We Shall Not Sleep_ A Novel - Anne Perry [31]
“That’s rubbish,” Moira said quickly, her face flushed. “That was just spread around by Sarah as a piece of spite.”
“Why would she do that?” Allie asked.
“How do I know? Boredom, fear, loneliness, sheer stupidity,” Moira snapped. “Why do we do any of the things we do? She was lonely, and she had nothing much to go home to. Not that many of us have.”
Allie was silent, her face filled with a sudden, overwhelming grief.
Moira looked at Judith. “It’s as if something has sort of…broken,” she said quietly. “Yesterday we were all stiff upper lip, and today nobody knows what to say or do. I don’t know how many of us actually liked Sarah, but she was one of us, and nobody at all should be used that way, and left…exposed like that.” She put her arms around herself, holding them folded tight, protectively. “I feel…naked too, as if every man’s looking at her but seeing me as well. I know that’s idiotic, but I can’t help it.”
“It’ll be better once they find out who did it,” Judith said, trying to reassure her, although she feared it was a lie. Suspicions might be proved wrong, but did you ever forget that they had been there? Trust broken is not easy to mend; sometimes it is not even possible. “Thanks for the tea. I’ve got to see if I can find some spark plugs.” She put the mug down and with a small wave of her hand went outside into the cold midmorning light.
In the empty Resuscitation tent Joseph reported to Captain Cavan to ask what he could do to help. He knew Cavan well and had an immense respect for him. After Major Northrup had been killed, it had been Joseph who had saved Cavan’s life at the court-martial, although he could not save the Victoria Cross for which he had been recommended for his extraordinary courage under fire. Naturally they did not speak of it now; a gentleman did not mention such an obligation.
“Glad you came,” Cavan said sincerely. He was sitting on an upturned box emptying stew out of a Dixie can, and there was a mug of tea on the makeshift table. His blood-splashed white coat was slung over the back of a hard chair. “Need all the help we can get to keep control of this.” He was in his middle thirties, an angular man with fair hair and tired, heavy-lidded eyes over broad cheekbones. With long rest and regular food he would have been handsome.
There was no need for explanations; he knew Joseph understood. “Police are here already. Damn nuisance, because nobody can leave until they get this sorted out. Means we’re piled up with German prisoners, and this fellow Jacobson won’t even let our regular ambulance crews in and out, except the women, in case it’s one of them.” He looked exhausted and thoroughly fed up. He shook his head. “God, what a bloody stupid mess. Sorry, Reavley. See what you can do to help. Jacobson’s in the first tent at the end.”
“Yes, sir.” Joseph was outside on the wooden pathway before he fully realized what Cavan had said—no one could leave. He, Matthew, and Schenckendorff were imprisoned here until this crime was solved. It would probably only be a couple of days, but it was already October 17. What if it took longer?
The air was cold, with a raw wind coming in from the east. He walked quickly, his boots pounding on the slats, but at least the planks were firm under his weight, not like the constantly rocking duckboards in the trenches, the best of them covered with chicken wire to help men avoid slipping when they were wet.
He reached the tent and knocked on the door frame. He heard the command to enter, and pushed it open. Inside, it had been cleared of most of its medical supplies, no doubt because they were needed as much as for the convenience of the police. The man sitting behind the bare, wooden table was plain-faced with dark hair brushed straight back and a short bristly mustache. He appeared to be of average height. Only the hands holding a pencil above a clean sheet of paper were in any way remarkable. They were slender, fine-boned, with particularly long fingers. His insignia said that