Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [54]
I folded the knife away and took up the pocket-watch. Its cover popped easily, showing me hands stopped at 3:18 (How long after its owner’s death? I wondered). On the inside of the cover was engraved Justitia fortitudo mea est—the Hughenfort motto, carried with him always. I prised open the back of the watch, saw that the works would need some attention before it would run again, and put the timepiece with the other things.
The artefacts had taught me nothing, only that their owner had lived hard in a damp place, which was no surprise. I was left with his written legacy, and with a grimace, I picked up the more difficult first: the letters from the Front.
The field post-cards were the usual thing, their laconic printed phrases sending the message that their soldier was alive and fit enough to wield a pencil—or at least, to direct the pencil of an aide. I am quite well, Gabriel had ticked off, along with I have received your letter dated/parcel dated, after which he had written in a strong, tidy script: 29 December. The checked spaces on one card informed his parents: I have been admitted into hospital [wounded]/and am going on well/and hope to be discharged soon/Letter follows at first opportunity.
On that card, the signature was shaky, from nerves or injury I could not know.
The three letters written in Gabriel’s neat hand were another matter. All had come via the Field Post Office, so their envelopes were stamped with the usual black postal circle as well as the red triangle of the censor. The earliest was dated 27 December, 1917, sent from France, and contained four pages of news that sounded very like an extended attempt to whistle in the dark—aimed at reassuring not them, but himself. The next was from early April, although it did not seem to be the Letter follows that was promised by the post-card, since it made only passing reference to his time in hospital, saying merely that he was recovered but for his twisted knee and an irritating (his word) sensitivity to falling mortars. He sounded, truth to tell, not only recovered but positively bursting with optimism and good cheer. There were jokes about lice and cold tea, stories about his fellows, a matter-of-fact report on a gas attack, and one wistful passage about the Justice parkland in April. Compared with his earlier letter, Gabriel quite clearly had his feet beneath him, and looked to be having what survivors called a “good war.” I was certain there had been other letters between these two, but taking them as the only representatives, I found the change in his attitude and self-assurance striking.
I then took up his third envelope. This was thinner, and contained but a single sheet of paper. It had also had a much harder journey to reach Justice than the other two: a worn crease across the middle, one edge crushed in, the back of it looking as if it had ridden about in a filthy pocket for days, if not weeks. The glass showed me several thumbprint-sized smudges and the remains of no fewer than three crushed body lice. Sub-Lieutenant Hughenfort had carried this letter a long time before it had been posted.
The sheet inside was undated. It read:
Dearest Pater, Beloved Mama,
I write from a nice dry dug-out left behind by Jerry, who shall, with any luck, not be needing it again. I trust that you are well and safe within Justice Hall. I think often of the peace inside the Park walls, of how sweet the air smells after a mowing,