We Shall Not Sleep_ A Novel - Anne Perry [54]
Matthew remembered one picture vividly, perhaps because he did not understand it. He had been tired, sickened by the stench, shivering with cold, but in the flare of star shells in the distance he had seen a man and a boy struggling. There had been a quick lunge, as if with a bayonet, then the boy had fallen, and the man had picked him up and carried him. He had seen the man’s face for an instant, in profile. He had a large nose. It had made Matthew think for a moment, idiotically, of the cartoons of Mr. Punch.
“Yes,” he said abruptly to Jacobson. “I saw a man with a profile like Mr. Punch, and a boy.”
“Soldiers?” Jacobson said skeptically.
“Of course. Who else would be out there?”
“What were they doing? Did you speak to them?” Hampton put in.
“No. The boy was hurt. The man was carrying him,” Matthew answered, still trying to make sense of it in his mind.
“Did you offer to help?” Hampton pressed.
“No. I don’t have any medical training. He was going toward the Casualty Clearing Station anyway.”
“What about helping to carry him?” Hampton, apparently, would not give up.
“He was only a boy!” Matthew protested. “It would have been more awkward for two of us than for one.”
Hampton shrugged.
“I see.” Jacobson nodded. “And you made a point of telling us that you did not know, nor had you ever heard of Miss Price, until the news of her death, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Are you certain of that, Major Reavley?” This time it was Hampton who spoke.
“Yes, of course I am,” Matthew said somewhat tensely. “How would I know her? I haven’t been to the front line before. Most of my work is in London.” It seemed a stupid question.
“Indeed?” Jacobson raised his eyebrows. “But Miss Price has not been here long—in fact, less than a year. And she has been home on leave even during that time.”
“Which she took in London,” Hampton added.
“There are four or five million people in London,” Matthew told him with a touch of sarcasm. “Curiously, so far as I know, my path and Miss Price’s did not cross.”
Hampton took a step forward. “That is not true, Major Reavley. In going through her effects I found not only a photograph of you and her together—taken; to judge by the clothes and the general surroundings, some time before the war—but also a note from you, undated. From the tone of them, it is quite clear that you had a relationship of some warmth, even intimacy. It must have been nice to find an old friend out here in this waste of mud and death. But she wasn’t so friendly anymore. How did it happen, sir?”
Matthew was stunned. This was becoming grotesque. “I’d never even heard of her until after she was killed!” he protested.
Hampton moved a piece of paper on the table beside Jacobson and picked up a photograph, laying it where Matthew could see it. It showed a young woman, very pretty, with fair hair and a wide smile. She was facing the camera, and beside her was a handsome young man, posing a little self-consciously. He, too, was fair, with level blue eyes and a strong-featured face not very unlike Joseph’s, and clearly recognizable as Matthew in his university days. He had on a cricketing pullover in Cambridge colors. His arm was around the girl. Sarah Gladwyn. He remembered her well. She had been courting a friend of his but found she preferred Matthew, and the courtship had ended. It had all been embarrassing, and he knew he himself had not behaved well.
“Sarah Gladwyn,” he said aloud, his voice hoarse. He felt the heat burn up his face. “Her name wasn’t Price. I…I never connected them. It was years ago!”
“Yes, Major, we can see that,” Hampton agreed. “But you said you didn’t know her at all.”
“I didn’t! Not by the name you told me!” Matthew protested.
“So you say.” Disbelief was heavy in Hampton’s voice. “But she was killed the night you arrived, and no one can account for your movements. The only person who can vouch for you at all is your own brother, the chaplain. If I may say so, he is a rather unworldly man, and obliged to think the best of people by his calling, not