A Question of Honor (9 page)

I shut my eyes for a moment, trying to remember exactly what I’d seen. Yes, it was Wade, except that he had a long-healed scar across his jawline. Not where it distorted the features but where he must have once been shot in the face.

It hadn’t been there when he served under my father. And in the dark and rain the first time I’d seen him, I hadn’t noticed it.

The orderly with me said, “Are you all right, Sister?”

I opened my eyes and nodded. “Yes, just a little tired, that’s all.”

“No surprise there, Sister.”

In the end we got Lieutenant Graham out. On a stretcher, he was carried up the set of stairs and then somehow up the ladder at the side of the trench.

It was nearly impossible, jarring that piece of wood jutting like an arrow out of his arm and shoulder, but somehow we managed. By that time the morphine I’d given him against his will had taken effect. Crossing No Man’s Land, our little party moving at a jog, despite the cost to Lieutenant Graham, but in a hurry because he’d already lost so much blood, I made a point of not looking directly at any of the stretcher bearers until we were nearly to the flattened barbed wire on our side.

Then as they jockeyed for position lowering the Lieutenant down into the trench and turned the stretcher so they could move along it, I cast a quick glance at their faces.

There were two of them, one at each end of the stretcher. And neither one was Lieutenant Wade.

There had been half a dozen men on the far side of where the roof collapsed. They had helped us get Lieutenant Graham out of the German trenches. It would have been easy enough for one of them to stay behind as we started across No Man’s Land.

I looked over my shoulder a last time before descending in the trench before me. Other men were coming back from the German lines, sliding into the British trenches as fast as they could, and beyond them I saw that the German artillery was opening up.

We’d got Lieutenant Graham out of there in the nick of time.

It took another half hour, the sun trying to set in a heavy bank of dark clouds, to reach the aid station.

The doctor saw us coming, and straightened, a needle and sutures still in his fingers.

“What the hell—”

I could almost read his lips. It must have been a strange little parade, the stretcher bearers, nearing exhaustion, stumbling along with a man lying on the canvas between them, and a slender arrow of wood sticking up out of his shoulder.

Men ran to relieve us, and a ragged cheer went up as others recognized Lieutenant Graham. I cast off my coat and helmet as soon as I could, shaking my head and dusting my skirts in a vain effort to rid myself of lice, if there were any, and then went ahead to meet the doctor coming toward us.

“He wouldn’t come without his arm, sir,” I said brightly. “And so we brought it with us.”

Dr. Reid went to work at once, and with the help of two orderlies he was able to remove the shard of wood from the wound. It must have left behind God knew what in the way of splinters and filth, but I found myself thinking as I looked at the gash, if Lieutenant Graham didn’t die of infection, he stood a very good chance of keeping that arm. Stiff and painful it might be for the rest of his life, but it would be there.

As the stretcher bearers turned to go, I said, offering each of them a drink of water, “Thank you for your help. And the other men with you over there on the other side—who were they?”

“Sappers,” one of the stretcher bearers told me wearily. “Looking for traps. They never said their names.”

I shivered. I hadn’t thought about the possibility of mines or explosive traps in that multilevel trench. But it was most certainly possible. The threat of gas was bad enough, moving across the ground, seeking the lowest point, filtering down into the trenches and hanging there on its way to the open bunkers no one had had the time to close off.

I fell into bed that night, too tired even to write to Simon.

Three days later, a runner brought messages, and among them was one from my father, included in the military pouch.

“I thought you might like to know,” the Colonel Sahib wrote, “that you were mentioned in dispatches. Your mother and I are very proud of you.”

The only problem was, Lieutenant Wade, or whatever he called himself now, had probably learned my name as well. If he had recognized me as easily as I recognized him.

I hadn’t written to Simon, and there was no message from him in the pouch. This very likely meant he was away.

It didn’t matter. There was nothing he could do but hope to find a name in the list of sappers that might be the one Wade was using. But he might not have been one of the sappers. He might have simply been a witness to the floor coming down on the Lieutenant and stayed on to help in any way he could. A nameless Samaritan.

Chapter Eight

B
efore telling anyone about what I’d seen—or believed I’d seen—there in the German trenches, I gave the matter serious thought.

It would be fairly easy for my father to discover which companies had been in that sector on that day. From there it would be a matter of sifting through names and looking into backgrounds. And then sending someone who knew Lieutenant Wade to spot the man. More than likely that would be Simon.

And it would be finished.

Why then was I so hesitant to act?

Except for the dead Subedar, I was the only other person who had seen—or thought she’d seen—Lieutenant Wade. Still, my father would take my word for that, and open a door into the past.

Such a search was bound to stir up all the old gossip, all the acrimony. How had Lieutenant Wade managed to reach England? That in itself would be news. Many would believe that such a trek across Afghanistan and Persia was impossible, and there would be speculation about the role my father played in getting Lieutenant Wade out of India some other way.

Of course if we did find the man, the truth would come out at his trial, proving that he’d managed to escape on his own. Even so, there would always be doubters.

But if I were wrong, if the man wasn’t Lieutenant Wade, just someone who resembled him, then we would be dragged through the past again for nothing.

I owed it to my father to be certain. . . .

I was still facing that dilemma when I heard from Sister Fullerton, whose family lived in Haslemere.

I asked my father about the murders you spoke of. Here is his reply. I’m sorry there isn’t much information to pass on. But if I were your friend, I’d choose some other place to live.

And she had enclosed a page from her father’s letter to her.

These murders happened before you were old enough to be told about such things. I don’t care to speak of them now. But I would not advise your friend’s friend to purchase The Willows. It was not a happy house to begin with, and the deaths only support that fact. I know this to be true, as the doctor at the time was a colleague of mine, we’d studied together, and he had told me that for many years he’d had his suspicions that all was not well there. But he could prove nothing. The mortality rate among the young is appallingly high, as you know from your own training. And speculation is harmful where there is no evidence to support it. I shall say no more in this matter.

I read the page a second time. There was nothing about Lieutenant Wade here, or whether the murderer was local, as some people would have it. Only the belief that the house was not a happy one and never had been. What had Dr. Fullerton meant by that? I didn’t know enough about The Willows even to guess.

I’d hoped for something specific to be going on with. Something that might explain the murders. Something to explain how Lieutenant Wade had known these three people and why he had come back from India to kill them.

I asked for leave, and to my surprise I was given it. But first there was a convoy to accompany. We lost three patients in the crossing and two more on the train to London. We had hoped to get them safely back to England, but infection set in before we left France, and nothing could stop its spread. I worked for hours over these men, along with several other Sisters, and when we reached London, I felt drained, and full of sadness.

I went to Mrs. Hennessey’s house and spent a restless night, wondering if I could have done more for any of those five men. But I knew even as I questioned everything we tried that it had been hopeless from the start.

I had sent word to my parents that I was coming home, but it was Simon who came to collect me.

On the way to Somerset, I told him what I’d seen in the German trench and what I’d learned from Sister Fullerton’s father.

“Say nothing to the Colonel,” he warned me. “I’ll do what I can to make quiet inquiries.” He paused, his attention on the traffic as we drove out of London. When the way was less crowded, he said, “I must go to Portsmouth tomorrow. You won’t be satisfied until you get to the bottom of this. And that worries me.”

I took this as criticism. “Do you think I should let it go? We could be wrong, you know, about this man in France. I’d be the first to agree there.”

He was silent again, and we went through half a dozen villages before he glanced in my direction.

“There’s something more. I looked at the background of that Subedar. He was part of a support company, not in the Front lines. He shouldn’t have been where he was when he died. All there is to go on is that he came from Agra. I’ve written to someone I know in the city, to see what can be learned at that end.”

“Perhaps he was following Lieutenant Wade. And he was spotted.”

“It’s possible. Which brings me back to Portsmouth. If you go with me, I’ll leave you in Petersfield for a few hours. I shouldn’t be long. You might be able to learn something about the Caswell family without getting yourself into any trouble in broad daylight. I’d feel better knowing you weren’t on your own.”

“I can try. I shan’t wear my uniform.”

And so it was that after spending the evening with my parents, I left the next morning for Portsmouth with Simon.

My mother, ever sensitive to my moods, asked, “Is anything amiss, Bess, dear? You seemed to be a little distracted during dinner.”

The talk had turned to India, as it sometimes did, and I’d been tempted to ask my father about Lieutenant Wade. But Simon had warned me off, and I could see for myself that my father was tired. I didn’t want to add to his burdens. That meant I couldn’t confide in my mother either. I couldn’t ask her to keep such news from the Colonel Sahib.

Simon was waiting for me when I came down the next morning. I was wearing a very becoming summer walking dress, which had been hanging in my closet for nearly four years. Iris had kept it fresh and nicely pressed.

As I got into his motorcar, Simon nodded approvingly. “I don’t often see you in anything but your uniform. I remember the last time you wore that dress—it was to have lunch in London with Edward Lessing and Tommy Broadhurst. ”

Edward had died at Ypres, and Tommy on the Somme.

“Yes, and you drove me up to London. It seems like a hundred years ago, doesn’t it?”

We made good time to Petersfield, and I saw that it was market day again.

“Will you be all right?” Simon asked, having second thoughts.

“Of course I will. Don’t worry.”

I got out of the motorcar and watched it drive away toward the Portsmouth Road. Then I strolled into the square, looking at the display of meat and cheeses and breads.

There weren’t nearly as many foodstuffs as there had been before the war. Our own village market had suffered a similar depletion. A few chickens, some sausages, and only local cheeses, nothing from as far away as Cheddar or the north of England. Eggs in plenty, for everyone had hens, and they must be laying again. No butter, some honey, and only simple farm loaves on the bread shelves. But there was a profusion of cut flowers from local gardens, and a charity stall with bits and pieces on sale to help war widows and orphans.

I paused by that stall to see if there was anything I could buy to help the cause. There were souvenir cups and dishes from Lyme Regis and Portsmouth, one of them bearing the likeness of Lord Nelson’s ship
Victory,
lengths of lace and ribbon for refurbishing children’s dresses, and a few old books. I saw a lovely little porcelain shepherdess, which I bought for Mrs. Hennessey, and as I was paying for it, I asked if the woman behind the till knew anything about it.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” she said. “It was in a box of things from The Willows. They were clearing out the attics, and they donated it to us along with a rocking horse that’s been sold, and a child’s chair, pretty little thing, trimmed in white and gold. It’s behind the table here. You could always paint over that ugly elephant.”

I leaned forward to have a look, saw the chair, and realized that it had come from India. The “ugly elephant” was the elephant-headed Hindu god, Ganesh.

What was the connection between India and The Willows?

I asked the woman, and she looked away toward the church. “I have no idea,” she answered, and I had the strongest feeling that she was lying.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said lightly. “Are there any other treasures like this shepherdess?”

“That leather-bound Testament,” she said, “and this mirror.” She took out a very pretty child’s mirror, and held it up. I realized that the back of the mirror was actually silver, black with tarnish. “There’s a bracelet here too somewhere—” She poked about until she found it, and then added a box that held a child’s tea set, cups and saucers and plates, and small teaspoons to go with it. “I’ve had to price that a little higher than the rest, because it’s complete.”

“I’ll take them all,” I said, smiling. “For—for my goddaughter.” It was obvious to her that I wasn’t married, and it was the best excuse I could offer.

“How old is she?” the woman asked.

Oh, dear. I had to come up with a suitable age. “Er—six her next birthday.”

“Then she’ll enjoy all of these.”

As she packaged them in scraps of newspaper and old toweling, I asked, “You said they were from The Willows. Is that a house here in the town?”

“On the outskirts, really. The owner has put it on the market, which is why they’ve been looking through the attics.”

“You said the rocking horse had sold. Anything else?”

“Most people are—superstitious,” she said reluctantly. “They don’t want anything that comes from a house with a history of trouble. It was a man who bought the horse. I don’t think he cared either way. But women are a little more wary.”

“Don’t tell me the house is haunted?” I asked, trying to appear enthralled with the idea of ghosts.

“No such thing,” she answered with asperity. “At least I’ve never heard of any such thing.”

She finished wrapping my purchases, and I retired to the nearest inn, ordered a cup of tea, and took a better look at my finds.

The bracelet was round, the size of a small child’s wrist, and engraved with flowers in a pattern of entwined rosebuds. It was very likely gold, I thought, and had been an expensive gift. But the woman behind the counter had been happy to be rid of it at any price. I didn’t think she relished the idea of taking the contents of a box from The Willows home with her when the market closed.

The tea set was small, doll size, white with hawthorn blossoms, white on white, set among green leaves, a small bouquet tied with pale yellow ribbons.

The mirror was silver backed, and there had once been a comb to match, I thought, and possibly a brush.

Were these the treasures of Gwendolyn Caswell? Mr. Gates, the chaplain, and his housekeeper might not have recognized them as such. But there was no date here to help me identify when these might have come into the family’s possession—they could have belonged to Gwendolyn’s mother, for that matter.

I set these aside and opened the Testament.

There was an inscription on the presentation page, and the name there leapt out at me.

Presented to Thomas Edward George Wade

on the Occasion of His First Communion.

Beneath it was the date and the name of the church.

St. Peter’s Church

in the Parish of Petersfield, Hampshire

What was Lieutenant Wade doing in Petersfield as a boy? His family lived in Agra, and I’d believed that he had grown up there. Something he’d said on one of our rides had led me to think that he had, for he talked about seeing the Taj Mahal from an upstairs window of his house, and how it changed color with every variation in light. A cool distant blue in moonlight, opal in the first warm light of dawn, pink and gold at sunset, and the purest of whites at noon.

And yet here in my hands was the proof that he hadn’t been in Agra when he was twelve. Because of the date, it couldn’t have been his father—or even an uncle.

A cousin?

I thumbed through the tissue-thin pages, looking for anything else that might tell me more about who had owned this Testament.

There was nothing. Not until I came to Romans 12:19. And here a line had been marked through with a pen so viciously that two of the following pages had been scored through as well.

I couldn’t remember what this verse said, although the passage sounded familiar. Paul’s letter to the Romans . . .

Where could I find a Bible?

The church. The lectern.

I finished my tea, packed away my treasures in the box that I’d been given for them, and paid my account.

Carrying the box with me, for at this stage I dared not let it out of my sight, I walked through the marketplace and into the churchyard.

I had to set the box down to open the heavy door.

There was no one else in the church, and I left the box in the corner of the last pew before walking down the center aisle, listening to my footsteps echoing against the high stone walls and praying that the sexton didn’t find me here before I’d done what I came to do.

The Bible on the lectern was quite large, and a brocade bookmark embroidered with blue and gold thread lay in last Sunday’s lesson. I turned the richly colored pages with great care until I found Romans, and finally located the verse that I was searching for.

I read it with shock.

What the owner of the Testament had marked out with such force was a very familiar quotation indeed.

Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.

As I stared down at the words, I felt cold.

If it was young Thomas Wade who had marked through this passage with such fierce anger, signifying his vehement disagreement with leaving vengeance to God, then it could explain the murders of three people in 1908.

But what was he so angry about? And why had he nursed that anger until he was a grown man, until he could come here to this town and finally do something about whatever was driving him?

Here was proof of murderous intent, even at this young age.