171396.fb2 An Unmarked Grave - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 6

An Unmarked Grave - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 6

CHAPTER FOUR

SHORTLY AFTER MY parents returned from the Major’s memorial service, we set out for the clinic in Somerset. No one mentioned my about-face on serving there. It would have been gloating, and my parents would never do that.

We spent one night at home, and the following morning it was my father who drove me to my next posting.

I asked, to pass the time, how he had felt about the memorial service.

“Difficult at best, of course. But I think it went off rather well, and it gave Julia Carson a little comfort. He’s buried in France, you know. Vincent.”

“I remember him before he met Julia. He was half in love with Mother for a time.”

My father chuckled. “So he was. But then a good part of the regiment thought they were in love with her. Your mother has an air about her that binds men to her.”

“Did you know his family well? I remember Vincent’s father as a rather stern man. On one visit he found me in an upstairs passage, looking for Mother, and he quick-marched me back to the Nursery, ordering Nurse to see that I stayed there.”

“Did he indeed? He was a barrister, a formidable opponent in a courtroom, but outside of it he had a stiff manner that sometimes put people off. Vincent confided to me that it was a great shock to his father when his only son chose the Army over the Law. He’d assumed that Vincent would be eager to follow in his footsteps, and for a time he blamed me for that decision. His mother, on the other hand, was from Devon, her family connected with the Raleighs in some way, I think. She was known for her good works and her flame-red hair. A beauty in her day. She was very fond of your mother. Do you remember her?”

“She’d carry me off to the kitchen, where they looked after me until Nurse could fetch me. There were small cakes, iced in different colors. And a cream cake with a rum and sultana sauce for tea.”

“Rum?” he asked, his brows flying up. “I never heard of that.”

I laughed. “Yes, well, I was sworn to secrecy. It was quite lovely, actually.”

Odd that Vincent Carson had married just the opposite woman-pretty, but not a beauty, and a homebody. Her fame, such as it was, lay in her gardens, where she enjoyed spending hours, to the despair of her gardener. She had wanted children, a house full of them. But there hadn’t been any. And wouldn’t be now.

“The Major had two sisters. They were a little older than I, and treated me with kindness.”

There had been some gossip about that amongst the women from the garrison in India who called on my mother from time to time. One of Vincent’s sisters had married beneath her, causing a family breach. The other had married well, her husband something to do with banking in Bristol.

“Do you think-if my duties allowed-that I could call on Julia? Not right away, of course. But I’d like to do that, unless she’s not receiving visitors yet.”

“I think she’d be delighted to see you.”

It was clear from what my father was saying that Simon hadn’t told him about my belief that the Major had been murdered. I was grateful.

Medford Longleigh was a small village in the rolling country that led to the Cotswolds, and high brick walls kept the houses and shops from sliding downhill into the road. They gave a very secretive air to the village, but in fact it had been the only way the area could be settled. The clinic was in Longleigh House, which was just on the outskirts, where the twisting main road straightened itself out for a quarter of a mile or more, allowing the gates to the park to appear to be even more stately than they were. Tall, capped with stone, then curving down in a graceful sweep to connect to the walls that surrounded the grounds, they promised a grand house ahead.

And the promise was fulfilled. Three stories high with an elegant roofline, tall chimneys, and a wing set to either side, the house was lovely. Stone faced the windows, and the portico was Grecian, with wide steps leading down to the drive.

My first thought was that if I’d lived here, I’d have found it hard to give it up to the Army and the hordes of doctors, nursing sisters, orderlies, and patients who inhabited it now. Of course it was the size that had made it ideal for a convalescent clinic. It could accommodate dozens of wounded and the staff to serve them.

My father said gently as we drove up the winding drive through the park, “I’m pleased that you made this choice. Very sensible of you, my dear.” Beneath the words lay the hope that there had been no lasting harm done to our relationship

Smiling in return, I assured him that I was satisfied with this decision.

And then we were pulling up in front of the house.

He came around to my side of the motorcar and handed me out while an orderly bounded down the shallow steps to fetch my valise from the boot.

Colonel Crawford was welcomed by Matron herself, as a courtesy due his rank, and we had tea in her small office. Then he was given a tour of the clinic while a young woman, Sister Harrison, took me to my quarters and settled me in.

We had been assigned to what in better times had been the servants’ bedrooms, made more habitable now with odd bits from the more fashionable rooms downstairs.

“We don’t have much time to ourselves,” Sister Harrison was saying as she looked around my quarters. “But the bed is quite comfortable, and you’ll be glad of that.”

“Matron told me that the majority of your patients are orthopedic cases, with a few surgical cases as well.”

“Yes, all officers, of course.” Officers and men of other ranks were not mixed in clinics. “It isn’t arduous work, there are enough of us to share it out. Some of the patients are difficult, others meek as lambs. But I must warn you about the Yank. He can be quite a handful.” Her smile told me that she liked the man in spite of that.

“An American?” I asked, surprised.

“He joined the Canadian Army when war broke out. Didn’t want to miss it, he said, while waiting for his own country to come into it. He’s quite popular with the men. Someone told me he had a pocket full of medals and should have been put in for a VC. But then he’s American, you see.”

Victoria Crosses were not handed out lightly.

She helped me unpack my uniforms, and as I went down to report for duty, my father was just leaving. I wondered if he’d been at his most charming in order to smooth my path here. That would be like him and explained why he chose to bring me to Longleigh House rather than send me off with Simon. Not that Simon couldn’t have smoothed my path as well, but rank had its privileges, and that was pointed out as Matron said, watching his motorcar disappear down the drive, “A fine man, your father.”

I took up my duties just after luncheon had been served, my first assignment reading to the men. It was difficult to keep them amused, anxious as they were to return to duty if they could. Broken legs, cracked ribs, shoulder injuries, back wounds, all of them the sort of thing that took time to heal, like it or not. And Sister Harrison was blunt about it.

“A new pretty face is just the thing,” she told me, handing me a Conan Doyle mystery. “And light fare. Nothing heavy-going, sad, or reminding them of the war.”

When I walked into what had once been the drawing room of the house, I found some forty patients there waiting for me. Their expectant faces told me that word had already made the rounds regarding a new Sister being assigned to the clinic.

A tall, fair man with a welcoming smile stepped forward, limping, to hold my chair for me, and as I sat down, I wondered if he was the American. He lacked the reserve I was accustomed to in British officers, his manner open and rather cheeky, I thought.

I read the story, and for the most part my audience was attentive. I saw two or three men gingerly stirring in their chairs as if in pain, and made a note of it. One fell asleep almost on the first page, which I took to mean he had been given medication before the midday meal. His face was slack, as if the relief from suffering was a blessing. The others applauded Mr. Holmes’s acumen in solving the case, and then it was time for exercises. Patients were divided into groups where the affected limb was strengthened.

I assisted the doctor in charge of one such group, helping men work on the muscles in damaged arms, clenching and unclenching their fists, gently encouraging their bodies to remember how to respond to lifting and carrying without dropping things, and to learn anew the skills to compensate for weakness and the pain they were still experiencing.

Next I made the rounds with the sister in charge of giving medicines. After that I walked with three men recovering from broken limbs, their canes tapping across the drive as we headed toward the park. We moved slowly, chatting as we went, and I learned that one had been wounded by shrapnel, another had had a bullet through his knee, and the third had broken his tibia in a fall down a shell hole, catching his boot in the loose earth, and bending his leg back in such a way that the bone snapped.

After dinner, where I fed several patients who hadn’t yet recovered their dexterity with fork and knife, I was asked to help change bandages for the night. For the most part, the wounds were healing well, although I could see Dr. Gaines’s concern over one patient whose wound was still draining.

“I don’t want to operate again,” he muttered to himself. “No, that wouldn’t be at all wise. Still…”

By the time I got to bed that first night, I was very tired and all too aware of the fact that I was not yet healed enough myself to keep up the pace. I wondered how I would have managed in France, where we were chronically short of staff and sometimes worked four-and-twenty hours without relief.

Still, I settled into my routine easily and soon discovered what Sister Harrison meant about the American.

He was polite, always there to open doors or carry heavy burdens, though his limp grew more pronounced when he did, and I scolded him for not taking proper care of his injury.

He smiled. “I’m bored to tears, Sister. And you shouldn’t be hauling those baskets of linens down to the laundry. There are orderlies to handle the heavy work.”

It was true, of course, but the orderlies were busy enough that I sometimes preferred not to wait for them.

“And I shall be blamed if you inflame that wound while being chivalrous.”

He grinned. “My mother,” he said, “taught me to treat the fairer sex with deference and courtesy. Whatever the cost.”

“Yes, well, she wouldn’t be best pleased with me, Captain, if your leg has to be amputated because you were being silly.”

But there was no discouraging him. “My leg,” he said loftily, “is healing better than expected. I’ll be back in France before the summer.”

His name, I soon learned, was Thomas Barclay. His father had made a fortune in railroads, especially running lines north through the state of Michigan, and then he had had the foresight to realize that a ferry could carry the new flood of holidaymakers across to Mackinac (pronounced, I was informed, Mackinaw) Island to the famous hotel there, or to the Upper Peninsula, which abutted on Canada. Railroads, shipping, even a monopoly on the horses used in lieu of lorries and even motorcars on the island had been quite lucrative, and a yearly regatta (which he claimed he’d won more than once) brought even more guests to the north. This explained to some extent his decision to join the Canadian forces, as did the fact that he and his father had often gone north across the border to hunt with friends living there.

Sister Harrison said one morning as she settled her cap over her sleekly brushed auburn hair, “You have made a conquest. The Yank follows you about like a forlorn puppy.”

“Have you looked at his leg? He refuses to let me see it. I’m rather worried about him.”

“Don’t be. Dr. Gaines gives him a tongue-lashing when he doesn’t take care of it properly. I think he rather likes making you fret over him. One way to be certain of your attention,” she added with a grin.

The next day was my free afternoon, and I had given some thought to my plans. It was not more than twenty miles to where Julia Carson lived in a village called Nether Thornton. Twenty miles was farther than even I could manage on a bicycle.

Dr. Gaines owned a motorcar, which he kept in an outbuilding on the grounds. I had been told this in passing by one of the officers, and I had seen it as well when he drove to London with a patient to consult a specialist.

I went to his office and asked respectfully if I could borrow the motorcar for a few hours, explaining that an officer in my father’s old regiment had been killed recently and that I should like to offer my condolences to his widow, having been unable to attend the memorial service.

He peered at me over the rims of his glasses. “Ah. You had the Spanish Influenza,” he said, as if that was how he remembered who I was.

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you drive a motorcar, Sister? I shouldn’t like to lose mine at the hands of a well-meaning novice.”

“I understand, sir. I’ve driven motorcars, ambulances, and even lorries.”

“Yes, that’s in France, I think, where roads are rather poorly defined, and there’s room for error. This is Somerset, where brick walls and hedgerows tend to hem one in.”

I smiled. “I have driven in England, where the roads are often nearly as narrow, twisting, and ill made as in France.”

“So they are. Well. I shall allow you to borrow it this time. On the condition that you take someone with you.”

I didn’t want anyone with me while I spoke to Julia.

“Humor me, Sister,” he said, reading my expression all too clearly. “It will give me peace of mind to know you are well protected should any problems arise. Matron would not enjoy informing your father that we have misplaced you or injured you on our watch.”

Reviewing the patients I had come to know, I cast about for a suitable escort. But Dr. Gaines had already made up his mind.

“Take the Yank with you. He’s impatient, trying to push his recovery. An outing of this sort will do him good. And he’s presentable enough. You needn’t worry about upsetting the family.”

The last person I wished to have with me.

But it was clear that I shouldn’t be allowed to take the motorcar at all, if I insisted on going alone. And there weren’t many patients, for that matter, well enough to accompany me. I tried to put as good a face on it as possible and thanked him for the use of his vehicle.

And so it was that Thomas Barclay and I set out for Nether Thornton in early afternoon. Captain Barclay was in good spirits, glad to be free of Longleigh House for even a few hours.

“My father’s great-grandfather was English,” he said happily, as if this forged a bond between us.

“A great many Americans have English forebears,” I replied repressively, turning out of the drive onto the main road. “After all, it was once a British colony, was it not?”

“There are Germans living in Michigan,” he informed me. “Lutherans, most of them. I find it hard sometimes to think that the Germans I’m ordered to shoot aren’t their cousins or former neighbors. When we take prisoners, I can’t tell the difference.”

I too had met Germans who were not the ogres of the popular press. “Yes, I understand. My father told me once that nations are often at war, but people are not.”

“A wise man, your father. Army, is he?”

“Yes. His regiment was sent to India shortly after I was born, and my parents took me with them. I was educated there, rather than being sent home to school. I’m very grateful to them for that decision.”

“I’d been to Canada, of course, but otherwise I was never out of the States until I sailed for France. Still, I’ve traveled widely in my own country. My father saw to that. He had many interests in railroads and shipping, and my mother and I went with him as often as not. I know Charleston and New Orleans, San Francisco and New York, Denver and Boston. Ever been to America?”

“I haven’t.”

“Well, when the war is over, you’re invited to visit. My mother and sisters would like you. They’d take you to Mackinac Island. You’d explore on horseback, sit on the famous veranda to watch the sunset over Lake Michigan, and have a real English tea in the lobby. I think you’d enjoy that.”

“Thank you.”

He was relaxing in his seat now, and I realized that he’d been quite tense after we’d reached the main road, waiting for me to overturn the motorcar on a curve or run us into one of the high walls in the surrounding villages. Smiling, I said, “I do drive well. I was taught by Simon Brandon, who never does anything by halves.”

“You must have been,” he replied, grinning sheepishly. “Neither of my sisters drives.” There was a pause, and then he asked, “Who is Simon Brandon?”

“A family friend,” I said, not wishing to go into the whole of my relationship with Simon. He had been my father’s batman when he first joined the regiment, and later rose to the post of Regimental Sergeant-Major. He and my father had always been close, despite the difference in their ages, for Simon was nearer to mine than to his. I had known him all my life. He lived in a cottage near our house in Somerset, and like my father, retired from active duty, he was often employed by the War Office in matters that were never discussed. They disappeared for hours or even days at a time, came home weary, sometimes bloody, and often grim.

“From the way you said that, he must be more than simply a family friend,” he pointed out.

I turned to him. “Are you jealous, Captain?”

I expected him to deny it, but he said slowly, “I think I am.”

We drove in silence the rest of the way to Nether Thornton, and on the outskirts I said, “I’m here to call on Mrs. Carson. Her husband was killed recently.” I explained the connection and was casting about, trying to think of a kind way to ask him not to come in with me, when he solved the problem himself.

“Then you don’t want a stranger underfoot. Just ahead-the pub, The Pelican. Drop me there. Just don’t forget to retrieve me when you’re ready to go back to Longleigh House.”

I smiled, grateful. “I shan’t forget. Dr. Gaines would be furious if I lost my minder. And I should like to borrow the motorcar again.”

“Anytime, Sister. Just ask me.” He paused. “Can you use the crank? Or would you prefer that I come to fetch you? Either way, I shan’t say a word to the good doctor.”

“Thank you, but I can manage,” I assured him. The Colonel Sahib had taught me the safe way to use a crank.

I drew up halfway along the High Street, setting the Captain down in front of the handsome half-timbered pub. He had more difficulty descending from the motorcar than he’d had getting into it. I looked away as he struggled, knowing he wouldn’t take kindly to an offer of help. Finally, standing straight, his cane in his hand, he said, “I’ll be as sober as a judge whenever you come for me. You needn’t worry.” And with that he walked in front of the motorcar and entered the pub. I was beginning to learn how much effort such bravado required on his part. And the cost in pain.

I drove on through the center of the village and to the house close by the church where the Major had lived after his marriage.

Leaving the motorcar by the front gate, I walked up to the door. Black silk draped the knocker, and I let it fall gently against the brass plate.

After a moment the door was opened by Tessie, who had been with the family from the time of their marriage. Tall and rawboned and kind, she said, “Miss Crawford! It’s so good to see you. Mrs. Carson will be delighted that you’ve come. Are you feeling stronger? You look quite yourself, you know.”

“And I am.” I explained about the clinic as she ushered me inside and down the passage to the sitting room.

Julia rose from her desk as I came in, exclaiming as Tessie had done and coming to embrace me. “I’m so happy to see you. How are you? Your father told me you’d had quite a severe bout with this terrible illness.”

“I was one of the lucky ones,” I responded. “It quite ravaged France.”

“Come, sit down. Tessie will bring us tea. I was glad that Vincent died quickly. We also lost our cook to the influenza, and it was a terrible death. Nineteen people died here in Nether Thornton, and we were told we had only a mild outbreak. But we were warned that it could return because of that. The possibility doesn’t bear thinking about.”

We sat and reminisced for a bit, and then when the tea was brought in, she said, “I thought my world had ended when the news came about Vincent. His commanding officer wrote to me. A Colonel Prescott. A lovely letter, assuring me that Vincent hadn’t suffered, and how much my letters had meant to him to the very end. He must have known my husband well. Little things are such a comfort at a time like that, and he told me that Vincent was liked by his men and that they had been brokenhearted by his death. That they had asked to see his body and pay their respects before it was taken away. Vincent cared for his men. It would have meant so much to him.”

All this was very interesting to me. How could Colonel Prescott have known so much about the Major’s death in the lines? Unless it was true. I felt a twinge of doubt.

“It was indeed thoughtful. Er-had he served under Colonel Prescott for some time?”

“Well, there were the censors, of course, and he seldom mentioned names in his letters. It was Private J. and Captain H. and Colonel R. He kept a journal too, and he used the same code, so to speak, in that. In the event he was taken prisoner and the Germans could use the information against us. I’m told journals are discouraged for that very reason.”

Piecing together such small bits of information could sometimes lead to a picture of a regiment’s strength and position.

“Did Colonel Prescott send his journal home with the rest of his possessions?”

“I don’t believe he knew about it or he would have looked for it. It wasn’t in the box of his belongings. I wept when they came. They still carried the scent of Vincent’s pipe tobacco. Do you remember? He had it made up for him in London. I could bury my nose in them and feel that he was close again. There was the pipe, his Testament and his shaving kit, and so on. Two of his books, one a volume of poetry, another a history. His other uniforms. So few things to mark a man’s life and death.”

I had to agree with her. Her husband had been an energetic, intelligent, and caring man. Hard to capture those qualities in the small packet of his possessions.

Still curious about the journal, I brought the subject back to that. “Did he ever show you his journal? When he was on leave?”

“He read to me bits and pieces, the parts that he said wouldn’t disturb me. The pages on his short leave in Paris were wonderful. He promised to take me there after the war. Well, after France was herself again. And he read me a section about his first crossing to France, and some of his feelings about leaving me and facing death. I remembered those lines when the news came. ‘I vowed to love, honor, and cherish Julia until death parted us, but this separation feels like a small death. If it should come to the worst, and be the real thing, if I am capable of carrying any thought into the grave with me it will be, I shall love you until the end of time, just as if I’d been at your side until we were old and gray and still slept in each other’s arms.’ ”

The tears came then, and I chided myself for being the cause of them. But she said as I comforted her, “I find I do well for the most part. And then suddenly I am bereft and I find myself crying uncontrollably. It’s so silly.”

“It isn’t silly at all.” Indeed, it showed me that there was no trouble in this marriage. “You miss him terribly, and I won’t promise you it will get any easier. But with time, it will be a different pain.”

She looked up at me. “Your mother said something like that to me. I was so grateful for her understanding.”

When she was calmer, I asked, “Was there anyone in France that Vincent was particularly close to, someone he confided in?”

“He and Andrew were close-they were at Sandhurst together. But Andrew died early on, at Mons. After that, Vincent was reluctant to make friends. It was too painful to send them into certain death. The price of promotion, he called it, when he had to give such orders himself.”

I’d heard other officers who felt the same way.

“Was there anyone he particularly disliked?”

“What an odd question!”

“Not really. Vincent was always such a good judge of character. And as I remember, he wasn’t one to suffer fools lightly.”

She smiled at that. “No, he wasn’t, was he? I asked him once-well, war is rather terrible, isn’t it, people wounded and dying in front of one’s eyes, and I thought perhaps petty things no longer mattered. He answered that whatever a man was before the war, he usually brought with him to France. Good or bad. But he particularly disliked those who let down the side, who couldn’t be counted on in pinch.” A frown replaced the smile. “It’s odd, now that you’ve brought this up-there was trouble with one of his sergeants. Vincent was very angry with the man. I never knew what it was about, just that later he was angry with himself for having lost his temper. Fortunately soon afterward, this sergeant was shifted to another part of the line. Vincent seldom lost his temper, but when he did, he could be quite furious. It went with his red hair, I think. His mother also had a lively temper.”

I laughed, agreeing with her. And to my surprise, she added, “There was also that brother-in-law of his. Sabrina’s husband. Vincent called him a slacker. A disgrace to the uniform.”

“He wasn’t in our regiment, as I recall.”

“Oh, no. He joined the Royal Engineers. God knows what they saw in him. But he has been serving under Vincent, something to do with mines. He had been serving-” She caught herself and changed the tense. “I can’t seem to stop thinking that Vincent’s death was confused with someone else’s, and he’ll write soon to tell me he’s well and not to worry.”

I had stayed as long as I should in politeness, and so I set my teacup back on the tray and took my leave. Julia begged me to come again, if I could, and I promised I would. “Were Vincent’s sisters at the memorial service? I haven’t seen them since your wedding. I hope they are well.”

She made a face. “Sabrina didn’t come. She’s very likely poor again. You never know with that man she married. I think he must gamble or something of the sort. They always seem to be short of money. But Valerie was here. She and Vincent were only a year apart. She stayed with me, and we comforted each other.”

“I’m glad.”

With another embrace we said good-bye, and I drove Dr. Gaines’s motorcar sedately back to The Pelican, where the Captain must have been watching for me. He came out at once, smiled as he nodded toward the crank, and said, “Well, well.”

“Don’t be silly.”

He got in beside me, and I saw the grimness of his mouth as he settled into his seat. This outing had tried his leg. As impatient as he was to leave the clinic and get back to the fighting, it was clear to both of us that he wasn’t ready yet.

Perhaps, I thought, this explained why Dr. Gaines had sent him with me-to measure his readiness in a way that he could face, rather than listening to a doctor telling him a hard truth.

I found myself with a new respect for Dr. Gaines.

We drove out of Nether Thornton in silence, mainly because Captain Barclay was in no mood for light conversation. But as his leg stopped throbbing quite so viciously, his spirits returned and he said, “Was it a good visit?”

“Yes, indeed.” Julia had unwittingly given me food for thought.

My confidence had been shaken by Colonel Prescott’s letter. And yet there was the evidence of Private Wilson’s death. And what had become of Vincent’s journal? If it was in his tunic pocket when he was killed, someone should have discovered it and put it with his other belongings. A doctor wouldn’t have undressed him if he had died instantly of his wounds. Sadly there was no time for the dead, because there were so many living in need of attention.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Captain Barclay said after several miles of silence.

I smiled ruefully. “Sorry. I was distracted.”

“This wasn’t simply a courtesy call, was it?” the Captain asked after a few minutes. “There’s something on your mind. Why did you go to visit Mrs. Carson?”

That was too close to the truth for comfort.

“Actually I was thinking about Major Carson’s journal. He kept one, according to Julia. She’d seen it, he’d read her a few passages from it. But it didn’t come home with his other possessions.”

“Is it important?”

“I-don’t quite know. For Julia it is.”

“It could have been lost when he was wounded and every effort was being made to save his life.”

“He died instantly, according to his commanding officer.”

“It’s what we’re taught to write. No mother or wife wants to hear that a loved one died screaming and writhing in agony. When he was hit, his men would have done what they could, and whatever falls into the unspeakable muck in the bottom of a trench is lost forever. Or it could have been buried with him.”

“True,” I said doubtfully, unable to tell him that it could all have been a lie, how Vincent Carson had died.

“You don’t believe me. Why do women fix on tangible things? He could have given instructions for the journal not to be sent home. It’s possible he wrote what he believed to be the truth at the time, but still words that perhaps it would pain his wife to read after he was dead and unable to explain. Or perhaps his commanding officer read enough to feel it was unwise.”

“Yes, I do believe you,” I said, threading my way through a flock of sheep that was taking up the road. “Thinking about it in that light.” But it once more raised the specter of marital problems. There was nothing about Julia even to hint that she was glad to be free to marry someone else. But if Vincent had fallen out of love with his wife and there was someone else, he could have written about his struggle with himself. A very good reason to order it destroyed if he was killed.

“Good. Anything else worrying you? I’m always happy to make your burdens lighter.”

I had to laugh. For the rest of the journey we talked about him-how he’d come to join the Canadian Army, when and where he was wounded, and what he hoped to do when the war finally ended.

We had come within sight of the gates to Longleigh House when Thomas Barclay said again, without warning, “Tell me again who Simon Brandon is.”