We Shall Not Sleep_ A Novel - Anne Perry [42]
“Of course I don’t,” she said at last. “All I know is who couldn’t have because they were somewhere else.” How lame that sounded.
“And was Wil Sloan somewhere else?” he asked, almost casually.
Her mind raced. How could she say anything that was of value without making him suspicious? She did not even know when the murder had happened, or if he had already spoken to Wil. The only time she and Wil had been at the Casualty Clearing Station was roughly between three o’clock and half past four. If it were not then, would Jacobson even be asking?
“Miss Reavley?” he prompted.
She tried to look innocent. She must not seem too clever, or that in itself would make him distrustful of her. “We were both in the ambulance most of the night,” she answered. “Miles away from here.”
“But not all of it,” he pointed out. “You brought the wounded back. Surely that was your entire purpose?”
“Yes, of course. We were here a couple of times, a little before midnight, and again at about three.”
“And when did you leave again?” His face was almost expressionless.
“The first time about quarter to one, the second at half past four, roughly.”
“So there were at least two and a half hours that you were both here,” he pointed out.
She wanted to say something sarcastic, referring to their whole purpose, but swallowed her temper. “Yes. We have to get the wounded off and into the Admissions tent, then clean the ambulance and refuel it.” She nearly added that it had needed maintenance, too, but since she’d mended it without Wil, it would be walking into another trap. Where had Wil been the second time? She did not know. But he could not have killed Sarah. No one who knew Wil would have had such an idea even enter their minds. He was hot-tempered on very rare occasions, but never toward women. He was generous to a fault, and idealistic; otherwise he would not even have been here. An American, he had come voluntarily in 1915, when his own country had had nothing to do with the war. Like many others, he had simply believed it was the right thing to do, and so he had done it. He was patient, funny, too honest, a little unsophisticated, and one of the kindest people she knew.
Again Jacobson prompted her, more abruptly this time. “Miss Reavley?”
She took a gamble. “I don’t know where he was at midnight,” she answered. “I was trying to think, but as far as I can remember, he went to the tent with the walking wounded. You’ll have to ask him.”
She saw the lack of interest in his face. So Sarah had been killed between three and half past four. The cold bit inside her like ice. She took the risk, certain beyond any doubt at all that Wil would have done the same for her. “The second time I had to clean the spark plugs in the ambulance. They often get dirty and then they don’t work. It took us awhile to get the wounded in, and after that he got me some tea and a piece of bread and jam. Jam’s rationed now, so that’s not easy. Then he held the lamp for me. The engine was in a bit of a mess, and I needed two hands.”
“I see.” He was looking at her more closely, almost narrowly, as if he was trying to discern something about her. It made her uncomfortable. Did he know she was lying? Had Wil said something different?
“Ever had any trouble, Miss Reavley? Any unwanted attentions?” he asked.
“No!” she said, and knew she had answered too quickly.
His eyes widened. It was obvious that he did not believe her.
She felt her face color. “Nobody has behaved badly!” she said curtly. “I deal with wounded men on the battlefield, Mr. Jacobson. We all have one aim in common—to stop them from dying, and get them to the nearest medical help. Nobody has time or thought for much else.” It was not his fault that he knew nothing about the front, and it was unfair that she was angry with him for it, but she was. And she was frightened, and guilty for lying, even though it was necessary. Her friends were in trouble, and he was an outsider who did not understand.
“That is clearly not true, Miss Reavley,”