An Unwilling Accomplice (3 page)

I was grateful for his understanding.

He left, and kicking off my shoes, removing my apron and cap, I sat down in the chair that Simon had just vacated and sighed.

This brief interlude had brought me a little more time in England, but by Thursday I’d be eager to return to my duties in France. It was where my years of training and experience counted in the endless struggle to save lives. It had been difficult, exhausting, and stressful work often enough, and all of us in Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service had had bad dreams from time to time, dreams we tried not to remember in the light of morning. But knowing we’d made a difference kept us going.

I must have drifted into a light sleep. And then my internal clock woke me at a little before five thirty. I was dressed and ready when Simon knocked on my door just at six.

He smiled and said, “I expected to find you asleep.”

I returned the smile. “After visiting Buckingham Palace? How could I sleep?” I replied, stepping out into the passage. It was quiet. I glanced down toward the sergeant’s door, but all was quiet in that direction as well. If his friends were coming, they’d been thoughtful enough to give him time to rest before descending on him. That was reassuring.

We went down to the hotel’s dining room, where Simon had already booked a table, and it was a pleasant dinner. I wished my mother could have been there—she would have enjoyed the outing—but Simon and I were always comfortable together.

We were still sitting there, talking over our after-dinner cup of tea, when Simon glanced at his watch and said, “It’s nearly nine o’clock. Go on up and look in on your patient. I’ll see to the account and then escort you safely to your room.”

I did just that, taking the lift and walking down to Sergeant Wilkins’s door. It was quiet, and I knocked softly.

There was no answer. And I couldn’t see a light under the door. His friends had come and gone, he was asleep.

I tried the door, found it locked. Frowning, I tried it again. This time it opened, as if it had been jammed, and I stepped into the doorway, listening.

I could just see the outline of Sergeant Wilkins’s body under the coverlet, but his breathing was so quiet and deep that I could hardly be sure I heard it.

Had he taken his powder, as he’d promised? After his friends had left?

On the floor next to the table by the bed, a crumpled bit of white paper lay, as if he’d accidently brushed it off as he put down his cup. Yes, all was well.

I listened a few seconds longer, then, satisfied, I closed the door again quite gently and walked on toward my own room. Simon was just stepping out of the lift.

“All well?”

“Yes, he’s asleep. I didn’t disturb him. He’s taken his evening powder, as he’d promised he would.”

“Good. All right, go inside and lock your door. I’ll come by tomorrow after you’ve seen the patient off to Shrewsbury. I’ll even take you to lunch.”

“Done. Thank you for dinner,” I said, and went into my room. I’d brought a book with me from Somerset and tried to read for a while, but I was in bed by ten thirty. The deep fatigue of France hadn’t quite left me, or perhaps it was the excitement of the ceremony at the Palace. At any rate, I was asleep before the hands on my little clock reached eleven.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

W
HEN
I
OPENED
my eyes, I met my first bad news of the day. The sunny weather had broken, and rain was coming down hard, barely letting in the early morning light.

Oh, dear,
I thought, wishing I could turn over and sleep for another hour. But I had duties to perform. I threw back the coverlet, and got out of bed.

By eight o’clock, I had gone down to my breakfast. Simon and I had arranged last night for tea and toast to be taken up to Sergeant Wilkins at seven thirty, just as the orderly, Thompson, had done for the previous morning.

It was there, in the hotel dining room, that I received my second bit of bad news.

The desk clerk walked in, looked around, found my table, and came over to me with an envelope in his hands.

“A messenger brought this just now, Sister Crawford. For you.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking it from him, smiling. But the smile quickly faded as I opened the envelope, drew out the single sheet, and read it.

Simon’s handwriting.

My dear girl, I’m deserting you after all. The call was waiting for me when I arrived at my club. I’ll be away for several days. Safe journey back to France. And I promise that lunch on your next leave.

It wasn’t signed.

Disappointed, I sat there staring at the lines on the page. I had looked forward to spending the afternoon with Simon. Now as soon as my patient was on his way back to Shrewsbury, I would be returning to Mrs. Hennessey to spend my last evening alone. Or not alone—Mrs. Hennessey would be sure to come upstairs and ask me to dine with her, happy to have me there to join her.

With a sigh, I put the letter away and finished my breakfast. It was time now to wake up the good sergeant and have him freshly bandaged, dressed, and ready for his escort back to Shrewsbury. I didn’t envy him the journey in this rain.

I went into my own room, picked up my kit, and walked down the passage to Sergeant Wilkins’s door.

I tapped first, then reached for the knob and turned it, expecting to find my patient resting again after his light breakfast.

“Good morning,” I said cheerfully and crossed the room to the windows to open the curtains and let in the watery morning light. “Although it’s actually quite dreary, I’m sorry to say. Did you enjoy seeing your—”

I broke off as I turned around. In the dim light from the windows, such as it was, I could see the mound in the bed more clearly. Sergeant Wilkins hadn’t stirred.

My first thought was that he’d taken a fall in the night and injured himself. Or had he drunk too much on top of his evening powder? He lay too still for normal sleep, and that meant something was wrong.

“Sergeant Wilkins?” I crossed the room and put out a hand to touch the shoulder of the sleeping man.

And instead of flesh and bone, my fingers touched something—soft.

Without really thinking, I flipped back the covers.

And there in the place of Sergeant Wilkins lay a mass of crumpled bandaging, splints, and extra pillows that had been used to give his wounded leg the support it needed.

I stared at the shocking tangle.

Where was Sergeant Wilkins? And what had happened here?

He’d been asleep when I looked in last night. I was certain of it.

But was I?

The room was dark, the man’s breathing had sounded relaxed, as if he were sleeping quietly. There had been no sign of his friends, nor of any party.

Had they left, against all rules, and gone out drinking? Had he collapsed somewhere and his friends had been too frightened to summon me? Or had they simply taken him to the nearest casualty ward?

I searched the room. There was only the wardrobe and the bed where he could hide. And the sergeant was in neither. Nor was he under the bed. Ridiculous to look, but then his friends could have put him up to tricking the Sister who expected to find him rested and sober this morning. I’d had to deal with the high spirits of healthy soldiers and wounded ones alike for a very long time. Someone might have thought it quite funny to hide him.

What was more worrying now was that the sergeant’s belongings and his kit had disappeared as well. But the invalid chair was still behind the door.

Turning, I spotted the key to the room lying on the desk by the window. I caught it up, put it in the lock as soon as I’d closed the door, and turned it.

No one could come in—or get out.

I took my kit back to my room, then went down on the lift. I crossed to Reception to ask them to let me telephone the London hospitals until I located my missing patient. If he came wandering in, drunk and disorderly, I’d have him taken up by the Military Foot Police. He had been invited to London to appear before the King, not carouse. Wherever he was, I was angry with him now—and more than a little worried.

The man in uniform ahead of me in the queue had just finished his business with the clerk behind the desk. I was about to take my turn when what the clerk was saying to him as he passed him a key stopped me in my tracks.

He’d just been given the spare key to room 212. Sergeant Wilkins’s room.

And in the same instant, I realized that this man was an orderly. My heart sank.

“Are you from Shrewsbury?” I asked.

He turned, his lined face tired from traveling all night on the train.

“Yes, Sister?”

“Have you come down from Shrewsbury to fetch Sergeant Wilkins?” I asked him again.

“Sergeant Wilkins? Yes, Sister. Are you Sister Crawford?” He yawned prodigiously, then said, “Sorry, Sister. It was a troop train, and no one slept all the way to London.”

I could sympathize. But there was no time. I had to think quickly.

“Have you had breakfast?” I asked hastily, before he could turn toward the lift. “If not, I suggest you go through to the dining room and have something. Before you—er—before we disturb the sergeant.”

“Very kind of you, Sister. Kind indeed. I could use a little something. Mostly tea that doesn’t taste as if it were strained through a stocking.”

Despite my worry, I had to smile. The tea on troop trains was usually strong enough to march into battle on its own.

“I’ll be in to join you directly,” I promised and turned back to the clerk. I waited until the orderly was out of hearing to make my request. Then I was escorted into an inner room where the manager must work, for the desk was cluttered with papers and accounts and what appeared to be Official Orders regarding military guests.

The operator was sympathetic when I told her I needed to find my poor brother, who had gone out the night before with friends from the Army and not returned. “He’s not accustomed to drinking so much,” I added for good measure. “And I’m afraid he may have been taken ill.” Commiserating with me, she connected me with each of the long list of hospitals turn by turn, and none of them recognized the name of the sergeant or a description of his wounds.

It was clear there was no patient anywhere within the city of London who was my mislaid “brother.” Then where
was
the man and what had become of him?

He could very well still be out celebrating with his erstwhile friends.

I was beginning to feel something was very wrong.

After putting in a call to the police stations closest to the hotel, I gave up and reluctantly allowed the manager to return to his office. Then I turned and walked through to the dining room for the second time that morning.

The orderly—I discovered that his name was Grimsley—had just finished his breakfast, as hearty as the hotel had been able to provide, and charged it to the sergeant’s room.

I sat down across from him and asked the server if I could have another pot of tea.

Grimsley was saying, “I didn’t intend to take so long, Sister, but they were very busy and I had to wait to be served.”

Judging from his accent, he’d grown up in Lancashire.

“We have a small problem, and I’d hoped I could work it out before telling you about it. But I can’t.”

“I’ll help in any way I can, Sister,” he offered. “Don’t tell me he smuggled strong drink into his room and is drunk as a lord?”

“Would it were that simple,” I said. Taking a deep breath, I added, “When I went into Sergeant Wilkins’s room to help him dress and to change the outer bandages, I found he was gone. There’s nothing in his bed but the bandages he’d removed and his extra pillows. I don’t know where he is.”

“You’ve lost him?” Grimsley asked, staring at me incredulously.

“It appears that I have,” I said as my tea arrived.

Grimsley sat back in his chair. “Miss—Sister. Are you telling me that a man who was just decorated for gallantry under fire has
deserted
?”

To hear it put into words was as shocking to me as it was to the orderly.

But what else could it be but desertion? I didn’t want to believe it.

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t have said—but then he lied to me, didn’t he? He lied about his
friends
.”

He must have done. They weren’t hanging about when I left to dine with Simon, and they weren’t there when I opened the door at nine o’clock to look in.

Had I heard the soft breathing? Or had I simply
expected
to hear it, and thought I had? Suddenly I couldn’t be sure.

I sat there, trying to think. I poured my cup of tea, and then stared into its depths, as if to find the answer floating in the golden liquid.

“Tell me what happened, Sister,” Grimsley was saying.

I began with our return from Buckingham Palace. I didn’t spare myself. I told him that I’d felt rather sorry for the sergeant, no family there to support him. That was no excuse for what came next, allowing him to spend the evening with friends. Or to pretend to. But I’d checked his room
twice
.

The question now was how long had he been gone? How long had he planned for this moment? Because if he’d left behind his bandages and his splints, then he’d been closer to recovering and returning to France than I’d been led to believe.

Had he been standing behind the door when I’d thought it was locked? Was that the soft breathing I’d heard? Or had he left while I was dining with Simon?

And that brought me back to the horrifying possibility that the man had
deserted
while he had the chance, knowing he’d have a night’s head start.

But he wasn’t that well, surely! He must have had some help.

Grimsley was saying, “He’s been slow to heal. I can’t think how he’d taken off his bandages.”

I’d been accustomed to men trying to convince me of a faster recovery than was humanly possible, in order for them to be cleared for a return to France and their men. As well, there had been a handful who had tried to make their recovery seem slower than the general run of wounds, in order to delay their inevitable return. I couldn’t call them cowards, I’d never reported them as malingerers. I knew all too well what it was like in France. And so I’d said nothing, hoping that when the time came, when they could put it off no longer, they would step up and do their duty. And most of them had.