A Bitter Truth

Chapter Ten

By the time we had absorbed the fact that we were free to go, it was too late to do more than discuss whether to leave in the morning or the day after the inquest.

Lydia said to me quietly after dinner, “I’ve never really unpacked. If Simon would agree to take us to London, it would be easier. But I will take the train if he can’t manage it. Or if he’s concerned about what Roger might say or do.”

I couldn’t imagine Simon Brandon being afraid of anyone. But I understood that she was trying to protect him from an unpleasant scene. And Roger Ellis was likely to make one.

“We must get word to him,” I said, “unless he learns of the news in Hartfield.”

And where was Davis Merrit? Alive and on the run-or a dead scapegoat?

“I’ll pack my own things,” I told her. “Then we’ll see what tomorrow brings.”

But after breakfast, I happened to notice that one of the Ellis motorcars had been brought around. And I could hear Gran’s voice echoing around the hall, raised in anger and fear.

I ran down the stairs, thinking that something terrible must have happened. But when I got to the hall, I found only Mrs. Ellis sitting by the hearth, tears streaming down her face while Gran was at the door, arguing vehemently with her grandson.

It was only then that I noticed that he was wearing his uniform and his greatcoat. I’d seen him in his uniform every day, but this time he wore it with a very different air. I’d been a part of a military family all my life, and I knew the look of a man on his way to war.

He turned to me as I came into the room and halted abruptly, realizing that I’d walked into the middle of a family quarrel.

“Will you please tell Lydia for me that there’s no need for her to leave Vixen Hill? I’m rejoining my regiment tomorrow morning. I’ll be on my way to France in a few days’ time. She’ll be safer here than on her own in London.”

I answered, before I’d quite considered what I was saying, “Your leave isn’t up. I should think your family still needs you. And this business with Lieutenant Hughes’s death has surely reopened old wounds.”

“She’s right,” Gran said, holding out a hand to me, asking me to join her at the door. “We still need you, Roger. Don’t be rash. Sleep on this decision. You may feel differently tomorrow.”

“Ten days or so won’t make all that much difference,” he said shortly. “It’s better if I go and get it over with.”

Mrs. Ellis said from her chair near the fire, “And if you are killed in those ten days? Do you think we will find that easy to bear?”

Gran said angrily, “Let Lydia go to London and get it out of her system. She’ll come back, wait and see if she doesn’t. This is her home, you’re her husband. She’ll come to her senses soon enough. There’s no need to penalize your mother and me just to punish her.”

“I’m not punishing her,” he wearily answered his grandmother. “We’ve got off on the wrong foot. I’ve been away three years. I came back a very different man from the one she remembered. If I leave now, before anything else goes wrong, we might salvage something out of this muddle of a marriage.”

But Gran wasn’t to be put off. “You’re going back for all the wrong reasons. If you’re killed, should we blame Lydia for sending you away like this? I promise you we shall. It’s her fault as much as yours, and your mother and I will be the ones to have to live with that.”

“I’m not going to die, Gran. God willing, the war will end soon. Now the Americans have stepped in, we’ll have a chance to see this business finished. When I come home again, Lydia and I may be able to mend matters and live together somehow.”

Gran was inconsolable and said fiercely, “Think of your mother if you don’t care about breaking my heart. You were the closest to Juliana. Losing you will be like losing her all over again. You can’t do that to her. Now go back upstairs and put this foolishness behind you. We’ll say no more about it.”

He bent to kiss her cheek. “Good-bye, Gran.” And he was off, striding to the motorcar without looking back. “I’ll leave it at the station. You can pick it up anytime that suits,” he called as he got behind the wheel. And then he was gone.

Gran stood there in the open doorway, the cold winter air swirling around her, blowing her gray hair free from the bun at the nape of her neck and whipping it in her eyes. She brushed it away and watched her grandson out of sight.

Then she turned and without a word stalked across the hall to the stairs and climbed them.

Mrs. Ellis, trying to stifle her sobs, had shut her eyes, as if she couldn’t bear to see the motorcar disappear down the lane. Then she got to her feet and without looking at me, murmured in a voice thick with tears, “I must speak to Molly about lunch.”

And she was gone, leaving me there in the hall alone.

I didn’t quite know what to make of what appeared to be Roger Ellis’s altruism.

It dawned on me that he was running away, more than he was running to.

Who did he really believe murdered George Hughes? Davis Merrit for Lydia’s sake-Lydia herself-or someone else in his own family?

For that matter, had he himself killed his friend? I couldn’t see why. Unless it was to prevent Lieutenant Hughes from bringing that child home from France.

There was nothing I could do. For any of them. And if I left, they would be free to mourn Roger’s decision in their own way.

I started for the door, but Margaret came in, concern drawing her brows together in a frown.

“What on earth is wrong with Mama? She’s stripping Roger’s bed as if her life depended on it. And I can’t get a word out of her!”

“He’s just left,” I told her. “To rejoin his regiment.”

“No, you must be mistaken. He didn’t come to say good-bye-”

I didn’t know how to answer her.

“It’s Lydia, isn’t it? He can’t bear to be in the same house with her now.”

“I don’t think-” I began, attempting to say that it wasn’t my place to pass judgment.

But Margaret cut across my words. “Don’t try to defend her. Neither one of them is blame free, I’m aware of that. They’ve been at odds almost since Roger came home. But Lydia leaving for London the way she did was a last straw. And her work with Davis Merrit didn’t help matters. Did she tell you? She refused to give it up, even after Roger asked her to break it off. I don’t condone his striking her. But you can only push someone like my brother so far.”

She paced to the hearth and back. “I don’t know how Mama will cope. Not to mention Gran. It’s really selfish of him to do this to all of us.” But as she turned back toward me, still pacing, I could see the tears in her eyes.

“Your grandmother was terribly angry with him.”

“As well she might be.” She stopped in the middle of the room. “I must tell Henry. We were thinking of leaving this morning, but I expect we ought to stay on for a few more days. Until Mama has come to terms with what he’s done. May I ask if you’re planning to leave today?”

As a hint, it was rather broad. In her eyes, I was responsible for Lydia going to London. And I could easily understand that. “Yes, I expect I shall. If someone will send a message to The King’s Head, for Simon Brandon. He’s driving me to Somerset.”

“Someone must retrieve Roger’s motorcar from the railway station. If an hour’s time will be convenient for you?”

“Yes, of course,” I agreed politely. Then I asked, “Do you think Lydia will still wish to go with me?”

“We’ll be very angry with her, if she does,” Margaret answered tightly. “She’s needed here. Henry and I can’t stay more than a few extra days. And what then?”

“There’s Alan’s wife.”

“No. It needs to be Lydia. She’s Roger’s wife, after all, and she has duties here.”

I thought it a very selfish perspective, but didn’t say so.

She left to speak to her husband, and I went to stand at the door, putting off speaking to Lydia. Looking out past the holly trees to the immense stretch of heath spread out before me, I found myself thinking about Roger Ellis, still wondering why he had made such a sudden and dramatic decision. There were so many reasons.

I broke off, looking at the vehicle turning out of the track into the lane that led to Vixen Hill. My first reaction was that Roger had come to his senses, then I realized that it was Simon’s motorcar.

The cavalry had returned.

I went up to find Lydia and tell her what had happened.

“He’s gone?” she asked, stunned. “But why?”

“He said he thought it was the only way to save your marriage. Perhaps he’s right.”

She shook her head vehemently. “No. I won’t believe it. There’s something else.”

“He hoped you’d stay here at Vixen Hill, now that he’s no longer in residence.”

“No, that’s not it either.” She took a turn around the room, thinking, then stopped suddenly and grasped my arm in a grip that hurt. “He’s going to find that child, Bess. I’d be ready to wager my life that he is. But why? To bring her home? There’s no other reason, is there?”

I remember what George had said to me, that he shouldn’t have waited for Roger Ellis to come to a decision about the little girl. He should have gone ahead and claimed her if he could.

Lydia went on, still gripping my arm, “He wants her dead, doesn’t he? He doesn’t want a reminder of Juliana. Juliana never grew up, you see, she’s always and forever the perfect child. But a real reminder of Juliana might have a mind of her own, and even while she looked like Juliana, she might have a very different temperament. Was it fear of disillusionment that drove Roger to abandon her? Or the fact that he couldn’t replace Juliana with a bastard child?”

If the child had looked like her mother, or a great-aunt, a very different child from Juliana, would Roger have been willing to take her in?

It was an interesting thought.

Lydia was saying, “You must find that little girl before Roger does. Do you hear, Bess? For my sake, as well as hers.”

“Are you sure you want any part of her?” I asked. “Think about it, Lydia, there will be reminders of her mother in many of the things she does. Are you willing to live with that?”

“I may never have a child of my own,” she told me bitterly, letting my arm go. “This may be all I ever have. Please, Bess, you must promise.”

“I’ve told you. I can’t promise anything. I have duties, Lydia, remember? I can’t search France for one child while so many wounded need my care.”

“But you will try?” she asked, as if she hadn’t heard me. “When you can?”

“Yes, all right, I’ll try,” I said, “but I won’t promise because it will be like hunting for the proverbial needle in a haystack.”

“No, it won’t,” she told me, the force of conviction in her voice. “You’ve seen the portrait. You may not know a name, but you will know her face the instant you see it. And that’s what matters.”

There was nothing more I could say to change her mind, and so I told her that I’d glimpsed Simon coming up the drive.

“I’m going home, Lydia. You’re safe now, there’s nothing to fear.”

To my surprise-I was expecting an uphill battle-she said, “Yes, it’s the best thing for you. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll stay here. It won’t be easy, but I really was dreading facing London on my own. I was so frightened the last time, so lost and alone. That’s why I wanted so badly to stay with you.”

I hadn’t realized that she’d been afraid of returning to London. She had been so adamant about leaving here. That was an indication of the stress driving her that she was willing to brave a city where she knew no one with the exception of me.

“Then you’re not going with me?”

“No. I’ll go and unpack straightaway. Somehow I must make it up to Gran and Mama Ellis for what he’s done. They’ll blame me. I can’t change that. But I don’t want them to realize why he left so precipitously.”

I didn’t tell her that Mrs. Ellis had already been in Roger’s room, stripping the bedding. Instead I asked, “You will see Dr. Tilton again? About your concussion?”

“I promise. But I’m much better. Truly.”

I thought it could be true. But I reminded her that if she couldn’t keep her promise, she would only add to the burdens Gran and Mrs. Ellis carried.

We walked together into the passage, and she said with unexpected warmth, “I really am grateful to you, Bess, more than words can say. You must know that’s true.”

I thought perhaps it was, and smiled at her. “You know where to find me. Anytime,” I told her. “But not in the dead of winter, please.”

She laughed and embraced me quickly. “Thank Simon for me too.”

I went in search of Mrs. Ellis and then Gran, but I couldn’t find either of them. Daisy had admitted Simon, and I hurried to the hall to greet him.

We went together to my room and soon had the motorcar packed with my belongings.

“I can’t leave without a note,” I said. “Mrs. Ellis will think badly of me.”

“Then write it, if that makes you feel better.”

I had a thought. “Come with me to the drawing room. There’s paper and pen there in one of the tables, I’m sure. Meanwhile, I want you to see the portrait over the hearth.”

He came with me, and I heard the low whistle as he turned to look at Juliana.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful child,” he said. “Or a more beautiful painting. Did she really look like that, I wonder?”

I found what I was after in the ornate little escritoire under the window and quickly wrote a brief message, thanking Mrs. Ellis and her family for their hospitality and kindness. Sealing the note, I wrote Mrs. Ellis’s name on the envelope, but I couldn’t help but wish I could have thanked her in person as well.

Simon was still studying the portrait when I said, “It’s finished.”

I left the note on a table in the hall, where someone was sure to see it, and we went out to the motorcar together.

He was cranking the motor when I happened to look up at the room above the hall. I don’t know precisely why, but possibly it was because I felt eyes watching me from there.

Gran was standing by the window, looking down on the motorcar, Simon and me.

I smiled and waved, but she gave no indication she’d even recognized us. I knew perfectly well she had.

And I realized then that from that height, looking across the flat landscape of the heath, she might just be able to see the smoke from the engine as the train pulled out of Hartfield, carrying her grandson to his regiment.

We drove away from Vixen Hill, and I didn’t look back. But I did look at the heath that quickly surrounded us and wondered if I would ever see it again.

As if he’d read my mind, Simon said, “I have a feeling it isn’t finished, Bess. I heard the conclusions Inspector Rother drew from the evidence. I don’t know if he got it right.”

I turned to look at him. “You don’t think Davis Merrit killed George Hughes?”

“It’s not that,” he said slowly. “It’s just that something isn’t right. And I can’t put my finger on anything to support that feeling. The motive is missing, somehow.”

“Did you know Roger Ellis has left to rejoin his unit?”

“Yes, I saw him on his way to the railway station. Or I assumed that’s where he was heading. His kit was in the seat beside him.” He paused. “Is that why Lydia Ellis isn’t traveling with us?”

“She doesn’t have to face her husband now. She wasn’t looking forward to London, in spite of all she said. She wasn’t ready to start a new life with no friends and no prospects.”

“A measure of her fear,” he agreed. “When I met her in London I could sense it. I’m just glad you’re out of that house. I was afraid you’d have to stay until the inquest.”

“That’s odd, isn’t it? That I haven’t been asked to give evidence.”

“It will probably be adjourned until they’ve found Merrit. And you may yet receive a summons. Much will depend on what motive Inspector Rother discovers. But the watch and the fact that Merrit left without warning or a word will count heavily against him.”

“But did he pack up and leave? Or walk out of the house and never come home again?”

“Gossip says he left tea on the table. And that morning his horse came back to the stable without him.”

I hadn’t heard that.

“Well,” I said. “It’s over. But she wants me to search for that child, Simon.”

“I don’t think that would be wise. Didn’t you say that Hughes told you she was in the care of nuns? She should be looked after well enough. What would you do if you found her?”

What, indeed. “Heaven knows there are enough orphans, thanks to this war.”

“Sadly,” he replied.

We had reached Hartfield and I saw the man Willy just stepping into the road, crossing it just beyond the shops. He looked up then, and his eyes met mine as he stopped, waiting for us to pass.

I had expected the vacant expression of a man whose wits were impaired.

But I could have sworn, in that brief contact, that he knew who I was. And I would have sworn as well that beneath the recognition was another expression.

I couldn’t quite be sure of what it was. But the word that came to mind was sly .

If Simon noticed, he said nothing, busy driving through the early Monday morning traffic.

I spent a very happy Christmas with my family. It was good to be home, and I knew my parents were almost beside themselves with joy.

A letter arrived the day before Christmas Eve, forwarded by Mrs. Hennessey from London. It was from Lydia, and very brief.

Life here at Vixen Hill has settled into an armed truce. I don’t think Gran has forgiven me, but even she can’t hold a grudge for very long. Mama Ellis has heard from Roger, telling her that he’d arrived safely in France. But he hasn’t written to me. I’m glad I stayed. I never expected to say that, but it’s true.

There is no news about the inquiry into the murder. The inquest was held on the Tuesday after you left. After Dr. Tilton had established that poor George was indeed murdered, Inspector Rother asked that the inquest be adjourned until such time as the whereabouts of a crucial witness, Davis Merrit, could be determined and his statement be entered into evidence. He was asked if the search was limited to Sussex, and Inspector Rother replied that the Chief Constable had asked that Scotland Yard be brought into the case. Then Inspector Rother was asked if he believed he knew the identity of the murderer, and he answered that he did, but was not prepared to make an arrest until Davis was found. No motive was presented. Nor were any of us required to give evidence, except for Dr. Tilton, and no statements were read. It was all very odd, according to Henry, who knows more about such things. But I think it may come out in the trial that after my visit to Davis, he went in search of George. I still don’t know why he should have killed him. I imagine that’s what Inspector Rother must find out before he can proceed any further. But I dread being asked to give evidence in court, if it is Davis after all. Henry says it will be necessary and I must be prepared to brave it out. Meanwhile, we have been locking our doors at night. Vixen Hill was never locked before this. But with Roger away I think we all feel terribly vulnerable.

I must wish you back in France soonest. Roger has had a head start in the search. And that worries me even more than what Inspector Rother is up to.

A happy Christmas. I wish I could tell you it comes from all of us, but Gran refuses to be included. I don’t quite understand why. But Mama Ellis believes that Gran blames you for insisting on looking for poor George, that if you’d left well enough alone that Saturday morning, he would never have been found and none of this terrible business would ever have happened. But it was Mama who insisted, wasn’t it? And someone would have stumbled over the body, sooner or later. I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive her.

I found it interesting that still no motive had been brought forward. More surprising was the fact that Dr. Tilton hadn’t said a word about the events of that evening in the drawing room. Why? It was prime gossip, and he would surely have relished passing it on. But the Ellis family was a force in Ashdown Forest, and Dr. Tilton must have very wisely decided that telling this particular secret could see him ruined.

But perhaps, with the inquest out of the way, the hue and cry for Davis Merrit could commence in earnest. If he could be found, the police would do their best to find him now.

I would have given much to know what had become of him. That expression in Willy’s eyes had disturbed me, and I couldn’t quite put it out of my thoughts. After all, it was his possession of the watch that had made the case against Davis Merrit. Not just his disappearance.

Christmas Day passed, and the day after Boxing Day, Simon and the Colonel Sahib drove me to London to meet my train.

I said good-bye to my mother, as I always did, at the door of the house. I said good-bye to my father and to Simon at the door of the compartment of my train.

My father said, “I know you’ve had Ashdown on your mind, Bess. I’ve said nothing, because it takes time to put something like that behind you.”

I didn’t deny it. Instead I said, “It was very unpleasant, being a suspect in a murder inquiry. Even for so brief a time.”

“I doubt that’s what’s been on your mind. Let it go. There’s nothing more you can do.”

I smiled and kissed him, then said good-bye to Simon.

As the train pulled out, I turned to wave, and saw both men staring after me with nearly the same expression on their faces.

Worry. As if they knew me too well to be taken in.

I n truth, I was too busy the first weeks after my return to think about a child in an orphanage, but when there was a lull in the fighting, I was given a few days in the rear to rest.

And there I encountered two nuns with five small children who had been injured in the shelling, their parents killed. Soldiers had brought them to safety and seen to it that they were treated, but it was time to look at the wounds again to see how they were healing. It was work the nuns could do, but I saw their tired faces and worn hands, proof that they were overburdened as it was, and suppurating wounds were nasty to deal with.

I crossed to the tent where they were waiting in a long line with their charges, and I said to a nursing sister, “Shall I take a look at these for you?”

“Sister Crawford, would you mind?”

I took the nuns and the children aside, found a seat for them, and unwrapped the bandages around small arms and legs. Thank God the wounds had begun to close, and the nuns had kept them meticulously clean. I talked to the children as I worked, telling them as they watched me warily that all was well, and to mind the nuns about keeping their bandages tidy and in place.

A little girl clung to me, her eyes still shadowed. Sister Agnes, the younger nun, said to me in heavily accented English, “She lost her mother and younger brother. It has been very difficult. For a long time, she would not eat.”

I turned to the child, and in my best schoolgirl French, asked her name.

“Marie Thérèse,” she answered softly, hardly loud enough for me to hear her.

“What a pretty name! How old are you, Marie Thérèse?”

“Six,” she replied after a moment. “My brother was only four.”

“What was his name?”

“Henri. After our father.”

“Ah. A good name, Henri. Did he have blue eyes like yours?”

“No, they were not blue. There was brown in them.”

“Did you and Henri play games together?”

This time she nodded vigorously and began to list their games. I had finished examining her broken arm, which was healing well. It had been a compound fracture, and surgery had been necessary to reset it.

“My arm was broken too. Almost a year ago,” I told her as I helped her put hers back in its sling. Pushing up my sleeve, I showed her where my break had occurred. Her eyes grew large, and she touched it with a small finger.

“There is no scar,” she said, wonderingly.

“And the scar on your arm will also disappear. If you mind the Sisters and take good care of it.”

“Henri’s neck was broken,” she told me then. “There was no way to heal it.”

I could have taken her in my arms and held her close, but I smiled and said, “It didn’t hurt, you know. Necks are not like arms.”

She nodded.

At that moment, an Australian soldier strode by, a tall man, broad shouldered and fair. I stopped him and indicated the children. “Do you by any chance have chocolates, Sergeant?”

He grinned down at me. “I believe I do.” The children were staring at him, round-eyed, and watching as he dug into his kit. He came up with a very flat chocolate bar and handed it to me. I thanked him, knowing well that chocolates were treats even for the men. Hadn’t Princess Mary’s Christmas Gift in 1914 included sweets for those who didn’t smoke?

I handed the bar to the Sisters, to be shared with the children on the journey back to their convent.

As they prepared to take their leave, effusive in their gratitude, I hugged the children, then said to the younger nun before she turned away, “As a matter of fact, I’m looking for a child. She’s half English, and her father has been searching for her since her mother died.” I described her, using Juliana’s portrait as my guide. “Have you seen her? Do you know where I could find her?”

But they hadn’t seen her, had no idea where I might begin to look.

“Convents from the north have been taken in by other houses wherever possible,” she told me. “And a few have been given shelter by benefactors. With so many children displaced by the war, it is difficult to keep proper records. Some are too young to know how they are called. And for others, like this little one”-she touched the head of a boy who must have been close to two years old-“there is no village name or family name.” She shrugged, that very Gallic shrug that said, What can one do?

I thanked them, and watched them go.

“That’s a bonny lass, that little one.”

I jumped, unaware that the Australian was still there just behind me.

“Yes, she is,” I said, wondering what life held in store for such children.

“If you ask me,” he replied, echoing my own thoughts, “those are the real victims in this bloody war-begging your pardon, Sister. I sometimes wonder what’s ahead of them. And what sort of men and women they’ll grow up to become.”

“At least these have found shelter,” I said. “That counts for something.”

“Does it? My best friend’s mother came out from England when she was seven. Taken from a poor house where her own mother had just died and consigned to a convict ship filled with thieves and whores and the scum of the prisons. She was raped before she reached Australia, and then served as an indentured servant to a family who nearly worked her to death. My friend’s great-aunt took pity on her and rescued her. She turned out to be a fine woman. She never spoke of her trials. She said she had put them behind her. She was the bravest woman I ever knew.” There was pride mixed with an old anger in his voice.

“She must have been, to survive.”

“My friend was set on going to England after the war is finished and finding the men who put her on that ship. But of course they must all be dead now. What’s more, my friend is dead. Killed last week. So, with any luck, he’s caught up with them at last.”

He touched his hat to me and was gone. I stood there, looking after him. And then the nursing sisters were calling to me, asking my help with a delirious patient who had taken a turn for the worse. From what I saw of his leg, swollen around the ankle and purple with gangrene, I knew it would have to come off, and soon. He wouldn’t make it alive to England otherwise.

Half an hour later a surgeon’s assistant came for him.

I spent my few days of respite asking if anyone knew of other convents in the vicinity that had taken in orphan children, but no one seemed to be aware of any.

One doctor, his apron dark with other men’s blood, said, “Why do you want to know?”

“Curiosity,” I replied. “I treated those five children who were here on Tuesday.”

“Hmmmph,” he answered. “Thought you might be one of those wanting us to take on the care of the civilian population. Leave that to the French doctors. We’ve got enough on our hands as it is, trying to save the men who get this far.”

“What happened to the Corporal with the gangrenous foot?” I asked.

“Didn’t survive. Bled to death, in spite of all we could do. Just as well. When I got in there I could see it wasn’t just his foot we’d have to take, but the entire leg, if he was to have any chance at living. Too little too late.”

He nodded and walked away, leaving me standing there. I went back to my assigned quarters and bathed before lying down on my bed.

It was hopeless, trying to find that child. I couldn’t imagine that Roger Ellis would have had any better luck. Even though he had come back to France while he still had nearly ten days of leave. Had he looked then, or gone directly to his regiment? She was lost in a sea of humanity. Perhaps after the war-but that could be years away, in spite of what was being said about the Americans soon turning the tide. With their ships being destroyed by German torpedoes, how could they resupply themselves, or bring in fresh troops? It would, I thought wearily, be more likely that the Germans and their allies and the British and their allies would simply fight each other to a standstill, until there were no more men, no more shells, and no more bullets left on either side.

I fell asleep for a few hours, and then went back again to see if I could help. But there had been a lull in the long line of wounded being convoyed back to us, some of them on omnibuses painted khaki, and I finally had an evening to write letters home and indulge myself in a long, hot bath. If I could find someone to heat the water and haul it to my quarters.

I returned to the Front when my relief was up. On the third day, while bandaging the head of a young private who came from Sussex, I asked if he’d ever been to Ashdown Forest.

“No, Sister. I’d never left Eastbourne, until I joined the Army.”

“Do you by any chance know Captain Roger Ellis, of Vixen Hill, near Hartfield?”

His eyes brightened. “That I do. I served under him for a time. Took good care of us, he did. He said Sussex men must stand up for each other.”

It was a side of Roger I hadn’t seen before. “He’s liked by his men?”

“Trusted is the word. You always knew where you stood with him.”

Noting the past tense, I said, “Knew?”

He grinned. “Sorry. What was left of our company was sent along to another regiment to make up their numbers.”

“Then he’s still alive.”

“Oh, yes. There’s a rumor that he got to Paris one day. Bluffed his way onto a convoy. Went to see the dancing girls, someone said. Perhaps he did. Perhaps not. But he came back from Paris with a bottle of champagne. It was the most expensive he’d ever paid for, he said, and gave each of his men a taste.”

A very different Roger Ellis from the man I’d encountered in Ashdown Forest. I wondered if Lydia had seen this side of him before the war. If so, I could understand why she had found the man who came home on compassionate leave almost a stranger.

I moved on to the next patient, and then it was another day, and the fighting was fierce in one sector. We began seeing the casualties around noon. It was in a brief lull that I was reminded of what the young private had said. That Roger Ellis had gone to Paris to see the dancing girls.

It occurred to me that it was a story certain to please his men. And that wherever he went, it was to find a small child who had reminded a dead man of Juliana.