A Pattern of Lies (20 page)

“Where there is smoke,” Simon replied.

“True. But nearly all of the ­people involved lost someone in that explosion And because of the fire, no one could hope to find survivors. That's the key, Simon, that nothing could be done for the men buried under all that rubble. It's rather like a disaster in a mine. ­People are concerned for those still underground, not for the men who escape in time. They couldn't save anyone, they couldn't get at the truth, they couldn't even bring the bodies out for a funeral. And so it's still
unfinished
. Anyone could prey on that feeling.”

We'd come to the same conclusion, Simon and I, that there was very little to be done. And yet it rankled. I felt as helpless as the Ashtons.

I asked for news of home, and learned that my father had been summoned to London on Army business while my mother had taken on yet another charity.

“And you? Why are you on your way to France? It isn't just dispatches, is it?”

“This time it is,” he said. “No one wants these messages falling in the wrong hands.”

“To do with the end of the war?”

“I wasn't told what was in the messages.”

A counteroffer to help speed the end of the war? I didn't ask, I knew better, but I was glad it wasn't another foray behind the lines or acting as an observer for the American forces.

We settled into a companionable silence. And then I remembered the black aircraft that had been toying with ambulance convoys.

Simon had heard of him. He said, “They've sent over a special team of marksmen to bring him down.”

“Whoever he is, he's a superb pilot. They'll have their work cut out for them.”

Simon saw me to my transport, and then went off to find his own. I'd been glad to see him, a bit of home. I'd given up two leaves to help the Ashtons, and while I had no regrets, I missed my parents and Mrs. Hennessey and my flatmates.

We rattled and bounced across the quagmire that passed for roads, dodging reinforcements and lorries laden with cases of ammunition and other gear. I didn't know what we were carrying—­the canvas flap was across the back. But I discovered later that it was a shipment of wooden coffins moving north toward the Front.

I was posted this time at a field hospital well behind the lines. As darkness came down we could see the muzzle flashes of the big guns in the distance, and hear the steady thunder that followed.

How many months and weeks and days had I traveled these roads? I'd lost count long ago.

The driver, a taciturn Scot, had little to say, but he was a good driver and spared me the worst of the ruts and gullies when he could. All the same, my back felt as if it had been used as a washboard.

I reported to Matron, who gave me ten minutes to wash my face, change my apron, and take my place in the surgical unit, where I'd had previous experience. An orderly showed me to my quarters and waited to point out where the various parts of the hospital were located. The overworked Sisters in the wards welcomed me with relief, for it seemed that there had been no reduction in the number of patients coming in from the forward aid stations. And then I was turned over to the surgical team, where a Dr. Lytton was dealing with a variety of conditions.

We cleaned a shrapnel-­torn leg and a lacerated arm, set two fractures, and dealt with five cases of trench foot, cleaning and binding the toes, before an ambulance delivered a half dozen machine-­gun cases with badly damaged knees. It was dark when I was finally relieved and allowed to stumble back to my cot. I expected to fall asleep at once. Instead I lay there reliving each patient, my eyes wide and staring up at the ceiling.

The next thing I knew someone was shaking me awake. It was the doctor, calling my name and telling me to come with him at once.

I'd been too tired to think about undressing, and so I found my shoes, laced them quickly, and followed him to one of the surgical units.

But there was no patient on the table. Instead, seated in a chair by the door was one of the nurses I'd replaced last evening. Her name, I thought, was Morris, Sister Morris.

She was choking and coughing, her face streaked with tears and her hands shaking so badly she was sloshing hot tea all over her apron. I saw that one hand was badly scratched and bleeding. There was another long scratch on her face.

I looked at Dr. Lytton standing beside her chair, not sure whether she had fallen or had had a severe shock of some kind.

The doctor kept his voice low. “She was attacked in her sleep. Someone covered her face and nearly smothered her. The sentry making his rounds heard something and rushed into her quarters, but he himself was knocked to the ground as someone shoved him to one side and disappeared. He's having his head looked at in another room. Possible concussion, and a gash from hitting the corner of a chest.”

“Is she hurt, other than the attempt to smother her? I see blood on her fingers.”

“She clawed at the person holding her down. Partly his blood, partly hers.”

“But who would do such a thing?” I asked.

“That's what you're to find out. I have a chest wound to deal with.”

And he was gone.

I knelt beside her chair and took the cup of tea from her, holding it to her lips.

But she was unable to drink, and I set it aside. “Did you see who it was? If you did, you must tell me, and we'll begin a search.”

She shook her head, saying huskily, “I don't know. It was dark in the room.”

“Tell me what happened,” I asked gently. “It will help.”

“I was asleep, and suddenly there was something pressed against my face. I couldn't breathe, and I tried to push it away. But it wouldn't move, and that's when I realized someone was holding it down. I kicked out wildly, trying to call for help, and the bed was creaking—­I thought it would break under our combined weight and I'd be hurt. Then someone else was in the room, and the pressure lifted. I heard the sentry cry out as he fell and struck his head. I was already struggling to light the lamp, but I knocked it over instead. By that time the sentry was back on his feet, and he asked if I was all right. I was in tears, I couldn't answer him, and he took me by the arm, pulling me after him. Dr. Lytton was just going into the surgical unit, and he saw us. He sent the sentry away with one of the nurses, and went to find you himself.”

She seemed a little calmer, and I held the cup for her once more. This time she managed a few sips. I bathed the cut on her cheek and the scratches on her hands, cleaning them and putting an antiseptic on them. She winced as I worked on her face, but let me do what needed to be done.

Looking up at me, she said, “You're Sister Crawford, aren't you?”

I'd seen her the previous evening but we hadn't been introduced. A nod as we passed, she on the way to bed, myself on the way to where the ambulances were turning in.

“Yes. Bess Crawford.”

“I arrived three hours before you did, and Matron gave me your room because mine wasn't ready. She said it wouldn't matter, they were alike, and you could take mine when you got in. I couldn't help but wonder—­whoever it was—­could he have been looking for you?”

She was searching my face, waiting for some sort of answer. She didn't want to be the intended victim, and she didn't want this to be a random choice, something she would have to fear happening again.

“I don't know that the change in rooms mattered. I've only just arrived as well. I can't think why anyone should wish to harm either of us.”

Another sentry stuck his head in the doorway. “Whoever he was, he's gone now, Sister. I'll post a guard by your door, shall I?”

Sister Morris said quickly, “Oh yes, please.”

I got her to drink the rest of her tea, then urged her back to bed. She didn't want to go at first, but when she saw the sentry by the door, smiling down at her, she went into her room and I helped her right the lamp and make up the cot again, smoothing the sheets and settling her. It was then I saw the bedraggled cushion, its covering a heavy burlap roughly sewn together. It had fallen to the floor and been kicked to one side.

“Is this yours?” I asked Sister Morris, holding it up.

“No.” She swallowed hard, frightened again. “I never saw it before—­it wasn't in the room when I came in.”

“Not very decorative, is it?” I asked lightly, to distract her. I tossed it toward the half-­open door. “Shall I leave the lamp burning? Would that help?”

“Please. And will you stay with me for a few minutes?” she asked. “I don't want to be alone.”

I found the camp stool and sat down. “You're safe. Try to sleep—­tomorrow will surely be another long day, and you will think more clearly if you are rested.”

But it was nearly three quarters of an hour before she drifted into sleep and I could go. I picked up the cushion, closed her door, and then went to find Dr. Lytton. He was just coming out of surgery, his face grim. “Touch and go,” he said in explanation. “Is Sister Morris resting? I couldn't be sure whether she'd had a nightmare or if something had really happened. Still, the sentry claims there was someone else in the room.”

I could tell he wondered if she had invited someone in and then panicked.

I held up the cushion for him to see. It was large enough that it would have covered her face completely, smothering her even as it smothered her cries. “I think it was real. Not a lover's quarrel.”

“It's not hers?”

“She says it isn't, and I believe her. Nor was it there when she walked into that room for the first time.”

“We've never had any problems with the Sisters before this,” he said. “Someone drunk, I expect.”

I didn't tell him what Sister Morris had said about switching rooms. I wasn't completely convinced about that. After all, I'd just arrived. Who would have known where I was posted, much less which room was mine? It was far more likely to have been a random choice.

I said, “I don't think he'd been drinking, whoever he was. I didn't smell it as I helped Sister Morris back into bed.”

“The sentries are alert now, that's what matters. All right, I have another patient to see. Go back to your bed, Sister. Morning will come soon enough.”

He was right. I thanked him and went to my own room, taking the ugly cushion with me.

Where had it come from? And why should anyone attack Sister Morris? Or me?

Sister Morris avoided me the next morning. She seemed convinced that having taken the room set aside for me had put her in jeopardy. I overheard several ­people asking her about the cut on her face, and she hesitated before answering that she'd bumped into something in the dark.

I arose early enough to go and speak to the sentries who had been on duty during the night. They hadn't seen anyone who could be described as an intruder. They'd searched the area carefully after the alarm had been raised, but whoever it was had vanished.

Nor could the aide in charge of cleaning our quarters recall ever seeing the cushion in either room, mine or Sister Morris's.

I was increasingly certain that whoever attacked her must already be here, assigned to the hospital in some capacity, not an outsider breaking through the perimeter of sentries.

There were the doctors, of course, and the nursing Sisters, orderlies, the burial detail, the ­people who worked shifts in the laundry, the sentries, the ambulance drivers, those who worked in the canteens and prepared the patients' meals, aides who did the housekeeping, the patients themselves, and those in the pharmacies dispensing medicines. A veritable small city of those who kept a hospital running.

I went to the board that listed staff, and found my name there as a replacement for a Sister Nelson, invalided home with appendicitis. And my room was still listed as the one Sister Morris now occupied. So far no one had changed it.

The hospital laundry here employed seven Chinese laborers who for one reason or another were no longer fit for repairing roads and other tasks. Many like them had come to France to fight our war and to make money, and some of them had died of disease, the shelling, the influenza, and the occasional accident. During the time allotted for my lunch, I went to the building where they worked. It was noisy, steamy, hot, and smelled of disinfectant. I watched the men doing this menial but essential work, then stepped through the door. Most of them, I learned, spoke very little English, depending on a single person to translate for them.

They were very unlikely to come in as far as Matron's office, much less read the listing for my posting. I bowed to them as they bowed to me, and left them to their work.

The canteen staff also had almost no access to the board outside Matron's office, but still I looked at the duty roster there for familiar names.

The roster for orderlies was also posted by Matron's door, and I scanned that as I was hurrying on to report to the surgical unit.

More than a hundred men had died in the destruction of the Ashton Powder Mill. I didn't know most of their names. Only Branch and Rollins, Hood and Brothers, possibly Groves and even Worley. And of course those Mark or Mrs. Ashton had mentioned. I could have passed over dozens of other names. It was a hopeless task.

That evening I pulled out the cushion from the corner where I'd tossed it, and took a better look at it. It could have come from anywhere. And yet I thought it must be something that someone had sat on for a very long time.

A lorry driver, to ease his back over the impossible roads? An ambulance driver, for the same reasons?

Or had someone made a rough pillow of it?

I took my nail scissors and unpicked the stitching that had sewn the burlap into a cover for the cushion. Roughly done, but sturdy enough to last. Underneath was a canvas covering, worn threadbare. I unpicked the stitching on that as well. And now I was at the original cover of the cushion. It was wool, a dark gray, possibly, or even a faded black, it was hard to tell. I turned it over.