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.I suddenly felt like an interloper, with no business here.“Lieutenant Evanson?” I repeated.“Perhaps you ought to speak to Matron, first,” the woman said finally.“Yes, that’s fine,” I answered.We walked down a passage between the graceful staircase and the doors to rooms that had once been fashionably decorated for social calls and parties and family evenings at home.Now they were bare wards for those who couldn’t mount the stairs.Matron had established herself in what had been a small morning room, and I remembered the pale lavender walls and a white coffered ceiling.Filing boxes still occupied all the free space, and the breeze from the open windows stirred papers on the desk.Matron looked as harried as she had on my last visit.“Miss Crawford.How nice to see you again.Do sit down.May I offer you tea?”“Thank you, no.I must make the next train to Portsmouth.I’ve come to speak to Lieutenant Evanson.”I realized suddenly that something was wrong.She had turned her head to look out the window as I was speaking, her gaze on the small gazebo in the garden.Then she turned back to me with an expression I instantly recognized.“I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you—we lost Lieutenant Evanson six days ago.”I started to speak, but she held up her hand.“He’d been very depressed since the death of his wife.Despondent might be the better word.We did all we could.And then on Tuesday night, we found him in his bed, dead.Somehow he’d managed to purloin a scalpel, we don’t know exactly where or how.And he’d cut his own throat.It was the only death he could manage with his bandaged hands.Even so, it couldn’t have been easy.But he was determined, you see.”I knew my face must be mirroring the expression on hers.Horror.Loss.Grief.And there was something more in her eyes, a sense of guilt, as if somehow she should have prevented his death.I sat there, stunned, and after a moment, she nodded, as if she understood what I was feeling.I managed to say the proper things even as my mind struggled to accept what had happened.It was inevitable, given how much he loved his wife.What else was there to live for, without her, without a face or hands that resembled human features and fingers? And yet it was sad beyond words.Why hadn’t Inspector Herbert told me? But then he couldn’t have known I was coming here.Still—A brief silence fell.Then I asked the difficult question.“Who told him that his wife was dead?”“His sister came down.It had to be done, of course.We couldn’t have kept it from him.He’d been asking for her, you see.But we thought—he seemed to take the news as well as could be expected.He just stared at the wall and said nothing.He was very quiet for the next week, although he asked on two occasions if the police had made any progress in their search for her killer.Afterward, we realized he was simply biding his time.We kept an eye on him, well aware of how much—how important she was to his recovery.As soon as he’d arrived at Laurel House, he’d asked one of the staff to write to his wife, to tell her that he was back in England and how much he looked forward to seeing her.When she didn’t come, he wrote to his sister asking if Mrs.Evanson were ill.His sister had hoped to spare him the news until he was stronger, but that was not to be.Mrs.Melton had no choice but to tell her brother the truth.”Even as he was dictating his first letter, it was too late.According to the police, Marjorie Evanson had left her house early to set out on the journey that would take her to the railway station and then to her death.“He did inquire of the doctor if it would be possible for him to attend the funeral service.I needn’t tell you it was out of the question.We asked our chaplain, Mr.Davies, to sit with him that day, and offer what comfort he could.I spoke to Mr.Davies that evening as he was leaving, and he felt that Lieutenant Evanson seemed reconciled to his loss.I wasn’t convinced, however, and kept an eye on the lieutenant anyway.”So much for Mr.Davies’s powers of observation.Still, he was undoubtedly the village priest, and had very little experience in suicide watches.There was something else to be considered.Lieutenant Evanson was trained as a pilot, taught to bury everything that might distract him from the intense concentration required to handle his aircraft and face a very aggressive enemy.He could well have concealed his intentions by drawing on that same training.Remembering, I said, “What became of the photograph he carried with him?”“The one of his wife? That was odd, you know.We had suggested that it be buried with him.It had meant so much to him.But his sister wouldn’t hear of that.She left it on his bed when she came to collect his few belongings.That seemed so—so cruel to me, somehow.”I interpreted his sister’s decision to mean that she had learned about the pregnancy, even if she hadn’t told her brother or anyone else here at Laurel House.Matron opened her desk drawer and took out an envelope.She passed it to me.“I kept it.I really couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.”I took the envelope, but didn’t open it.I could feel the edges of the thin silver frame through the brown paper.“I understand.I’d have felt the same.I nursed him for days.This was his anchor.Perhaps someone in Mrs.Evanson’s family might care to have it later.What a pity.”“Yes, in spite of his burns, he was doing quite well.And he was a lovely man.You must have seen that too.Never complaining, never thinking of himself.No trouble…”She took a deep breath, a middle-aged woman who had seen so much suffering, and yet still felt the tragedy of this one man’s death.Her hair was turning gray, and there were dark circles under her brown eyes.I thought she had lost weight since I’d seen her last.“Well.You have made this journey for nothing.But I can tell you that the other patients you brought us have done better than expected.Still, when the winter rains begin—” She shook her head.I knew what she was dreading, the stress of days of dampness on damaged lungs.“Thank you so much for seeing me, Matron.It must have been difficult.”“Yes, well.Sometimes talking about things helps.And you knew Lieutenant Evanson too.”She rose to walk with me to the door.“You are looking tired,” she commented.“How long have you been in France?”“Since late January.Before that I was on Britannic when she went down.”“Ah, yes, I recall.And you’re going back to France now?”“I’m told to report to a small hospital just outside St.Jacques.” Which sounded more grand than it was.St.Jacques had all but ceased to exist, muddy ruins in the midst of fields that no longer grew anything, even weeds.“A forward dressing station,” I added.“Though it calls itself a hospital.”She nodded.“Two of my nursing sisters have spent some time in France.They are very good at improvising.”We had reached the main door.I smiled.“We often have no choice [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]