And on the third morning, when I hurriedly downed my breakfast and ran up the back steps to spend a moment with him, I found him awake.
Dark eyes under dark brows stared back at me, but I didn’t think he knew me because he hadn’t fully returned to awareness. I reached down and touch his face again. This time the skin was oily with the sweat of breaking fever, but cool. Blessedly cool. I was on the point of going to find Sister Randolph and asking her to bathe him-in fact, I had turned away to do just that-when his hand locked on my wrist and spun me around.
“Bess?” His voice was hoarse from fever and the constant barrage of words that had come bubbling up from the depths of illness. “Is that you, Bess?”
I looked down. He was staring at me, frowning, as if he couldn’t quite believe the evidence of his eyes. Then he blinked and said, “Am I still in France?”
“No-I mean, it’s been a while. You’ve been very ill. Your shoulder-you nearly lost your arm.”
Frowning, he said, “Did I tell-did anyone tell the Colonel what happened there in France?”
“That you were wounded?” I sat on the edge of his cot. “Yes, of course. You even left the hospital, but then the fever overtook you and the Colonel Sahib brought you here.”
“Dear God-”
He released my wrist and wiped a hand across his eyes. “Bess. Get word to your father. I’ve got to see him.”
“Simon, it can wait.”
His mouth was tight as he said, “Don’t argue.” His eyes closed and he grimaced. “Do it.”
I’d been trained all my life to respond to that tone of voice. One obeyed instantly, doing as one was told, without question. In India, safe as we’d believed we were, danger was everywhere, and the memory of the bloody 1857 Mutiny, when the Indian Army turned on its English officers and their families, and massacred all they could lay hands on-soldiers, women, children-was always present. Hesitation or delay could mean the difference between living and dying.
Only this time I was ordered to reach my father at once-and only then could I see to it that Dr. Gaines was alerted about the change in his patient’s condition.
I did as I was told, urgently begging use of the clinic’s telephone, putting through a call to my mother and seeing to it that word was passed to my father. Then I went in search of the doctor. I found him watching Captain Barclay walk up and down the passage.
Captain Barclay smiled as he made his turn at the end of the passage and started back toward us.
“Look for yourselves. That knee is as good as ever it was.” He saw me and his smile broadened. “Sister Crawford? What do you think?”
But Dr. Gaines was still watching the way he moved. “You’ve most certainly improved,” he began.
“Then send me back to France. For God’s sake, I’m needed there.”
It was a familiar cry. But Dr. Gaines paid no heed. He was still staring at the knee. Aware of my presence, he said, “Sister?”
“The patient in the surgical ward is awake, sir. Brandon.”
“Ah, yes. Tell Sister Randolph I’ll be right there. All right, Captain, I’d like you to take the butcher’s paper out from around that limb and then walk up and down again.”
I turned away, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Captain Barclay’s fair skin flame with embarrassment. It was an old trick, the butcher’s stiff paper giving a little stability to a weak knee for a short distance. Only, if you listened closely, you could hear the layers rustle.
I went back to the library, where Sister Randolph was bathing Simon’s face and making him more comfortable before an orderly arrived to shave him again.
“I’ve spoken to my mother,” I said quickly in Hindi, and he nodded. I hurried back to my own duties.
I didn’t know where my father was or how soon he could be reached. I had done as I was asked, and a little later I saw Dr. Gaines coming from the library ward, his face thoughtful.
As it happened my father arrived much sooner than he could possibly have in answer to my summons. I thought perhaps Dr. Gaines had sent for him as well. There were no doubt standing orders in regard to the patient Brandon that I knew nothing about.
It was not an hour before the evening meal when the Colonel Sahib came striding into the clinic, tall, handsome, that air of command swirling in his wake.
I saw orderlies salute him and nurses smile at him. I was at the top of the stairs and heard him ask for Matron.
Five minutes later I was summoned to her office.
To my surprise, she wasn’t there, but I thought perhaps my father was trying to downplay any military reason for his presence in a clinic. I said, “You’ve come to see Simon. I’ll take you to him. He’s been impossible to deal with, waiting for you to come.”
His eyebrows rose. “Simon? I’ve been very worried about him. The reports from Dr. Gaines have not been good. Is he awake? I’ll speak to him shortly. The fact is, I’ve come to see you.”
That surprised me even more. “Indeed?”
“That nurse at the Base Hospital in Rouen. The one we were to distract with words of praise for doing her duty, after she’d given you so much trouble.”
“Nurse Bailey? Was she difficult to appease?” My heart sank as I had visions of having to explain France to my superiors in the nursing service.
“I sent one of my men there to speak to her, and he reported that she had left the hospital to attend a funeral. That of Nurse Saunders. Didn’t you tell me she’d seen and spoken to your erstwhile driver? She was found dead the morning after your departure.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I STOOD THERE with my mouth open, so completely taken aback that I couldn’t think what to say.
The fact was, I’d nearly forgot about the nurse who had tried to stop me from leaving France. My father had told me he would deal with the matter, and in our household, that was that. I could put it out of my mind. I most certainly hadn’t given a thought to Nurse Saunders, whom I hadn’t met, but who had seen a killer face-to-face and never realized she was in any danger. It hadn’t even occurred to me to warn her.
The note she had left for Nurse Bailey-and of course for me-had simply stated that my driver had come. But if questioned, she would have known what sort of uniform he was wearing, what rank he held, what he looked like. More to the point, she could corroborate any description that Matron-or I-could give.
“She’s dead?” I repeated slowly. “What happened?”
“She was lying at the side of the street after a convoy of lorries had passed on their way to the Front. It was just after dusk. A horse had been startled, broke away from its owner, and charged madly down the hill toward the port as they were driving through. When she was found it appeared that the horse had knocked her down. She’d left the Base Hospital and walked to a nearby shop where they sold small gifts for newborns. Apparently her sister had just given birth to her first child. At any rate, her skull had the clear imprint of a horse’s hoof around the ear. Her clothing was stained as if she’d rolled after being struck. No one saw the accident. It was too dark.”
“Dear God,” I said blankly. My father had had time to absorb the news. I could only think about that poor unsuspecting woman walking out of the Base Hospital on such a happy errand, and instead walking straight into a vicious killer. In the darkness, with the horse running amok, he could have struck her down with impunity, and who would see it happen? Every eye would have been on that horse. “I’m sorry-”
“My friend looked into the matter, Bess,” my father said, interrupting me. “I don’t think it was the accident it appeared to be. Of course there was the wound on her face, the imprint of a horse’s shoe. And a horse had in fact run loose. But my friend was told by one of the orderlies at the Base Hospital that the surgeon who examined the body was surprised that the blow hadn’t gone deeper. Deep enough to kill, yes, but there was also the weight of the animal behind it, you see, and her skull wasn’t crushed. They decided it was a glancing blow, but the surgeon-from somewhere in Minnesota, I believe-wasn’t buying it. Then a cast shoe was found just beyond where the body lay, and our friend from Minnesota was finally satisfied.”