An Unwilling Accomplice (6 page)

Which meant, surely, that he’d been seen and then got away before he could be caught.

I waited.

After a moment, Inspector Stephens added, “The charges against this man Wilkins now include murder.”

It was a shock. I’d never considered Sergeant Wilkins a candidate for desertion. Much less murder.

“I can see this is unexpected.”

“I—yes, it is. May I ask who he killed?” All I could think of was his accomplice, or even the Sister who had lied about his wounds for him.

“A man by the name of Lessup. Sergeant Henry Lessup. He was at home on extended leave.”

“Had he helped in Sergeant Wilkins’s escape?”

“He was never in London on the dates in question.”

I could think of a number of explanations why one soldier might kill another. But the most likely reason in this case must have to do with that medal Sergeant Wilkins earned. Perhaps there was more to the account of his bravery than we knew.

When I said as much, Inspector Stephens shook his head.

“Lessup wasn’t in France when Wilkins was there. In fact he’s spent most of his war in England.”

Surprised, I said, “Then it was something that happened before the war.”

“Frankly we can’t find any connection between the two men at all. That’s why I’ve come to speak to you. To see if he’d mentioned anyone by that name.”

“But how could the witnesses know that the murderer was Sergeant Wilkins?”

“According to the Inspector in Ironbridge, a man who fits our description of Wilkins was seen in the town two days before, and he asked several people where he could find Lessup. The next morning, Lessup was discovered hanging from the iron bridge. And Wilkins was gone. The description is quite clear, and the man had apparently been wounded, for he had a limp and carried one arm with care.”

“But that could describe many wounded men.”

“I understand. Which is precisely why we’re looking for this man Wilkins. First to hear what he has to say, and then to bring him face-to-face with his accusers in Ironbridge.”

“What does the Army have to say about the sergeant?”

“They are as eager to find him as we are at the Yard.”

“I can’t help you. I spent less than twenty-four hours in the man’s company, and most of that time he was in his room or with me at the Palace.”

Inspector Stephens studied me for a moment and then took out a card. “I’ll leave this with you. If you remember anything, or think of anything that might be useful to us, please contact me at the Yard.”

I couldn’t have said, if my life had depended on it, whether the Inspector believed me or thought I was concealing information from him.

“Thank you, I will most certainly do all I can to help you.” I took the card, and he rose to leave.

“I appreciate that, Sister.” He walked to the door, then turned. “Would you aid this man if he came to you for help?”

“I was kind once. And it has cost me dearly. I would do what I could, if he were hurt, it’s what I’m trained to do. But I would have no hesitation in turning him over to you or the nearest policeman I could find.”

Inspector Stephens smiled. “I very much hope you mean that.”

And he was gone, closing the outer door behind him.

What on earth had Sergeant Wilkins dragged me into?

It was the question foremost in my mind as I sat there, staring at nothing. I wouldn’t have said, if I’d been asked a few days ago, that Sergeant Wilkins was capable of desertion, much less murder. But then I’d accepted him at face value. As had the Palace and the King and even the hotel staff.

But he’d killed all those German soldiers manning the machine gun. Hadn’t he?

That was war. Not a quiet town in the north, not too far from Shrewsbury.

Still, I now had to wonder how this would affect my own circumstances.

Had Inspector Stephens believed I was a party to whatever Sergeant Wilkins had done? Even if I could prove I hadn’t left London, I’d been involved in his escape.

I rather thought he’d given me the benefit of the doubt. And the more I considered that, the more I believed it must have been because of Constable Williams.

The Inspector had accepted the judgment of one of London’s experienced policemen that I was a young woman of good family and here was a stranger asking to see her privately, something that Mrs. Hennessey had felt was not quite proper. Constable Williams had stepped in to assure two women that all was as it should be. Or else he would have escorted the stranger out to the street and seen him off.

It might have been enough, that encounter, to assure Inspector Stephens that I wasn’t harboring a fugitive in our flat, and that I wasn’t the sort of young person who had a reputation with young men.

I heard the outer door open again, and Mrs. Hennessey’s footsteps hurrying across to her door, eager to hear what this visit had been about.

And what was I to tell her?

She came bustling in, smiling. “Wasn’t it fortunate that I met Constable Williams just at the corner? And he told me afterward that we had done the right thing, summoning him. I didn’t care for that man at all. And if he’s someone you know, I’m sorry for it, but I think it was a wise precaution.”

“Yes, indeed, it was very fortunate,” I agreed. “He was from the police, as it happened. The caller. About one of the wounded I’ve treated. He appears to have got himself into some sort of trouble,” I added evasively.

“But why turn to you, Bess?”

“I expect, to see if I could give the man a good character.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Then I won’t ask any more. It’s just as well I went on to the butcher’s while I was out. He’s kept back a bit of ham for us. Do you think Diana will care to join us for dinner? There’s barely enough, I’m afraid.”

As it happened Diana had other plans, and that left me to spend the evening with Mrs. Hennessey. I’d been wondering how to let Simon know what was happening, but I didn’t like writing it down and mailing the letter. Better to explain face-to-face.

And so I tried to be lighthearted and listened to the gossip Mrs. Hennessey had gleaned while visiting the butcher’s shop. The evening seemed endless, but after our second cup of tea, dear Mrs. Hennessey began to nod, and I covered her with a shawl before slipping away to the flat.

Diana came in just then, wanting to tell me all about her evening, and so it was nearly eleven o’clock before I could shut my own door and lie down.

But not to sleep, most certainly. What had Sergeant Wilkins done? Killed a man, Inspector Stephens had said. Murdered him by hanging him from the iron bridge. It was a terrible thing to have done, and I had no idea whether he had gone north to find this man and kill him or if it had happened after an argument. Unpremeditated and perhaps a little more excusable. Not because I sympathized with the sergeant, or wanted to believe that he wasn’t as bad as the police and the witnesses suggested. It was more that he had behaved with such gallantry on the battlefield, and I couldn’t quite balance that with murder.

I tossed and turned, restless and unsettled, then finally got up and made myself a cup of tea from our precious store. Sipping that by candlelight, I decided that as soon as I knew what the Nursing Service intended to do with me, I’d go north and learn more about Sergeant Wilkins.

I didn’t have long to wait.

The second day after Scotland Yard’s visit, a very official-looking envelope was handed to Mrs. Hennessey with the rest of the post.

Excited, she hurried upstairs, calling as soon as she came through the open door—London was suffering from a belated heat spell and the flat was terribly stuffy—“Bess, dear? I believe your new orders have just arrived.”

I flew out of the bedroom and took the envelope she was holding out.

Mrs. Hennessey, eager to hear where I’d be sent next, watched me take out the single sheet inside and unfold it.

Scanning it quickly, I realized that it was a far more generous fate than I had been expecting.

Sister Elizabeth Crawford, it seemed, was to be given two weeks’ official leave as her punishment for neglecting a patient.

I wondered if the decision had been tempered by what the Yard had learned about the sergeant. After all, there was now a small matter of murder, and I couldn’t be held responsible for that. Could I?

With a sigh of relief, I folded the single sheet and shoved it back into the envelope. “I’m to have two weeks’ leave,” I told the waiting Mrs. Hennessey. “I expect I ought to go home.”

Her smile faded. She’d wanted to keep me in London, having enjoyed the time I’d been in the flat, but she also knew that I would like to see my parents. Putting as good a face on it as possible, she said brightly, “How lovely for you.”

But I was already thinking about Shrewsbury. I needed to borrow my own motorcar. And that would mean going home and then having to explain to my parents why I was on leave, when they knew Sisters were still in great demand in France.

On the other hand, I could take the train to Shrewsbury, stop at the hospital, and then find other transportation over to Ironbridge. And finally take another train for the return journey to London. That would put me back at Mrs. Hennessey’s in a matter of days, and I could still travel on to Somerset.

I couldn’t just walk into a hospital and ask for the Sister who looked after Sergeant Wilkins. I couldn’t think of any way around that, and in the end I asked Diana if she knew anyone in Shrewsbury’s Lovering Hall.

Frowning, she said, “I once did. Sister Murray. I think she’s back in France. Who else? There’s an absolutely delicious young doctor there. Dr. Meadowes. All the Sisters were agog over him. I don’t know if he’s still in charge or not. And then there’s Matron, who is an absolute tyrant, I’m told. You can hardly claim friendship with
her
. But what’s in Lovering Hall? Don’t tell me you’ve found someone new? And what does our handsome Simon have to say about that?”

Diana, the flirt. Even happily engaged, she still remembered a handsome face.

“Actually, I’m more interested in a patient there. A former patient, in fact—he left some days ago. But I wasn’t convinced he was ready to return to France.” It was a lame excuse. It was the best I could do.

Surprisingly enough, Diana nodded in understanding. “Yes, a few hospitals have a reputation for that. I didn’t know that Shrewsbury was one. I’ll bear it in mind. But if they are rushing patients out the door and back into the trenches, you need to get to the bottom of it before you register a formal complaint. Ask for Sister Murray. That should get you in the door, and your own ability to talk your way into Matron’s good graces ought to give you a fairly general idea about what’s happening there.”

She was right.

“Thank you, Diana, you’re a sweetheart,” I told her, grateful.

The next morning, I set out on the omnibus for the railway station, a timetable in my hand and only my kit with me.

There was a long wait. A troop train had come through heading to Folkestone, and all the other trains were delayed. I went into the busy station café and had a cup of tea with a small bun. It was stale, but I didn’t mind.

The stationmaster came through, announcing the arrival of my train, and I paid my account, went out, and found an empty seat next to a young officer on his way home.

“New baby,” he said, his face wreathed in smiles. “A boy. I don’t know how the Major wangled leave for me, but I’m terribly grateful.”

He talked about his wife and the child all the way north. I felt I knew the family intimately by the time we arrived—very late—in Shrewsbury.

The Captain—his name was Jackson—insisted that I come home with him.

“At this time of night, you can’t go to an hotel,” he said, taking my arm. “It’s a bit of a walk, out to my house, but you’ll be safe there, and in the morning you can go on about your business.”

“Your wife—”

“Polly won’t mind. She’d read me the riot act if she thought I’d abandoned you. Here, let me have your kit. We’ll make better time.” He was eager to reach his house, and I saw as we made our way up the winding drive that it was a handsome old manor.

There were lamps lit in the parlor and by the door—I could see the glow through the fan light—and he had no more than reached the front steps when the door was flung open and a woman who appeared to be his mother threw herself laughing into his arms and welcomed him home. “We tried to convince Polly to rest, but she insisted she must be awake when you arrived.”

She was touching his face, holding his arm, assuring herself that her boy was indeed here and safe. And then she saw me standing below the steps in the shadows.

“Oh, how thoughtless—Sister?”

“Sister Crawford,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’m afraid your son was insistent that I not find an hotel at this hour.”

“And he’s absolutely right. Do come in. Francis, you know the way. Polly is waiting. I’ll see to Sister Crawford and come up later.”

Captain Jackson all but bounded up the stairs, and Mrs. Jackson smiled fondly. “It was a love match,” she said, watching him. “She’s counted the days. And there’s the child. Such happiness . . .”

“All the way from London, he talked of nothing else but his wife and son.”

“I expect he did. Now, you’ve had no dinner, have you? No, don’t give me a polite answer. You must be starved. Francis will discover he’s hungry too, in a bit. I put a roast chicken, potatoes, and a dish of carrots aside for him, and there’s more than enough for two.” She retrieved my kit from where her son had dropped it in his eagerness to greet his mother and then go up to his wife. “Tell me what brings you to Shrewsbury?”

“I’m going to a hospital on the outskirts of town. I know very little about it, but I’m looking for a Sister Murray. I have a message for her from a friend.”

“Ah, that’s surely Lovering Hall. Extremities? Yes, that’s where you want to go. They do marvelous work with leg wounds.”

“You know the Hall?”

“I knew the Loverings. When their son was killed, they turned the Hall over to the Army and moved to their town house. I’ve gone out there a time or two with Mrs. Lovering. She keeps an eye on her gardens.” She led me down to the kitchen, apologized for not opening the dining room tonight—“We seldom entertain these days. Food is scarce, people have their own sorrows to occupy them.”—and set out a lovely meal.