coachman five pounds, a princely sum in that day, andwas ordered to swear he would never dismiss the coachman or eat the goat.”
I moved past them as his audience laughed again, and went to find Mary. Our train left for London an hour after lunch, and we were nearly ready.
She was rather quiet on the first leg of our journey. Busy with my own thoughts, I was content to let the silence between us lengthen.
After a time she said, “You know, it just goes to show that to eat well, one should live on a farm.”
That was not as far-fetched a conversational gambit as it might sound. She was seeing a naval officer whose father was a gentleman farmer, like Jack, and she had been dithering over whether to marry him should he propose or find someone more likely to enjoy the social whirl in London.
I murmured something noncommittal, and she went back to her own reverie.
I myself had been thinking about Serena Melton.
I’d had no brothers—or sisters for that matter—to help me judge how one might feel in Serena’s shoes, having lost Meriwether. Would I have been forgiving or vindictive? The closest I could come to imagining her emotional state was to consider something happening to Simon Brandon. He wasn’t related, but I’d known him all my life and loved him dearly. If someone caused his death, I’d be furiously angry and determined to see that person punished.
Soldiers are mortal, we had all been touched by that loss. But Serena’s brother hadn’t given his life for King and Country. He’d died under tragic circumstances, just after the doctors had felt it safe enough to send him home. He’d had a good chance of surviving his wounds. First hope, then despair.
I myself had grieved in my own way for Meriwether Evanson. And so had Matron, for that matter.
I took a deep breath, more like a sigh, and Mary said, “Was it a boring weekend? I’m sorry for dragging you there.”
“I was very glad I went,” I told her truthfully. But I was looking forward to spending the rest of my leave with my family. I’d had my fill of spying.
I had been back in France nearly ten days when the letter came from Inspector Herbert at Scotland Yard.
It was brief, and it contained a photograph. I turned it over, to find myself staring into a dead man’s face. I could see clearly the bullet wound in his temple.
I turned to the letter.
This is Lieutenant Fordham. He died of a single gunshot wound to the head. Forgive me for sending this to you without some warning, but I’m told you’re in France and there’s no other way. Fordham’s death appears to be a suicide. I use that word, appears, because there is a modicum of doubt. He was an officer in the Wiltshire Fusiliers. Are you still certain that the man with Marjorie Evanson the evening of her death was in this regiment? Could this be the man?
I looked again at the photograph. But I already knew the answer. This was not the man at the railway station.
I felt a chill. Suicide among soldiers was more prevalent than the Army admitted. It wasn’t good for morale to give exact numbers, they said. Why had Lieutenant Fordham chosen to kill himself? What demons drove him? And why—other than his regiment—had Inspector Herbert thought this might be the man I’d seen with Marjorie Evanson?
Was there something in his suicide note that pointed in that direction?
And what did Inspector Herbert mean by “appears to be a suicide”?
His brief message told me so little that my curiosity was aroused. I found myself thinking that he’d have done better to satisfy it.
I reached for pen and paper to answer him before the next post bag left.
Poor man. To answer your questions: I am not mistaken in the matter of the Wiltshires. And this is not the person I saw at the railway station.
But even as I finished putting those words down on paper in black ink, stark on the page, I glanced again at the photograph. Lieutenant Fordham was a handsome man even in death, and if he were
I moved past them as his audience laughed again, and went to find Mary. Our train left for London an hour after lunch, and we were nearly ready.
She was rather quiet on the first leg of our journey. Busy with my own thoughts, I was content to let the silence between us lengthen.
After a time she said, “You know, it just goes to show that to eat well, one should live on a farm.”
That was not as far-fetched a conversational gambit as it might sound. She was seeing a naval officer whose father was a gentleman farmer, like Jack, and she had been dithering over whether to marry him should he propose or find someone more likely to enjoy the social whirl in London.
I murmured something noncommittal, and she went back to her own reverie.
I myself had been thinking about Serena Melton.
I’d had no brothers—or sisters for that matter—to help me judge how one might feel in Serena’s shoes, having lost Meriwether. Would I have been forgiving or vindictive? The closest I could come to imagining her emotional state was to consider something happening to Simon Brandon. He wasn’t related, but I’d known him all my life and loved him dearly. If someone caused his death, I’d be furiously angry and determined to see that person punished.
Soldiers are mortal, we had all been touched by that loss. But Serena’s brother hadn’t given his life for King and Country. He’d died under tragic circumstances, just after the doctors had felt it safe enough to send him home. He’d had a good chance of surviving his wounds. First hope, then despair.
I myself had grieved in my own way for Meriwether Evanson. And so had Matron, for that matter.
I took a deep breath, more like a sigh, and Mary said, “Was it a boring weekend? I’m sorry for dragging you there.”
“I was very glad I went,” I told her truthfully. But I was looking forward to spending the rest of my leave with my family. I’d had my fill of spying.
I had been back in France nearly ten days when the letter came from Inspector Herbert at Scotland Yard.
It was brief, and it contained a photograph. I turned it over, to find myself staring into a dead man’s face. I could see clearly the bullet wound in his temple.
I turned to the letter.
This is Lieutenant Fordham. He died of a single gunshot wound to the head. Forgive me for sending this to you without some warning, but I’m told you’re in France and there’s no other way. Fordham’s death appears to be a suicide. I use that word, appears, because there is a modicum of doubt. He was an officer in the Wiltshire Fusiliers. Are you still certain that the man with Marjorie Evanson the evening of her death was in this regiment? Could this be the man?
I looked again at the photograph. But I already knew the answer. This was not the man at the railway station.
I felt a chill. Suicide among soldiers was more prevalent than the Army admitted. It wasn’t good for morale to give exact numbers, they said. Why had Lieutenant Fordham chosen to kill himself? What demons drove him? And why—other than his regiment—had Inspector Herbert thought this might be the man I’d seen with Marjorie Evanson?
Was there something in his suicide note that pointed in that direction?
And what did Inspector Herbert mean by “appears to be a suicide”?
His brief message told me so little that my curiosity was aroused. I found myself thinking that he’d have done better to satisfy it.
I reached for pen and paper to answer him before the next post bag left.
Poor man. To answer your questions: I am not mistaken in the matter of the Wiltshires. And this is not the person I saw at the railway station.
But even as I finished putting those words down on paper in black ink, stark on the page, I glanced again at the photograph. Lieutenant Fordham was a handsome man even in death, and if he were
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