An Unmarked Grave Read Online Free Page A

I’d gone into that shed. There will be a simple explanation.”
    I could already imagine Private Wilson saying in his gruff, kind way, Sister, you fell ill just after Lieutenant Benson died. You were that upset—small wonder you imagined—
    “Oh!” I said, my hand flying to my mouth in bewilderment. “Simon—it was just after one of my patients had died that I fell ill. And when the body was removed, Private Wilson wanted me to see what he’d discovered in the shed. That part must be true. He wasn’t certain what should be done about it. It still doesn’t explain why I should have thought it was Major Carson.”
    “A dead man amongst dead men,” he said after a moment. “Have you thought, Bess, that if there was someone in the shed who didn’t belong there, Private Wilson has already dealt with the problem? While you were ill. And if he didn’t, without your confirmation, whoever it was has long since been buried, murdered or not. If there was no identification with the body, finding it now will be nearly impossible in an unmarked grave. Sadly, there isn’t much that could be done.”
    “You’re right, of course,” I said, wishing I could keep the doubt out of my voice.
    “Julia told me Carson had died instantly. Was that a kind lie? Was he brought in dying of his wounds? Do you remember seeing him in the ward?”
    I shook my head. “He was never one of my patients. It’s just an uncomfortable coincidence that Major Carson died about this same time. As if I’d foreseen his death.”
    He stared at me in the sunny warmth of the morning. “I wish you’d come to me sooner. Or I’d pursued this when you first mentioned your dream. I didn’t think—there has to be a way to resolve this for you.”
    “I can’t do as I did at eight, I can’t open the closet door and see for myself that no monsters live inside.” I smiled, making light of my feelings.
    “There’s no need to wait until you’re back in France. I’ll look into this. What was the orderly’s name? Private Wilson? He should be easy enough to find.”
    “Thank you,” I replied, feeling a wash of relief.
    “Shall I ask your father’s help?”
    “No, please. At least—not yet.” I had other issues to face with my parents.
    “Consider it done. Meanwhile, it’s too fine a day to waste. We’ll take a drive in the afternoon, shall we? And I’ll ask the hotel to put up a lunch for us.”
    At a little past eleven o’clock, Simon knocked at my door as promised, and I went down with him to his motorcar.
    The drive out of Eastbourne was lovely, climbing through narrow twisting lanes where trees overhung the road and cast cool shadows.
    We came into the little village of Jevington, where pretty cottages lined the road and wildflowers bloomed along the low walls. I saw an elderly man, stooped and gnarled by rheumatism, hoeing between his roses.
    Unexpectedly I was reminded of Melinda Crawford, who like me had lived in India as a child, but much, much earlier, at the time of the 1857 Indian Mutiny. Melinda’s mother had survived the unspeakable horrors of the siege and subsequent battle for Lucknow, struggling to keep her small daughter safe. And when it was over and she had come back to her house on the outskirts of the town, she found it burned to the ground and her English garden in ruins. She had knelt in the torn earth and wept for her lost roses. It was the only time Melinda had seen her mother cry until the death of her father.
    A small link with home, that garden, and its destruction seemed to epitomize all she had suffered in a foreign country. I wondered who the old man was keeping those roses alive for through these awful years of war. A son—a grandson?
    Simon took a turning to the left, up a twisting road that led to a knoll. And there before us was the church of St. Mary’s, set above its sloping churchyard overlooking the back gardens of houses below it. Nearer the lane a stretch of clipped grass offered a view of the