We took our leave, and my mother embraced Sabrina. She resisted at first, and then flung her arms around her.
We were back in the passage when I thought of something. It didn’t really matter now. But still, I felt I should ask, if only to settle a point.
I stepped back into the room. “Sabrina. I’d like to know. What color were your husband’s eyes?”
Her voice was almost inaudible. “Blue. Palest blue, like ice. Except when he smiled for me. Why? What does it matter?”
“I was hoping perhaps your son had inherited them. To keep Will’s memory alive.”
She smiled through her tears. “He has.”
I thanked her and rejoined my mother.
We reached the stairs and went down them. Constance was no longer there in Reception.
My mother said, “See if you can find an envelope or something in the desk over there, Bess, dear. I’d like to leave a little gift for the child.”
I did, searching through the stationery before finding a fresh one. But as I handed it to my mother, something fell on the floor, and I retrieved it to replace it amongst the other papers in an untidy stack.
And then I realized that the envelope on top was postmarked from France, and I opened it, telling myself that it was not snooping. But it was.
It was the letter from William Morton’s commanding officer, telling Morton’s widow how her husband had died-gallantly and without pain at the end, his mind on his wife and child, not his fate. That he had fought well for King and Country and inspired his fellow soldiers with his courage.
A standard letter, meant to make the grieving family feel that their sacrifice was not in vain, that their son or husband or brother had died as a man should, with courage and dignity.
No mention of the reality of dying in a filthy trench or alone somewhere in No Man’s Land, the rotting corpse brought in during the next collection of the dead and wounded. No mention of his fellow soldiers stoically watching as he took his last breaths or the orderlies racing to find and stanch the bleeding, the nursing sister shaking her head, accepting that he had died on the way to the aid station. None of the panic, the screams, the blood, the despair. Only comfort.
I looked at the signature, expecting to see Colonel Prescott’s name there. But a Colonel wouldn’t write a letter for a dying soldier. His Captain would, and this was duly signed by a Captain Forester, who may have been kinder because he knew Morton by sight and could even speak with some familiarity about how he had served.
I set the letter back in its envelope and put it in among the papers, then realized that the other sheets I held in my hands were copies of correspondence to a dozen or more charitable organizations for widows and orphans, begging for assistance. Sitting here at Reception, Sabrina had filled the empty hours writing these, swallowing her pride for her son’s sake. I could understand now how deep her feelings went against her brother for denying her what she felt was hers by right.
Her family had failed her, and it appeared that these organizations, overwhelmed by similar requests, were finding it hard to spread their funds thin enough to help everyone.
Sabrina had come a long way from the happy child racing through the orchard with her sister at her heels, the first week after we’d come home from India. Long curls flying out of their ribbons, no inkling of the future in store.
I put the papers back together as carefully as I could so that Sabrina wouldn’t have the added shame of realizing that we had seen them. Better by far to accept my mother’s gift for the child as it was meant, rather than wonder if it had been given out of pity rather than love.
The light still danced in the current as the river made its way to the sea, but the color had changed to gold as the sun cast long rays across the estuary. Upriver the shadows were already deep where the trees crowded down to the banks and shut off our view of the port. We stood there for a moment, looking down at the fortifications at the river’s mouth. They too were gold flecked, and I thought how lovely this setting was. And how much sorrow it encompassed.
My mother said, as we started back the way we’d come, “Well.”
I sighed. “It wasn’t Will Morton, was it? That letter from Captain Forester looked all too official, and there was the telegram as well.”
“No. It couldn’t have been,” she agreed.
“How awfully sad. Julia never mentioned that Sabrina’s husband had been killed. Nor did Valerie.”
“I expect she hasn’t told them.”
“We shouldn’t have come. We’ve only upset her.”
My mother said, “Yes, but we’re talking about murder, aren’t we? Better us than the police. Or the Army. They wouldn’t have been as kind.”
And that was cold comfort as we walked back to the gray stone church and then found our way in the gathering dusk up the twisting path back to the hotel. A small dog came out to a garden gate, barking ferociously, then jumping up to be greeted, his tail wagging madly. As I petted the furry head, scratching behind his ears, I thought about the child growing up on the river. Would he ever have a dog?
I couldn’t understand how the young officer I’d known in India could have denied his widowed sister some financial help. But then he himself had died only a short time after his brother-in-law. There had been no chance to do anything. Still, he must surely have known about the child and guessed what Sabrina’s circumstances must be. He could have written to Julia to make his wishes known. She would have carried them out, if he had. She would have done anything he’d asked. Even a small allowance would have made a huge difference in Oxfordshire and she could have kept the cottage.
For that matter, Valerie-with her inheritance from her mother as well as her father-who had visited Sabrina and must have seen the straits she was in with a new baby, could have done something to help.
I commented on this to my mother as we walked on.
“I expect everyone felt it was the Morton family who ought to step in, since Sabrina’s family had cut her off. And they did offer Sabrina a home, didn’t they? Perhaps Julia will have a change of heart, once the solicitors have finished and Vincent’s estate is settled. I’ll drop a word in her ear, without mentioning Cornwall. She has no child of her own, and she may be willing to consider the boy’s needs.”
But the boy was a Morton. Not a Carson. Would that make any difference?
As we reached the last few steps of the path up to our hotel, my mother took a deep breath and said, “Who killed Vincent? I’d have answered, Someone in his company who knew Morton and thought he and his family had been badly treated-if it weren’t for the fact that Vincent wasn’t shot and that his body was discovered some distance from the Front. Simple revenge isn’t that personal or clever.”
I had no answer for her.
“I’m very glad you’re home and safe,” she went on, putting an arm around my shoulders and drawing me to her in a brief embrace as we reached the tall white doors of the hotel.
Later I stood by the window of my room, watching the lights of boats plying the river. They couldn’t go beyond the fortifications, for the sea was probably mined, or a submarine might be lurking in the black depths farther out.
As they bobbed about far below on their mysterious errands, fishing or simply longing for another time, I asked myself the questions I’d put off until I’d said good night to my mother.
If it hadn’t been Will Morton who killed Vincent Carson and Private Wilson or had twice tried to kill me, then who was it?
If it wasn’t revenge for his treatment of his sister that had brought about Major Carson’s murder and all that had followed, what was driving this man?
There had to be a reason. But would any of us be able to find it?
CHAPTER TWELVE
WHEN I ARRIVED at the clinic, there were courtesies to observe before I could go and look for Simon Brandon.