An Unwilling Accomplice (22 page)

I wondered then if Maddie had found Harry Cartwright in the ruined barn, trying to survive on a handful of fruit. If so, where was he now? Not in Maddie’s cottage, for I’d been inside. Had he taken the Captain to the Nevilles? Not knowing his rank, had Maddie decided he was an officer and christened him a Major? And had Barbara Neville decided he’d be easier to manage than a fiancé who cared more for her dowry than for her? Mrs. Neville had told us the Major wasn’t interested in her fortune. Perhaps he wasn’t aware she was a heiress.

We would have to speak to someone in Dorset. They would know whether Captain Cartwright and the Major were one and the same.

Miss Cartwright was saying, “I wrote to the hospital. To Sister Hammond. Asking her if she could think where Harry might have gone. Sadly she didn’t answer. I’d thought she liked him, that she would try to help me.”

“She’s been reassigned to a hospital in Shrewsbury,” I said. “It’s likely that she never got your letter. She told us that you’d taken Captain Cartwright, and she hoped he was happy, even possibly getting a little better.”

“I should have refused to accept him. But I’m fond of Harry, I always have been. How could I turn him away, my own flesh and blood?”

Through the window just beyond where I was sitting, I could see the rolling, empty land, where the estate workers’ cottages huddled together like a hamlet, and the nearest neighbor must be sheep. I could see them in the distance, heads down, grazing quietly.

“Do you have a photograph of your cousin?” I asked.

She looked vaguely around. “Somewhere. No, it must still be in the boxes I haven’t unpacked. I never seemed to have the time, you see.”

“Could you describe him?” Simon asked.

“Describe? Oh—yes. Fair, blue eyes. I take after my mother’s side of the family. He’s like his father’s, straight, attractive features. Nice ears. Not as tall as the Sergeant-Major, but of good height.”

“How would anyone know they’d found Cousin Harry?” I asked. “Is there anything that would distinguish him from other fair men?”

“His wounds, of course,” she said, as if I were daft. “You can hardly see the scar on his head, the way his hair has grown out. You wouldn’t know until you spoke to him that the damage was inside. But he was wounded in the leg as well. Machine gun, they told me. It won’t ever be strong again. And as he went down, he took that bullet to the head. Of course there’s a rather terrible scar on his left shoulder.” She raised her hand, touching her own. “He got that on the Somme. The scar is raised, ugly, the skin twisted and pulled. I don’t think it will ever fade.”

Again, how many men would that description fit?

We left soon after that. There was nothing we could do or say to make the loss any easier for Miss Cartwright. I couldn’t send her to Windward to see if the man there was her missing cousin. It would be unkind to her and unfair to the Neville family.

She stood at the door and watched us drive away, and I felt I’d failed her somehow. By coming I’d reopened wounds that were perhaps beginning to heal, and I’d given her no fresh hope.

We drove through the ornate gates of the estate and back to the road to Bakewell.

“What now?” Simon asked, wanting to know which direction to take as much as I myself did.

“I don’t know. I’ve run out of choices.”

“There’s one we might try. Feel like bearding the lioness in her den? If you can call that Tudor manor house a den.”

But what excuse could we possibly give?

“Perhaps we should have taken Miss Cartwright with us, to identify her cousin. Or not, as the case might be.”

Simon pulled to the side of the road. “Do you think she would come?”

“Yes. But it could end badly for her. If this man is the sergeant and not her cousin. For that matter, if he’s anyone’s cousin but hers.”

“Let her make that decision.”

We turned back, passing through the gates of Chatsworth House once more and making our way to the Cartwright cottage.

Miss Cartwright was astonished to see us again. “Did you leave something behind?” she asked, frowning. “I didn’t notice . . .” Her voice trailed away. “It’s not gloves or a handkerchief, is it?” She lifted her hand, inviting us inside.

Simon smiled. “There’s a matter we had to consider before broaching the subject to you.”

I kept the story straightforward. That we’d been searching for someone from London who had gone missing, and failing to find him, we’d stumbled on this unknown man in Upper Dysoe. “For all we know, he could still be the man we’re after—we’ve never seen him close to. He could be your cousin. Or someone else entirely. There’s no way of telling. You’ve seen the letter. That’s where it came from. There’s the matter of rank as well. This man is a Major. At least we’ve been led to believe he is.”

She’d leaned forward, afraid to miss a word. As I finished, she said, “If you think there’s any possibility, of course I’ll come with you. It’s the first news I’ve had in such a very long time.”

“But it isn’t news,” I gently admonished. “Please, you must be prepared for disappointment. As I have had to be, in my own search.”

That gave her pause. “If I go with you—and it isn’t Harry, if it’s someone else—then I wouldn’t be here if he found his way back. How would he manage, if I were gone for several days? Warwickshire is so far away. He might give up and leave.” She began to shake her head. “The handwriting isn’t Harry’s. I would swear to that. If you believe this Major could have written it, then perhaps he did.”

I couldn’t press her, it was too slim a hope, and she had pinned all hers on Harry coming back to her here and finding her waiting.

We left a second time, and I felt thoroughly depressed. Guilty for dragging her into this muddle we were trying to resolve.

We spent the night in the town next but one to Biddington in cramped rooms above the pub. It was market day, and the little town was crowded.

The next morning, we drove through Upper Dysoe toward the burned-out ruin of the barn. I peered up into the overgrown thicket to look for the tethered goat, but there was no sign of it today.

Over breakfast Simon and I had decided that there would be nothing lost if we simply knocked at Windward’s door and asked to speak to the Major. We could be refused, but I hardly expected them to set the dogs on us. Still, I could feel butterflies in my stomach as we drew nearer.

Just ahead were the gates to the house. As Simon turned in, the full glory of the facade greeted us, the morning sun bringing out the rich color of the brick.

Simon went down the drive and pulled up in front of the door.

We both glanced toward the bench under the tree. There was no one sitting there now.

He said, “Still game?” as I hesitated.

With a sigh, I waited until Simon held open my door for me, then alighted.

I pulled the chain for the bell and heard it echo dimly somewhere inside, then stood there, wondering what to say. And then the door swung wide.

“Maddie, he’s taken a turn—” Mrs. Neville stopped short. “I’m sorry, we were expecting someone else. Ah. That infernal goat. You were the Sister who was here before, when we brought it home. Well, you’ll have to do. Come with me.”

“Sergeant-Major Brandon—” I began, gesturing to Simon just behind me.

“He can wait in the morning room. Come along. There’s no time to dally.” She nodded to a hovering maid, and Simon was taken off in a different direction.

I followed her through a wonderfully maintained Great Hall that soared over my head to the tall oriel window above. The stained-glass medallions were repeated on the floor at my feet where the sun had caught them. A staircase, ornately carved dark wood, possibly oak, loomed out of the shadows, and Mrs. Neville was already climbing it. I followed.

We went down a passage on the first floor, came to a room toward the end, and as I caught up with her, she thrust open the door.

A man lay in a large bed that was canopied and curtained, something, I thought to myself, Henry VIII might have slept in, when he was old and too heavy for an ordinary one.

He wore a white, old-fashioned nightshirt, which emphasized his paleness. Fair hair, overly long as if no one had cut it recently, spread out across the pillows under his head, and the fair mustache was in need of trimming. His eyes were shut, but I would have wagered that they were blue.

“How long has he been this ill?” I asked, moving a lamp closer to the bed so that I could see his face more clearly.

“For some days. My stepdaughter isn’t here, she’s gone away to Warwick. And I know nothing about treating the wounded.”

Was it Sergeant Wilkins? I was nearly convinced that it was not, and then as the man feverishly turned his face this way and that, as if the lamplight troubled him, I found myself uncertain again.

If I could hear him speak,
I thought . . .

But he was too feverish to answer when I spoke to him.

“What’s his name?” I asked as I put my hand on his forehead. There was a basin of cool water by the bed, and I reached for the cloth beside it, dipping it into the basin and then wringing it nearly dry before placing it on the man’s forehead.

“Major Findley,” she said impatiently, as if that was of no importance. “It’s the knee. It looks rather nasty. That’s why I sent for Maddie. I didn’t like to summon the doctor all the way from Warwick, if it would heal on its own. But this morning, it was so discolored, I was frightened for him.”

At the word
discolored,
I had visions of gangrene setting in. I lifted the bedclothes and held the lamp closer to the leg. It was swollen, a dark red, and very angry-looking. There had been an old wound here, barely healed, and somehow it had reopened. Whether he’d fallen, caught it on something out in the wooded park, or even been kicked by that troublesome goat, I couldn’t tell. But it looked to me as if initially, he’d been hit by machine-gun fire. I’d seen more knee wounds than I cared to remember.

“I’ll need hot water, clean bandages, and anything that can be used as an antiseptic,” I told Mrs. Neville, thinking of Maddie’s well-stocked little cottage. “And would you ask Sergeant-Major Brandon to come up, please? I shall need his help.”

She was about to refuse, then she thought better of it as the Major moved restlessly, groaning as the leg hurt from my examination, careful as I was.

I stood there by the bedside when she had gone, and I called the patient by the name of Sergeant Wilkins, then by Captain Cartwright. He never responded as far as I could tell.
But it could be the fever,
I thought, keeping him muddled and only partly conscious.

I was just about to put a hand on his left shoulder, to see if I could feel a ragged scar through the thin nightshirt, when the door opened and Simon stepped into the room, coming quickly across to the bed as soon as he was sure we were alone.

“Who is he?” he asked in a low voice, pitched for my ears, not for anyone listening at the door.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Sergeant Wilkins? Captain Cartwright. I need to see his shoulder. At least we might be able to eliminate the Captain.”

“We might need Sister Hammond to be absolutely sure.”

I’d hardly mentioned the name when something reached the Major in that dim, clouded world of fever. He opened his eyes and reached out to catch my hand, grasping it with all his strength.

His eyes, bright with pain and fever, were very blue. Nearly the same color as I remembered Sergeant Wilkins’s being.

“Sister?” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “Please. Take me back to hospital. Please, I can’t—I can’t bear it any longer.”

“Who are you?” I asked, bending over him. “Tell me your name.”

“Sister?” he repeated. “I beg you.”

Just then Maddie came into the room carrying a flat brown leather satchel or haversack. It had a long leather strap so that it could be carried over the shoulder or worn across the body, leaving his hands free. If he was surprised to see us, he didn’t show it. Brushing me aside, he bent over the ill man.

“What have you done to that leg?” he demanded gruffly. “I’ve told you to stay off it, to protect it and keep it clean.”

But the man in the bed called out to me again. “Sister? Please?”

Maddie said to me, “The bonnet of the motorcar is still warm. You haven’t been here long, have you?”

“I’ve inspected the wound,” I reported, as if Maddie were a doctor asking me to give him information about a patient. “And I’ve asked Mrs. Neville for hot water, clean bandages, and something to use as an antiseptic.”

“That wound must be lanced,” he said. “If it isn’t drained, it will become gangrenous before morning.”

“I haven’t the tools,” I began, but Maddie pointed to his satchel. Reaching into it, he pulled out a clean apron and handed it to me before putting on his own.

I removed my own apron, crossed the room, and set it across the back of a chair.

Maddie was rolling up his sleeves as Mrs. Neville and two maids came in. The housemaids were carrying what I’d asked for, their glances moving to the man on the bed almost warily, as if half afraid of him. Mrs. Neville, empty-handed, saw Maddie and said quickly, “Ah! They didn’t tell me you’d come. Is there anything else you require?”

Maddie shook his head. “But ask one of the housemaids to stand outside the door, if you please. In the event I need something more.”

She nodded and disappeared, taking the maids with her.

Pouring some of the hot water into an empty bowl, Maddie washed his hands thoroughly and dried them on one of the extra cloths. He nodded to me, and I did the same.

With Simon, silent and watchful, standing by, we set to work, putting a clean cloth beneath the knee, then washing it well with hot water and a strong soap.

The Major had closed his eyes, and I hoped he was not awake.

Maddie took his scalpel and quickly cut into the wound, letting it drain. The bloody fluid, laced with infection, was caught in the bowl we’d used to wash our hands, and removed as soon as the wound stopped weeping. I could smell the infection, but the odor of gangrene wasn’t present. Maddie handed the bowl to Simon and then set about cleaning the wound a second time with soap and then sprinkling it with antiseptic powder. It had taken us nearly three quarters of an hour, but the wound was now as clean as we could make it.