Authors: Charles Todd

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Traditional, #Women Sleuths, #Traditional British

An Unmarked Grave (26 page)

I
T WASN’T UNTIL
much later that my father and I could talk quietly. Sergeant Mitchell had been removed from this house, and Iris was already on her hands and knees, scrubbing his blood out of the carpet. She’d taken an instant dislike to him as he was being carried out the door on a makeshift stretcher, with Trelawney, Constable Medford, and Dr. Everett hovering in the background.

“Vicious, that’s what he is. I could see it in his face.”

I wasn’t certain that she could, for his eyes were for a mercy closed again. I’d seen the look of absolute hatred in them when I had stepped into the study to tell Dr. Everett that the ambulance had arrived. He hadn’t got what he wanted, after all, Sergeant Mitchell. And I was quite happy to be the person who had thwarted him.

We were sitting together in my mother’s morning room. The Colonel had personally searched the motorcar the Sergeant had been driving, and he had found the name of the true owner as well as an officer’s kit that Sergeant Mitchell had brought to England with him as part of his disguise.

He opened it now, and I saw that beneath the extra clothing it contained personal items—toothbrush and powder, shaving brush and straight razor, a cake of soap, the small box of thread and needles that most soldiers carried with them, several boiled sweets, and a silver frame with a photograph of the girl left behind in England. A very young Julia Baldwin. Digging deeper, my father found an oiled packet. He pulled it out and opened it. There was a worn Testament on top and, under it, a book bound in Moroccan leather. Even that wasn’t unusual, for many soldiers as well as officers carried a favorite volume with them. Shakespeare, a treasury of English verse, the works of a favorite poet—it varied with each man’s taste. Something to read during the crushing boredom waiting for the next attack or to steady the nerves in the long hours before an assault.

The Colonel Sahib took out the volume, opened it at random, and then seemed to be riveted by what he could see written on the page. Opposite him, I sat and waited.

“It’s a journal,” he said slowly. “And if I’m right about the handwriting, it belonged to Vincent.” He leafed through a few more pages and then passed it to me.

I also chose a page at random, and read, next to the date,
Attack came just before dawn.

There followed every scrap of information he could remember: the length of the attack, the number of Germans in each wave, ground won or lost, which German regiment had been involved, number of casualties on both sides, weather conditions, whether or not gas was used, how many men were sent to the aid station, whether there had been air or artillery support, and, finally, strength in numbers remaining after the attack. It was an impressive accounting, and I could see why my father had believed that Vincent Carson would one day be the Colonel.

Turning a few more pages, I discovered a copy of a letter written to Julia. I didn’t read it. Instead I went to the beginning of the journal to see what name was inscribed on the board. But there was none, only a scribble that seemed to make no sense—unless one had been in India and recognized it.

It was the date when Vincent Carson received his commission, written in Hindi, and below that a copy of the inscription on a sword that hung in the Officers’ Mess wherever the regiment was stationed. No evening ended without a toast repeating it.

I die at the pleasure of my God. I serve at the pleasure of my King.

It was as personal as a signature. Sergeant Mitchell, a farmer’s son from Dorset, had never served in India. But Vincent Carson had. With this journal in the Sergeant’s possession, we could show positively that he had killed the Major.

After a moment, I said, “Julia will be pleased to have it. But what of the other Julia—Julia Palmer? Did her father know she was being courted by Sergeant Mitchell before she met Lieutenant Palmer?”

“I doubt it. It was my doing that young Palmer went to Dorset in the first place. And he was most persuasive. Captain Baldwin agreed to come out of retirement. Sadly, it cost him his life. We were fairly certain Captain Baldwin was murdered in 1916. But we could never discover who his killer was. Until now.”

“That’s why the cause of death was listed as a Zeppelin raid.”

“Yes. We didn’t want it to be generally known.”

“And Simon’s spy? What’s become of him?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask MI6 about that. Which if you did, would see you shot at dawn in the Tower. They’ve been damned quiet on the subject. I expect nothing came of it.”

“Well, at least the Prince of Wales is safe.”

“He’s on his way to the Front now, as a matter of fact. You can see why it was worrying.”

“And Mother? How do we explain the damp spot on the study carpet where Iris has been scrubbing away at a bloodstain?”

“We’d better tell her the truth. She’ll find it out anyway.”

I smiled. “Now, about Portsmouth, and the man I reportedly saw trying to climb aboard
Merlin,
presumably from a small boat in the harbor . . .”

It was some weeks later when I drove back to Cheddar Gorge during a few brief days of leave. Mrs. Wilson was busy in her garden, and I saw her tense as she looked around to see who it was in the motorcar stopping before her gates. She recognized me at once and made me welcome, but I could see new lines in her face, and I thought she had lost weight. It gave me great pleasure to tell her that the man who had killed her husband was almost well enough to stand trial for his murder.

It wouldn’t bring Private Wilson home again. But I had kept my promise to her. And her daughter would no longer have to grow up as the child of a suicide. There would also be a pension, to help with the farming.

She made tea for me while I petted Toby, the cat, cried into the handkerchief I handed her, and, as I left, gave me a round of aged Cheddar to take home to my mother.

I thought about Captain Barclay as I drove back to Somerset. He was in France, finally. I didn’t think his leg would ever heal fully, but it had mended well enough to return to duty. He wrote often, and, in his latest letter, told me a little of what he felt about rejoining his men.

There are so many new faces, Bess. Replacements for the dead and the wounded. But my old Sergeant is still here, and Lieutenant Britton. They’ve survived against all odds, and I’m very happy to be back where I belong. God bless Dr. Gaines, he worked something of a miracle.

But I thought perhaps it was not trying quite so hard that had helped his leg heal.

I’d also had a message from Private Morton. He was alive and well, back with his regiment, and had not forgot his promise to visit Sabrina one day. I hoped he survived the war.

I found Simon waiting for me in Somerset. He was still in London when I returned to France shortly after I’d given my statements to the Dorset police and to Scotland Yard, and finally to the Army. According to my mother’s letters, he was nearly recovered, back in his cottage, and impatient to return to duty.

Greeting me on his doorstep, he said, “It’s been some time.”

He looked well, and I’d seen no twinge of pain as he’d opened the door to me. The shoulder must have healed completely.

“It has indeed,” I said lightly.

“I put the kettle on when I saw you walking down the lane. Tea?”

“Please.”

I came in and sat down by the window overlooking the back garden. It was a pretty place to sit, the sunlight coming through the panes and spilling across my lap.

We were silent for a time, waiting for the kettle to boil and then the teapot to brew.

Simon handed me my cup. “I haven’t thanked you properly for saving my life.”

“It was Dr. Hicks and Dr. Gaines who did that. Their skill.”

“Nevertheless.”

He brought his cup and leaned his shoulder against the mantelpiece as he drank.

“You were right about not going back to France,” I said finally. “But for the wrong reasons.”

“I know.”

“Mother has told me that it was arranged for Lieutenant Palmer to have compassionate leave. My father saw to that, I’m sure. Trelawney wrote to say that Mrs. Palmer is much better.”

“Yes, that’s good news. We thought at first that Mitchell had killed the Lieutenant as well.”

“And Julia has agreed to settle a sum on Sabrina. She and her son will be able to live comfortably wherever they choose. That’s to say, if Sabrina will accept the gift. But I think she will. My mother’s hand there.”

He nodded.

I set my cup aside. We’d come to the real reason I’d wanted to speak to Simon today. He already knew what I was about to say. But I needed to talk about it.

“Sergeant Mitchell will certainly be found guilty on all charges. Still, I’m told he claims that Julia Palmer had so turned his mind with her promises that he went mad and didn’t know what he had done.”

“It had nothing whatsoever to do with madness, Bess. He’s the sort of man who wanted his own way, and when he didn’t get it, he blamed everyone around him. Your father had nothing to do with the decision to ask Mitchell to leave Sandhurst. But he looked up Mitchell’s record, and it was dismal. The man had trouble following orders and taking responsibility for what he did—or failed to do.”

“He killed so many people.”

“They got in his way.”

It was a rather sobering evaluation, but Simon was right. No one set Sergeant Mitchell on the road to murder. Cold comfort, all the same, to his victims. And I’d nearly been one of them.

Simon collected the cups and took them through to the kitchen, setting them in the sink. When he came back, he said with a grimness unusual to him, “If you want my view, he will pay too easily for all he has done.” He’d known Captain Baldwin and Major Carson. He’d seen how close I’d come to dying, and my father as well. This man had not only struck at the regiment, but he had struck at the Crawfords personally. And Simon hadn’t been there. There would be no forgiveness on offer that could ever change his feelings about that.

He held out his hand, changing the subject. “It’s too fair a day to sit here. Let’s walk for a while, shall we?”

A
BOUT THE
A
UTHOR

CHARLES TODD is the author of the Inspector Ian Rutledge mysteries, the Bess Crawford mysteries, and one stand-alone novel. A mother-and-son writing team, they live in Delaware and North Carolina, respectively.

www.charlestodd.com

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A
LSO BY
C
HARLES
T
ODD

The Inspector Ian Rutledge Mysteries

A Test of Wills

Wings of Fire

Search the Dark

Legacy of the Dead

Watchers of Time

A Fearsome Doubt

A Cold Treachery

A Long Shadow

A False Mirror

A Pale Horse

A Matter of Justice

The Red Door

A Lonely Death

The Confession

The Bess Crawford Mysteries

A Duty to the Dead

An Impartial Witness

A Bitter Truth

Other Fiction

The Murder Stone

C
REDITS

Cover design by James Iacobelli

Cover photograph © by Johnér Bildbyrå AB/Elisabet Zeilon

C
OPYRIGHT

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

AN UNMARKED GRAVE.
Copyright © 2012 by Charles Todd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST EDITION

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Todd, Charles

An unmarked grave: a Bess Crawford mystery / by Charles Todd. — First edition.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-06-201572-3

1. Crawford, Bess (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Nurses—Fiction. 3. World War, 1914–1918—Fiction. 4. Influenza Epidemic, 1918–1919—Fiction. 5. English—France—Fiction. 6. Great Britain. Army—Officers—Crimes against—Fiction. 7. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3570.O37U56 2012

813’.54—dc23

2011050979

12 13 14 15 16
OV/RRD
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A
BOUT THE
P
UBLISHER

Australia

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