An Impartial Witness Read Online Free PDF Page A

must have been difficult.”
    “Yes, well. Sometimes talking about things helps. And you knew Lieutenant Evanson too.”
    She rose to walk with me to the door. “You are looking tired,” she commented. “How long have you been in France?”
    “Since late January. Before that I was on Britannic when she went down.”
    “Ah, yes, I recall. And you’re going back to France now?”
    “I’m told to report to a small hospital just outside St. Jacques.” Which sounded more grand than it was. St. Jacques had all but ceased to exist, muddy ruins in the midst of fields that no longer grew anything, even weeds. “A forward dressing station,” I added. “Though it calls itself a hospital.”
    She nodded. “Two of my nursing sisters have spent some time in France. They are very good at improvising.”
    We had reached the main door. I smiled. “We often have no choice.”
    “This is your driver?” she asked, looking out at the motorcar by the door. “I wish you a safe journey, my dear. If you—should you find that Mrs. Evanson’s family would like to have that photograph, do let me know. It will set my mind at ease. I believe the obituary listed Little Sefton as their address. Sadly, that’s not all that far from here, but it might as well be on the moon. They never came to visit, you see.”
    And then I was on my way to the train, my leave nearly up, and France waiting for me across the Channel.
    At the railing of the ship, staring out at the water as we passed out of The Solent and into the Channel, I found myself thinking that whoever had murdered Mrs. Evanson had killed her husband as well, just as surely as if he’d held that scalpel to the lieutenant’s throat. Two victims—three if one counted the unborn child.
    I found it hard to put Marjorie Evanson out of my mind. Perhaps because I’d first seen her through her husband’s eyes as he held on to life amid great pain so that he could come home to her. Not to her as a murder victim or disgraced wife but as his anchor.
    I had kept the photograph with me. Of course there was no time to find the direction of Mrs. Evanson’s family and post it to them, but remembering her sister-in-law’s emotional response as well as Matron’s comment that they had never visited, I felt I ought to ask their wishes before sending it to them.
    And in the weeks ahead I often caught myself looking for a face I was certain I would recognize, every time I saw an officer wearing the uniform of the Wiltshire regiment.
    It had become a habit.

C HAPTER T HREE
    I WAS HARDLY back in France—a matter of a fortnight—before we were given leave. It was unexpected, but the little dressing station in St. Jacques was too exposed and was being moved to another village. A fresh contingent of nursing sisters was assigned to take over there.
    First, however, we were to escort a hundred wounded back to England. It was never easy, and on this occasion, even though our convoy moved at night, we were strafed by a German aircraft, racing down our lines with guns blazing and then swinging around behind the lines to find other targets of opportunity. Ambulances were clearly marked, so there was no excuse for the attack. The wonder was, only three people were wounded and no one died. I couldn’t help but think the pilot had intended to frighten us rather than kill us. If that were true, he’d succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.
    The weather had changed by the time we reached the coast, and on our crossing there was a storm that turned the rough Channel into bedlam. We were all seasick, patients, nurses, orderlies, and doctors, and probably half the crew if they were honest about it. I’d sailed from India to England and never met a storm like this.
    My stomach agreed with me as I ran to the railing for the third time.
    Then it was back below, cleaning sheets as best I could, washingfaces, swabbing the decks. By the time we reached Dover, I could have kissed the quay from the sheer joy of having dry