Tales: Short Stories Featuring Ian Rutledge and Bess Crawford by Charles Todd

union man. He caught my brother when he tried to cross the strike line and go back to work. Fred needed the pay, he couldn’t afford to be out on strike.”
    “Where was this strike?”
    Goaded the man said, “What are you, a copper? Why does it matter?”
    “Was it in England—or was it a colliery in Wales?”
    “Of course it wasn’t Wales, it was in Lancashire. The trades union men beat him nearly senseless. And the doctors said they couldn’t do anything for him. He died the next morning. He was a good man, and he left a wife and three little ’uns. Tell me that’s fair?”
    “It isn’t fair. But neither is attempted murder. Were they brought up on charges? The men who did this to your brother?”
    “There was no one who could identify them. No one saw anything,” the driver said bitterly and turned his attention to what passed for the road. They traveled in silence for the rest of the journey.
    Rutledge found Williams sitting on the side of his cot this time, trying to manage to spoon up the dinner he’d been brought.
    Taking the chair from the next bed and sitting down, Rutledge greeted him and then said, “Are you a trades union man?”
    Williams stopped, the spoon half way to his mouth. “Am I what ?”
    Rutledge repeated the question.
    Shaking his head vehemently, Williams said, “No, by God, I’m not. Sir.”
    “I suspect Jones and his friends think you are.”
    Williams stared at him. “I’ll be damned. But why?”
    “I don’t know. It could be the reason they’ve tried to kill you. There’s bad blood on both sides of that fight. Men have been murdered. And Williams is a common-enough name in Wales and in England. You could have lied about your background at the slate mines.”
    “I haven’t. But there’s no way to prove it, short of sending to the manager of the mine.”
    “The coal miners have been moved back from the Front. Griffiths has brought in some of his clay kickers, men building the Manchester sewers. More to the point, at least two of the coal miners were on their way here , to the base hospital. Lloyd and Jones. It may be a coincidence, and it may not. Watch yourself. You’re in no condition to do battle with anyone.”
    “There’s truth to that, God knows.” Williams realized he was still holding his spoon in midair, and he set it down carefully. “I don’t like this.”
    “Then tell me what you saw that night, when you were shot. Let me charge whoever did this.” Rutledge gestured to the bound shoulder.
    “My word against theirs? No, it won’t save me. Can I be moved to another hospital?”
    “By the time the paperwork is completed, it could be too late. I’ll see if I can persuade Matron to put you on the next convoy to England.”
    But Matron shook her head after Rutledge had made his request. “We have far more serious cases than this one. Private Williams is healing well. I can’t justify sending him back.”
    “His life could be in danger, if he stays here.”
    “Surely you exaggerate, Lieutenant. We’ve had no trouble at this hospital. The men who are here need care, and there’s no time for or thought of private quarrels.” She looked at a list. “What’s more, I don’t even have a record of the two men you’ve mentioned. Private Aaron Lloyd, Private Taffy Jones. It could be that you are entirely mistaken.”
    But she didn’t know Private Lloyd or his half-brother. It was worrying that they hadn’t been treated yet—where were they? And Williams’ willingness to believe in the danger facing him was further proof that he wasn’t satisfied that the two Welshmen had finished with him.
    Rutledge went to have a final word with Williams. “Matron won’t consider England. Still, I’ve warned the Sister in charge of this ward that you have enemies. It’s the best I can do. I’ve also asked one of the orderlies to watch for Lloyd and Jones, and report to Matron. It’s possible they won’t turn up here, that they’re waiting for you come to