An Unmarked Grave Read Online Free

home, leaving me in Simon’s care for a few days
    “A memorial service. I’d almost forgot, darling,” my mother said, bending to kiss my cheek. “I’ve been so worried for you, it slipped my mind, but thank heavens the Rector sent to remind us.”
    “Whose service?” I asked, trying to keep a note of suspicion out of my voice at the sudden and all-too-convenient disappearance of both my parents.
    My suspicion was wiped away by my mother’s answer.
    “I thought Richard or Simon had told you. Perhaps they felt it was too soon after your own illness. It’s Vincent Carson, Bess. He’s dead. He was killed just after you left France. The original service had to be postponed because large gatherings were discouraged. The family feels it’s safe enough now to hold it. The Colonel Sahib is delivering the eulogy.”
    I was about to tell her that Major Carson was dead well before I sailed for Dover, but just in time I remembered that I had only dreamed it. It hadn’t recurred—I was thankful for that—but it hadn’t faded the way dreams usually do. And that was worrying.
    Simon and I wished them a safe journey and watched them out of sight. He’d only just come back from London, and my father had taken him off for a brief report before setting out. And then to my surprise, without a word he walked off down the Promenade toward the pier.
    I thought perhaps he wished to be alone, that something had happened in London or wherever he’d been, because I had noticed a grim set to his mouth as he and my father had emerged from Simon’s room.
    But when he returned to the hotel, he waved to me as I sat on my balcony. I went down to meet him, and we walked on to one of the benches set out on the lawn.
    “My mother just told me that Major Carson had been killed.”
    “He was a fine officer. I spoke to his widow just last week. She’s resigned, I think. If this war lasts much longer, there will be no one left to come home.”
    “How did he die?” I fought to keep the anxiety from my voice. Surely not—
    “According to Julia he was struck by shrapnel and died instantly. A kindness, she said.”
    Everyone in England wished a kind death on their loved ones. No lingering, no crying out for mothers or wives, no pain-filled last moments. It wasn’t always that easy, whatever a sympathetic commanding officer wrote to the next of kin. I’d held too many men during their last moments.
    I didn’t intend to carry it any further—this was not the best time to bring up the dream. Indeed I should have felt immense relief that it was no more than that. But the images in my mind, suddenly vivid and disturbing, wouldn’t go away. I needed to exorcise them once and for all.
    Before I could stop myself, I said, “Simon, remember I told you once that I believed I’d seen Vincent Carson’s body amongst the Spanish Influenza victims? But it didn’t belong there?”
    “Yes. It was a dream, you said. Does it still worry you?”
    “In a way. I try to put it out of my mind, but sometimes I question whether it was real or fever. For one thing, why should I dream that he’d been murdered? And I felt that his murderer must still be nearby. That it was urgent to report his body. It’s that sense of urgency that makes it impossible to let go of the dream. Please, I don’t want it to be true. I just wish there was some way to settle this for good. Then I could tell myself to stop being silly. I’ve dealt with patients who were delirious, and their nightmares fade with time. Mine hasn’t. I need to know why.” I made a gesture of frustration, not certain how to explain the confusion I felt.
    “Part of it is my fault. I should have told you when you first mentioned it that he was dead. That might have helped. But I thought it wasn’t the best time to give you such sad news.”
    I smiled wryly. “There’s one solution. When I’m back in France, I’ll find Private Wilson and speak to him. He might be able to tell me why I thought