perhaps that was where his determination sprang from. And I’d seen, more than once, how the resolve to go back into the line had worked miraculous cures.

“Have you been assigned here?” he asked hopefully, changing the subject.

“No, actually I have a brief leave coming to me. I asked to be sent home by way of Rouen because of the child.”

“I didn’t dream it then. Your voice, thanking me.”

“Your list helped enormously, and the house is here, in Rouen. It’s an almost unbelievable stroke of good luck.” I told him how I’d found Sophie and what I’d learned from Sister Marie Joseph. “I intended to speak to the solicitor here in Rouen to learn what was necessary to take her to England, but I ran into her real father—almost literally ran into him. And I had to put it off, for fear he might try to follow me. Besides, Sophie had just broken out with chicken pox, and she shouldn’t have been moved.”

“Do you want me to pose as her real father? If that would help?”

I smiled. “You don’t sound much like a British officer.”

“But I can do just that, my dear,” he retorted in perfect imitation of one.

I should have realized that if he could imitate the bird’s call so well he was a natural mimic.

The nurse returned to retrieve her towels, soaps, shaving gear, and scissors, telling Sergeant Larimore not to tire himself. Turning to me, she said, “A torn lung.”

“A torn lung,” he mimicked as soon as the tent flap fell behind her, then in his normal baritone voice, he added, “As if I didn’t know. The surgery nearly killed me. It was a close-run thing. But I’m mending now. Tell me more about the child. I need something to think about besides the Base Hospital’s bloody routine. Sorry, Sister.”

And so I related the entire story. “My ship leaves at three o’clock this afternoon. I just have time to go back to the house and see how she is.”

“I hope you find her recovering. She’s young for that, isn’t she?”

“Not really. Chicken pox can sweep through an entire family in a matter of days, from the youngest to the eldest. In fact, the earlier you have it, the better. Older children often have more trouble, and scarring can be a problem. Although those scars often fade with the years.”

“If I’m ever allowed to leave this place, I’ll go along to this Rue St. Catherine and see her for myself.”

“You must be very careful,” I warned. “The nuns are not very happy with visitors.”

“I understand that. A great lug of a soldier frightening the little ones won’t do. I won’t go empty-handed. I’ve been collecting what I could. Soap, a little sugar and some coffee.” He smiled. “Will you be coming back through Rouen, then?”