A Bitter Truth: A Bess Crawford Mystery
By Charles Todd
3.5/5
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About this ebook
“Highly recommended—well-rounded, believable characters, a multi-layered plot solidly based on human nature, all authentically set in the England of 1917…an outstanding and riveting read.”
—New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens
“Bess Crawford is a strong and likable character.”
—Washington Times
Already deservedly lauded for the superb historical crime novels featuring shell-shocked Scotland Yard inspector Ian Rutledge (A Lonely Death, A Pale Horse et al), acclaimed author Charles Todd upped the ante by introducing readers to a wonderful new series protagonist, World War One battlefield nurse Bess Crawford. Featured for a third time in A Bitter Truth, Bess reaches out to help an abused and frightened young woman, only to discover that no good deed ever goes unpunished when the good Samaritan nurse finds herself falsely accused of murder. A terrific follow up to Todd’s A Duty to the Dead and An Impartial Witness, A Bitter Truth is another thrilling and evocative mystery from “one of the most respected writers in the genre” (Denver Post) and a treat for fans of Elizabeth George, Anne Perry, Martha Grimes, and Jacqueline Winspear.
Charles Todd
Charles Todd is the New York Times bestselling author of the Inspector Ian Rutledge mysteries, the Bess Crawford mysteries, and two stand-alone novels. A mother-and-son writing team, Caroline passed away in August 2021 and Charles lives in Florida.
Read more from Charles Todd
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Reviews for A Bitter Truth
242 ratings43 reviews
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5This was a very well written mystery. I enjoyed it very much. This is the very first one that I have read in the series. I did not have a problem understanding what was going on. I now want to go on and read the other books. I would highly recommend this book to anyone who enjoys English mysteries.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5In the third book about Nurse Bess Crawford, Charles Todd has defined how people in the upper class feel about those who do not follow the rules. Women are wives and mothers and stay home. They do not take unpleasant jobs, espcially nursing. They also think that just because they are 'known', the police have no business thinking that any one of them could be involved in a crime. Bess is a nurse in France during World War I. As she arrives home for a much needed rest coinciding with Christmas. she finds a badly bruised woman shivering on her London apartment doorstep. Eventually the woman reveals that her husband had hit her during a violent argument. She has not seen him for 3 years, and he is much changed from the man she married before the war. He will not consider having children which she desperately wants. When Bess reluctantly agrees to accompany her home to make sure that she arrives safely and no longer needs medical assistance, she thinks that she will only be delayed for a day. From there she plans to travel to her parents house for Christmas. Unfortunately a murder occurs, and the entire household is told they must not leave until an inquest is held and/or the murder is found. There is a subplot about a small child that bears a striking resemblence to a daughter that had died when she was about 3 or 4. The dispair the family felt is one of the main reasons the husband will not consider having childre.I liked the book and all the background information on WWI. But I agree with one of the other reveiwers that Bess does seem to have more leave than others. Maybe it was different for the medical teams than for the men actually fighting the war. Looking forward to the next book and to see if Bess continues to see her Australian soldier.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This book, third in the Bess Crawford mystery series, is an excellent read and is highly atmospheric. The reader is transported from 1917 London to Sussex to just behind the lines of the battlefields of France. The characters are quirky and secretive. Just about any one of them could be the culprit. The prose is generously descriptive without excess. The ugliness of war, although present, is not offensively graphic. Yet the characters' lives are truly tragic and the writing draws hard on our heartstrings. I will surely delve into the other two books of this series and I eagerly await future installments of the ongoing Bess Crawford saga.I am grateful to William Morrow, a division of Harper Collins Publishers and Goodreads First Reads for having provided a free copy of this book. Their generosity, however, did not influence this review - the words of which are mine alone.Synopsis (from book's back cover):While attempting to help a woman in distress, World War I battlefield nurse Bess Crawford learns a bitter truth, that no good deed goes unpunished.Returning to her London flat from the front lines in France for a well-earned Christmas leave, Bess Crawford comes upon a bruised and shivering woman huddled in the doorway. Propelled by pity, Bess takes her in. Yet despite the ill effects of a concussion suffered during a quarrel with her husband that erupted into violence, the woman decides to return home, and asks Bess to travel with her to Sussex.At Vixen Hill, Bess discovers a family in mourning for an elder son who has died of war wounds, and a husband tormented by jealousy and his own guilty conscience. But when a troubled houseguest meets an untimely death, Bess finds herself the prime suspect, and on the trail of a vicious killer that leads back to war-torn France toward a startling revelation that will place her life in dire jeopardy.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Bess arrives at her apartment to see a woman hiding from the rain in her doorway. She has a badly bruised face and black eye so Bess coaxes her inside out of the weather. Lydia begs Bess to accompany her back home to Sussex and introduces the rest of the family. It’s not long before there’s a murder, a canterous police inspector, a child who died long ago suspiciously, another missing child, and a homeless person and Bess can’t leave.Lydia actions were not realistic to me. Not sure why but lately I find the characters in the historical mysteries immature.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I am becoming very comfortable with the Bess Crawford series. I like her perspective and seeing WWI from the nursing point of view. It helps a lot to have the capable Simon Brandon around to offer protection and find out details.In this story Bess comes home from leave to find a woman huddled in the doorway of the building where she lives. She has compassion on the woman, helping her warm up and get fed and then being drawn into her story of running from home after an argument with her husband, also home on leave. Against Simon's better judgment, Bess goes with the woman to help her over the uncomfortable return home. Before Bess can leave, one of the friends of the family is murdered.The book looks at the issues caused in a marriage by the long separation of war, the difficulty in those at home understanding those who are away at the front. We also see how the soldiers communicate to the front line and back along the way as some of them help Bess with a search for an orphan girl in France. There is the usual stress as the family members wonder about each other, I guess even blood relations recognize that at core we are all sinners and capable of evil. But we too hate to see any of the people we've met end up being a murderer.It moves along and covers the transitions between home leave and serving on the front well. A good addition to a good series. I look forward to the next Bess Crawford mystery.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Bess Crawford, home for a brief leave at Christmas, finds herself embroiled in the troubles of another family. Briefly suspected of murder, she allows herself to be persuaded to search France for a missing orphan who may be a relative of her hosts.Melancholy as always, with a suspect and motive coming out of left field late in the book.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/52011,Harper Audio, Read by Rosalyn LandorPublisher’s Summary: adapted from Audible.comBess Crawford returns from France for a well-earned Christmas leave to find a bruised and shivering woman huddled in the doorway of her London residence. Bess takes the woman in and learns that she has had a violent quarrel with her husband – still, she wants to return home to Sussex, if Bess will go with her. Duty-bound Bess obliges, but soon discovers that this is a good deed with unforeseeable consequences.Vixen Hill is a house in mourning. Lydia’s family has gathered for a memorial service for the elder son, who died of war wounds. Her husband, home on compassionate leave, is tense, tormented by jealousy and his own guilty conscience. Then, when a troubled houseguest is found dead, Bess herself becomes a prime suspect in the case. The murder will lead her to a dangerous quest in war-torn France, an unexpected ally, and a startling revelation that puts her in jeopardy before a vicious killer can be exposed.My Review: Decent read. Certainly not the caliber of the Maisie Dobbs series, which I came to love, but nonetheless entertaining. Events of the story are plausible, and the mystery involved enough that I didn't see the conclusion coming. I must say again that Rosalyn Landor is perfect!
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Charles Todd’s A Bitter Truth interweaves the vices of war with the failings of families into a psychologically and historically compelling mystery set in England in 1917. Bess Crawford, an intelligent and fearless nurse working on the front lines in France, comes home on leave to discover a frightened young woman with a bruised face hiding on the doorstep of her London flat. Unable by nature to leave the mysterious stranger out in the cold winter night, Bess convinces her to take shelter inside. Little does Bess know what a great deal of trouble she has brought into her life. Charles Todd—who is actually a mother-son partnership made up of Caroline and Charles Todd—excels at keeping the war and its manifold repercussions and tragedies front and center even while much of the action takes place in England. Todd also portrays an extended family already traumatized before the war and now disintegrating under the war’s pressures. Bess finds herself unwillingly bound to this family through her initial concern for Lydia, the young woman on her doorstep and the possibility she needs to be protected from a violent marriage. That turns out to be only the first level of secrets and crimes that will be unveiled throughout.You’re never sure whether those crimes and secrets arise from the war or whether they are connected to the private history of this one family. The interplay shows how, even far from the actual fighting, the war has torn apart even a small country town and its denizens. This is one of the most sophisticated critiques of the effects of war I’ve read—so subtle you won’t notice it while you’re enjoying the mystery, but its resonances will stay with you long after you finish reading. This is the third of the Bess Crawford mysteries, preceded by A Duty to the Dead and An Impartial Witness. A fourth book in the series, An Unmarked Grave, is now available.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5It’s December 1917 and Bess Crawford, a World War I battlefield nurse, is home to England for the holidays. In the doorway of her London rooming house, she finds a young woman huddled, bruised and chilled to the bone. When she takes in Lydia Ellis, giving her tea and a place to sleep for the night, she can’t predict just how firmly she inserts herself with the young woman’s life and family.Lydia convinces Bess to return to Vixen Hill, her husband’s family home. While there for a memorial service, a houseguest is murdered and the surly police inspector believes Bess to be a top suspect. Bess’s father, a retired army colonel, sends his man Simon Brandon to assist Bess in extricating herself from the thorny situation. But as the story unfolds, I turns out there’s no simple way to do that. A second, pivotal plot involves a two-year-old war orphan in France.The Bess Crawford mysteries are a second series by Charles Todd, an American mother-son writing team; both series are set in England during or just after the Great War and drip with the gloom and angst of that period. The writing, as usual, is sharp and solid, the plotting deft and the overall result quite satisfying. Review based on publisher-provided copy of the book.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5This is the third book in the Bess Crawford mystery series. I hadn't read the two previous books but this one stands alone quite well. Bess is a nurse stationed in France during WWI and has returned home to London for a brief leave. She finds a woman huddled in the cold on her porch, apparently injured, and takes her in. She agrees to the woman's request to accompany her home, worried that she has a concussion. At the large country home, Bess meets the rest of the family, discovers a murder, and is caught up in the solving of it. My early reaction was annoyance that Bess would get so caught up with a complete stranger's family that she would postpone her trip to see her parents at Christmas, lie to the police to protect family secrets, even to the point of briefly incriminating herself. But once I got past that, I did get caught up in the story. Todd (the nom-de-plume of a mother-son writing team) does a good job of creating the feel of the place and time. The characters are fleshed out enough for the purposes of the story and the mystery has a satisfying resolution. I would certainly consider reading the first two books.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Thank you to Book Club Girl and Harper Collins for providing me with an ARC of this book to review.I was so excited to get in this in the mail. I was experiencing the doldrums from having finished to the Maisie Dobbs series and was only too happy to find Bess Crawford to continue my streak of reading about World War I nurses who solve mysteries in their downtime. I quickly polished off the previous two books in the series so that I could properly digest this one. While I enjoyed the first two books in this series I was kind of getting burnt out by Bess by the third one.In this book, a distraught young woman shows up on the doorstep of Bess Crawford with a bruise and a sob story and Busybody Bess can't help but but in. Off she goes, completely forsaking her family, to come to the aid of a stranger. This is the second book in a row to use adultery as a major plot device. The adultery as well as the domestic violence is glossed over as Bess inserts herself into the Ellis family. Of course faithful Simon Brandon can be counted on to come along for the ride. All he needs is a cape and tights and his transformation into super hero will be complete. He protects Bess while charming the ladies, gaining the respect of the men, and embarking on secret missions for the war effort. So what is going on between him and Bess? Are you ever going to be more than "friends"? At least Bess finally gets a love interest of sorts in Sergeant Larimore who plants one on her. I wish there were more development in the personal life of Bess Crawford. If she could mind her own business for once there could be. As to rest of the characters in the book they were a rather unlikeable lot. Roger Ellis was a bully who couldn't control his temper and his wife Lydia was a whiny, impulsive scatter brain. Neither should be trusted with the care of a small child. I would give the next book in this series a try because I think the bones of the series are good. I would like to know a little more about the Simon Brandon character's motivation in order to keep going much further however. I think I might have enjoyed this a little more if I hadn't read the last book back to back with this one. Right now I am a little tired of cheating spouses who get themselves into jams that other people are left to deal with.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Series: 3rd in The Bess Crawford MysteriesMain Character: Bess Crawford, English military nurse during warSetting: WWI, England and FranceThis was my first Bess Crawford book and it stands alone fine. Bess is given holiday leave from her nursing duties and finds a women huddled at the door to her apartment building soaked to the bone and her face bruised. Although Bess doesn't want to get involved in Lydia's Domestic situation, she is talked into going with the women to her home to help her face her husband since Bess feels she has a concussion and wants to see she is cared for. Bess becomes enmeshed in a dysfunctional family in their bleak mansion. During the dinner party Lydia's husband Roger and his longstanding friend are distinctly heard in a lull in the dinner conversation talking about a suspected illegitimate child of Roger's in France. Naturally the friend is found dead the next day. Lydia asks Bess to locate the child in France and when Bess returns to the battlegrounds of France for her duties she enlists the help of an Australian officer to locate the orphanages so she can begin her search. Her search to find the child sets events tumbling out of control.Bess as a character is fine as far as she goes. I found her motivations hard to understand through most of the book. Emotionally Bess was distant for me. She explains emotions but they didn't resonate with me. Always in the background is a family friend named Simon who I felt had more potential in any number of ways, but remains as a convenient chess piece to have assist Bess. The dysfunctional family and their bleak home called Vixen Hill provide a creepy atmosphere, giving this tale a Gothic touch. The Australian officer was an brilliant touch that I can only hope will be a return character in the next book.The plot was nicely complex and the reader is along for the ride. It isn't until the last eighty or so pages that the final pieces to this puzzle are revealed and the story is suddenly racing along. There are many improbable parts to this tale, which would not have been too bad if I could have related a bit more with Bess, which I think is the main reason why this book took so long to get me interested. I felt no emotional connection and thus no immediacy from the tale. The Gothic touches and seemingly sinister family members make up for the down sides. As for the killer, there was not enough information to have figured out who it was so that added to the suspense in the final pages as things spun out of control. Without giving up too much, I would have liked the killer to have been a more central character rather than an almost sideline player.This book offers an atmospheric historical tale which does lead the reader on a twisted path with a rather harrowing climax.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A Bitter Truth is set in the time of WWI and features a nursing sister named Bess. Bess is a wonderful character...a great sense of duty, compassion, and integrity. When she helps Lydia, a lost young woman one evening, she becomes embroiled in Lydia's family troubles and then a series of murders. A well-written mystery and I look forward to reading more from this author.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5"A Bitter Truth" is an engrossing depiction of the life of a battlefield nurse in WWI and an upper class family in rural England. We observe the interactions of this family as they attempt to deal with a particularly embarrassing situation.Bess Crawford is a nurse who returns to England on leave from her duties in the battlefields of France. She is surprised to find a well dressed woman huddled in her doorway. When Bess sees that the woman has a bruise on her face, Bess's compassionate nature takes over. She invites the woman, Lucy Ellis, into her flat and learns that Lucy's husband, Roger, struck her. Lucy is afraid to return home and Bess offers to accompany her.At the Ellis home, Bess meets Roger and learns of the argument. Roger is about to return to his unit in France and Lucy wants to attempt to conceive a child so if anything happened to Roger in battle, she would have that part of him to love and remember.Bess is a steady character who is a delight. As a nurse, she deals with physically and mentally injured people. Therefore, she isn't intimidated by petty bureaucrats. She's also a problem solver and has the ability to analyze a situation and provide useful alternatives.Charles Todd describes the relationship between family members and the responsibility that have for maintaining the family reputation, at all costs. There are a number of murders and we follow the story, enjoying Bess's logical approach to attempt to find the guilty person.There is a well placed plot twist that adds to the story and the reader's interest. It places the story at the top realm of creative story telling.The story has a plot and character who seem made for each other and combine to make this a wonderful reading experience.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This was another interesting mystery in the Bess Crawford series set in World War I. It's well-written and intriguing, and I confess to not having figured out "whodunit" before it was revealed in the book. In this outing, Bess comes home on leave to find a battered woman sheltering in the doorway of her flat. It's a nasty night, so she persuades the woman to spend the night with her, and then gets very involved in her life, to the point of returning to the woman's home with her to give her a cover story for having run away in the first place. The woman lives with her husband's family, all of whom are mourning the loss of a son during the war. A family guest is murdered, apparently because he revealed the existence, in France, of an illegitimate child of the woman's husband. Bess returns to France having promised to search for the child. The ensuing search seems a bit unlikely during wartime, but fits well with the story. In the end, all is revealed and Bess once again returns to duty.It does seem like Bess is able to get leave much more frequently than I would have thought possible, but that's a minor detail. She is also able to accomplish a great deal for "just" a nursing sister, but she is aided in her quest by her father's reputation among his former soldiers. All in all, this was a good book and I look forward to future installments of Bess's story.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5First Line: A cold rain had followed me from France to England, and an even colder wind greeted me as we pulled into the railway station in London.Bess Crawford has been given Christmas leave, and she's looking forward to time away from nursing the wounded and dying on the front lines in France. All she has to do is spend one night in her London flat before going home to her parents. Unfortunately she doesn't even get the front door to her flat open. A woman has taken shelter from the wind and rain in the doorway. Not only is she wet and cold, her face shows signs of a fist, and she's scared to death. Against her better judgement, Bess takes her in. Not only does she give the woman a place to stay, she lets the frightened stranger talk her into going home with her because she doesn't know how her husband (the man who hit her) is going to react.Lydia lives out in Ashdown Forest, in a grand house called Vixen Hill. The landscape reminds Bess of the blighted land of France where war has destroyed every bit of grass and trees, and Lydia admits that it's so grim in winter that the place sucks the life out of a person. When they arrive, Bess finds a family gathered for a memorial service, and even though these people are grieving, there's still something in their behavior that makes Bess uneasy. When one of their number is found dead, Bess finds herself mired in the middle of murder.The Ellis family of Vixen Hill is an interesting one. Many secrets and emotions are tied into the untimely death of a daughter many years ago. Just what those secrets are, and just what each family member's motivations are is what Bess has to find out in order to celebrate Christmas with her family.This is the strongest book in this series so far. I think this is due, in part, to the fact that we finally see Bess as a nurse in France. In the other two books, she was on leave in England, but this time we see her performing her job, interacting with medical staff, doctors, soldiers, and officers, and moving from place to place in a war torn country. This makes her a more fully realized character, and I appreciated seeing this side of her.Although this is the third book in the series, it stands alone well, so you don't have to worry about starting with the first book to keep your bearings. If you enjoy the Maisie Dobbs series written by Jacqueline Winspear, you should give Bess Crawford a try. Chances are, you'll like Bess, too.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I really wanted to like this book. It had so much going for it: a Gothic English country house, a World War I nurse as the central character, an eccentric English family, several murders, and some good dialogue. Alas, the novel did not come together. The varied and well pictured setting and atmosphere could not compensate for characters so ill defined. In fact it was difficult to actually enter into the story since the plot and characters swirlled about. And, many decisions made were questionable to say the least. I felt while reading this mystery that the author was making it up along the way rather than following a well planned strategy. Then, I discovered that a mother and son writing team authored the book. So, perhaps they just couldn't get their act together. Still, I am glad to have received this ER book because it did provide the opportunity to explore the many different ways that war, even across the Channel in this instance, can so disrupt people's lives.Because I did find so much about the book to like, I guess I should give this team another shot. Maybe next time it won't misfire.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Bess Crawford is a battlefield nurse who had returned home to London on leave from France. She finds a bruised woman on her doorstep and takes her in. She soon becomes involved in the woman's personal problems. Bess escorts her home to a small village in Sussex, where her brother-in-law is being laid to rest. The home is haunted by the past death of a young child. After a mourner inappropriately mentions a child in France, he is found died. Who killed him and who is the child? I enjoyed the setting of this mystery novel. The author does a good job of bringing war torn World War One France to life. You get a feel for the comradeship between the soldiers and nurses on duty. Unfortunately, this is the only part of the novel I really liked.I was disappointed by the character of Bess Crawford. I understand she is a compassionate and well meaning person, but she comes across as a meddler. She keeps information from the police to shield the family and looks for the little girl when it isn't any of her business.The storyline turned out to be one prolonged red herring with the solution to the mystery being revealed at the end of the novel. If you enjoy following a story and then discovering that the ending has almost nothing to do with the rest of the novel, then this book is for you.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5This was mostly an enjoyable read but not necessarily one that I'd read again. I found a lot of the characters quite annoying, frequently doing things that seemed terribly stupid, without much motivation. I love this genre of early-20th century British mysteries, so that brings the book up in my estimation, but someone who's not a fan of the genre might not enjoy it as much.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Really enjoyed this latest edition to the Bess Crawford series. I will agree with some of the other reviewers that there were some loose ends. All things considered it is was still a fun read.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5I like the new series from this author duo. This one was especially good. Would there be a book where nurse Crawford and Inspector Rutledge meet?
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5It took me a long time to decide to read A Bitter Truth. Truth be told, I still have a bone to pick with the so called climax of the last chapters. It bordered on the nonsensical. I still am not sure of the motive of the murderer, which is a big issue, but I can only shrug this off. I also don't know how I would have rated A Bitter Truth in the past...probably less than I just did. This book forced me to read carefully. The first chapter was the best, with every word being a silent and flashy cog in the grand scheme of things. The best thing about this book is the unforced, natural and plain telling of Sophie. A Bitter Truth is one of those historical fiction settings that, due to the maturity of the authors, doesn't feel like a thriller in disguise. A most welcome distraction from the ordinary quick fixes I've alas chosen for myself.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5An act of kindness toward a stranger has unexpected consequences for WWI nurse Bess Crawford. Bess accompanies the injured woman to her home outside of London, intending to continue from there to her parents home well in time for Christmas. When a fellow guest is murdered, Bess must stay until the police allow her to leave. Bess's involvement continues even after her return to service in France, until she is called back to England for a final confrontation.I didn't like the second Bess Crawford mystery nearly as well as I did the first, so I started this one with a little trepidation. Happily, I soon discovered that Bess was once again the Bess of the first book. In this book as well as the first book, Bess is reluctantly drawn into the mystery for a good reason. In the second book, Bess forces her way into a situation that isn't any of her business, and she came across as stubborn, pushy, obnoxious, and a little spoiled.The mystery in this book isn't as well developed as it could have been, but I was so happy to have the “old” Bess back that I could overlook that. Bess's personal life hasn't developed much over the course of the series, probably due to its wartime setting. I don't think it's essential to read these books in order. Recommended for readers of historical mysteries, and particularly for fans of the Maisie Dobbs series, which shares several characteristics with this one.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5When Bess Crawford, of Queen Alexandra's Nursing Service, comes home on leave, she finds a runaway wife hiding in her doorway. Instead of going home to her parents, Bess is persuaded to spend time at the woman's highly dysfunctional home, where some rather unpleasant people are encountered. Later, Bess searches war-torn France for a missing child. This was not my favorite of the Bess Crawford stories -- some of the actions and motives seemed a bit far-fetched. Still, I enjoy Bess's adventures and will keep reading the series.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I am a fan of the mother-son writing team that is Charles Todd. A Bitter Truth is the third in the Bess Crawford Mystery series. This one can be read as a stand-alone, although you might get a better sense of the character of Bess if you first read the initial book - A Duty to the Dead. The mystery unfolds slowly, allowing us to get to know the characters involved. The descriptions of the war and Bess's experience as a nurse are very well done. Bess is a fearless and fairly independent woman, which is an unusual trait for women of her era. She has a strong sense of duty and, consequently, finds herself in the midst of a murder inquiry that becomes more complicated with time. The 'whodunit' part at the end felt a little rushed, especially compared to the slower pace of the rest of the book. I also felt it was slightly detached from everything else that had happened. That was a fairly minor distraction from an otherwise excellent book, and could well be my own quirk rather than any reflection of the writing.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Nursing Sister Bess Crawford comes home on Christmas leave to find a strange woman shivering on her doorstep. She discovers that the woman has impulsively fled her home is Sussex after being struck by her husband. Worried about the woman's syptoms, which suggest a concussion, Bess accompanies her to her home and becomes involved in a murder inquiry when she and her hostess discover one of the houseguests murdered. Against her better judgment she is drawn into the complex dynamics of the Ellis household. Her involvement is extended to France when she returns to duty at the front lines of WWI. This mystery is the third in the series, but stands alone well. Elizabeth Crawford is well drawn as a character and the mystery is involving, with an unexpected twist and conclusion. The Sussex landscape in winter is vividly described. Charles Todd is the pen name for a mother/son team who also produce the Inspector Rutledge series.
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5I prefer the Ian Rutledge series to the Bess Crawford mysteries. Both series are set in England. Bess Crawford is a nursing sister during WWI, and sometimes her duty leads to aiding the local police in solving a murder. This story starts with Bess finding a bruised and distraught woman on her doorstep. Of course, Bess befriends the lady and agrees to return the lady, Lydia, to her country manor. No sooner than Lydia and Bess return to Vixen Hill, the manor, when a guest is murdered. The case deepens when an orphaned French toddler is believed to be the daughter of Lydia's husband. The story has many adventures that seem very unbelievable at times, plus many of the characters are under developed. I enjoy a good cast of characters, but the team of Charles Todd flounders in this aspect.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5It should be noted that I won this in a Goodreads giveaway.
I am going to keep this short as I don't have much of a reaction to this book.
Overall, I was disappointed with this book. It had a lot of promise, but it fell short in the end. The "twist" is hardly that. It's not a book I would read again. - Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5"A Bitter Truth" is the third in the series "Bess Crawford." This book did not catch my imagination as much as the first two. It seems to drag along trying to make a story. The author(s) seem to be slapping something down hoping that it works. I'm always waiting for her to meet Ian Rutledge. I feel that is why this second series has been added.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A Bitter Truth by Charles Todd, A Bess Crawford Mystery is a crime thriller that takes place in England during WWI. Bess Crawford is a nurse who finds herself involved in a mystery that she really didn't want to be involved in. What starts out as one woman giving aid to another woman during a domestic dispute, evolves into a murder mystery that threatens to reveal a family's long ago secrets. With characters that you can love and hate, this is a riveting story from beginning to end. A few of the characters got on my nerves and others I found delightful. This is also a story of the horrors of war and what it can do to the best of families. A must to read.
Book preview
A Bitter Truth - Charles Todd
Chapter One
London, December 1917
A COLD RAIN had followed me from France to England, and an even colder wind greeted me as we pulled into the railway station in London. As I handed in my ticket, I looked for my father, who was usually here to meet me. Or if he couldn’t come, he generally sent Simon Brandon in his place.
But there were no familiar faces among the crowd, and after waiting nearly fifteen minutes, I decided that my telegram from Dover must have been delayed. Of course military traffic was always given priority, but the telegraph office had assured me that they would do their best. There was nothing for it but to find a cab for myself.
Outside Victoria Station, a family with small children was just bespeaking the last one. Well, then, it would have to be an omnibus. As I walked on to the nearest stop, the wind whipped along the street after me, plucking at my skirts, prodding my back. One going in my direction was already approaching, for which I was grateful, and as we rumbled through the darkness toward my destination, I took stock of the city I hadn’t seen for several months.
Even at this hour it was quiet, the streets empty except for a few brave souls going about their business with heads down and coats wrapped tightly against the probing fingers of the wind. Shops were already closing, and everywhere curtains were drawn to keep out the night. In front of a pub we were passing, a few men stood talking for a moment, hands deep in pockets, and even as I watched, they said their farewells and hurried their separate ways toward home. A boy raced up the steps of a church and disappeared through the heavy door, a shaft of light briefly illuminating his worried face. The sound of voices just reached me, a boys’ choir, and at a guess, he had nearly missed rehearsal.
We were only three stops from where I usually got down when the omnibus came to a lurching halt.
Just ahead of us, I could see torches flashing this way and that in the street, and someone was shouting at us.
My first thought was that we had struck someone.
I got to my feet, ready to offer whatever aid was needed, just as a middle-aged constable hurried up to the omnibus and spoke to the driver. We couldn’t hear what was said, but soon enough the constable had opened the omnibus door and stepped inside. He frowned when he saw me standing there.
Is anyone hurt?
I asked quickly.
No, Sister,
he said harshly. Resume your seat.
I did as I was told, and he scanned each of us with a thoroughness that indicated he was intent on finding someone. Finally, apparently satisfied, he was gone, mercifully closing the door behind him and shutting out the wind. But I heard his boots climbing the rear stairs to the upper deck, where no one had had the courage to sit, then pelt down again after several seconds. He and the driver exchanged a few more words, and I saw the driver reluctantly nod. And then the constable was hurrying away, caught for a brief moment in the glare of our headlamps.
A man just behind where I was sitting demanded fretfully, What’s happened? Why did we stop?
Outside, the driver got down from behind the wheel and opened the door once more, poking his head inside, his face barely visible above a thick blue muffler. Deserter,
he informed us. We won’t be allowed to move on until this street has been cleared. The police have reason to believe he’s hiding hereabouts. Or being hidden.
Everyone began asking questions at the same time, but the driver simply shook his head and closed the door. I was looking out the window, clearing the glass with one gloved hand, watching the play of torches against the windows and doors of the houses on my side as the police went on with their search. And then out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure in black slip down a service passage, disappearing into the deeper shadows cast by the houses on either side. There would be a stout wooden gate at the end leading into a back garden, and with luck, another at the bottom of that, giving onto another garden and another passage to the street beyond. Either a trap—or an escape.
It had happened so fast, I couldn’t judge whether it was a man or a woman. Or if I had imagined it altogether. The deserter? Or someone else nearly caught up in the tightening net?
A constable must have seen the figure as well, because he blew his whistle and ran forward. But when he turned his torch into the blackness, it showed only the closed gate. After a moment, he walked halfway to the end of the passage before coming back.
I sat there, trying to come to terms with my duty. As an officer’s daughter I understood the need for discipline and order in the Army. To walk away and leave one’s fellow soldiers to their fate was, in my view, dishonorable. And yet I’d seen the horror of war, the suffering and the awful cost of doing one’s duty. For some men that was insupportable.
There were other reasons too. For all I knew, the hunted man had risked everything to come home to a wife who was desperately ill or to see a newborn child. Even to sit by his mother’s deathbed. The Army was not always generous with compassionate leaves, refusing to allow a man torn between love and duty the few days he so badly wanted to comfort those who needed him at home. I’d seen men in despair driven to shooting themselves in the hand or foot in a bid for leave.
Who was I to decide the fate of this man? The constable had already looked closely at the passage, hadn’t he? And decided that it was empty?
But this deserter would eventually be found. And shot. The Army was relentless in its determination. It was just a matter of time.
And so I sat there, unable to bring myself to step off the omnibus and speak up. Instead I listened as the hue and cry swirled up one side of the street and then down the other. The shouts of constables, their whistles shrill in the night, were loud at first, then fading as the hunt turned back the way we’d just come.
It was late when the same constable, out of breath now, came to inform the driver that we could go on our way. The driver must have asked the question on all our minds, for I saw the policeman shake his head. And then we were moving, lumbering through the darkness as we continued on our route.
The man behind me said, I don’t envy those constables. It’s not a fit night for man nor beast to be out there.
And a woman behind him asked anxiously, Will he be given a fair trial, when he’s caught? The deserter?
He’ll be found guilty, right enough,
an elderly laborer answered her. It’s not the Army’s way to be lenient. Mark my words.
And from the last seat, a soldier in the uniform of the discharged wounded said quietly, God help him.
I could see my corner coming up now, and I dreaded getting down. Even in my boots, my feet were icy cold from the long wait, and my gloved fingers as well, although I’d tried to keep them tucked under my arms.
Stepping down in the lee of the omnibus, I had a moment to catch my breath before it moved on and the full brunt of the wind struck me with such force that I nearly stumbled.
Narrowing my eyes against the bite of it, I walked on briskly, listening to the far-off sounds of police whistles. Ahead was Mrs. Hennessey’s house, where friends—also nursing sisters—and I had taken a flat. As I drew nearer, I saw that there were no lights shining from the windows of the ground floor, and I remembered that this must be Mrs. Hennessey’s night for dinner and a cozy gossip with an old friend. Above, on the second storey, the windows of our sitting room were also dark. Tired as I was from two days of traveling, I was just as glad that no one else was in London. I could leave the gifts I’d found for each flatmate with Mrs. Hennessey. She would enjoy playing Father Christmas when next she saw them.
Busy with my own thoughts, I didn’t at first notice the dark figure huddled in the shallow outer doorway, pressed so tightly into that pitiful bit of shelter that only a vague outline was distinguishable in the shadows cast by the streetlamp. When I did, my first thought was that the deserter was hiding here. Would he force his way into the empty house when I reached Mrs. Hennessey’s door?
And in the same instant, I realized that it wasn’t a man, it was a woman.
But what was she doing there? Did she have anything to do with the deserter?
As I slowed, she stirred, murmured, Sorry!
and moved into the street away from me.
Two things registered as she spoke. Her voice was thick with tears, and she was shivering, as if she’d been out in this wind for a very long time.
I remembered what the man on the omnibus had said, that this was a night not fit for man nor beast.
No, wait—
I said, putting out a hand to stop her. But she shrugged it off, keeping her face turned away as she made to slip off into the night. It was close on ten o’clock now, and the empty streets were no place for a woman to be walking aimlessly at this hour.
My gloved fingers reached for her sleeve, missed, and then caught in the belt of her coat. Come inside and warm yourself for a quarter of an hour.
I added quickly, It will do no harm.
I could see that she was tempted—but she was also desperate to get away, on the point of pulling free when a gust of wind, stronger than before, buffeted both of us. I realized that her coat—unlike mine, which was meant to keep me warm—was well cut and fashionably thin, not designed for walking on a night like this one. It was intended for stepping out of a cab to enter a restaurant or theater. I wondered, fleetingly, if it was hers or if she had been given it by a mistress or found it in a charity shop. It was even possible that she’d been sacked, with nowhere to stay.
Thank you, I’ll be all right,
she said, still keeping her face in the shadows. "Let me go. Please."
I hadn’t been wrong about the tears. And to my surprise her voice matched the coat, well bred and well educated. I had no choice but to release her belt.
No, you won’t be all right,
I told her bluntly, before she could hurry away. You’ll make yourself ill. Pneumonia. Pleurisy. I’m a nursing sister, I’ve just returned from France. I know what I’m talking about.
I hesitated. I won’t ask questions. Or try to stop you when you wish to leave. Warm yourself, have a cup of tea. There’s no one else about. I promise you.
I had the outer door open now, and there was a lamp burning on the small table under the stairs. It must have seemed a haven in this weather. She hesitated an instant too long, and I touched her sleeve again, urging her inside. I myself was shivering with the cold now, and I knew she must be chilled to the bone. Even for a London December, it was unbearably wretched.
With an anxious glance over her shoulder, she preceded me through the door, then stood there in the small entry as if she couldn’t think what else to do.
I live up the stairs. This way,
I went on, not looking at her as I started to climb. There’s no one here but me. My flatmates are all in France.
I prayed it was true as I heard her follow reluctantly in my wake. After all, I realized, no lamplight could mean that someone was there but already asleep.
Only for a few minutes,
she said as we reached the landing. I’d be grateful for that tea.
Her voice was still husky with tears, but cultured, polite.
We reached the door of the flat, and I took out my key, unlocking it and fumbling for the lamp just inside. As a rule I could light it in the dark or even with my eyes closed, I’d done it so often, but now my fingers were stiff with cold. Finally brightness bloomed, illuminating the flat, picking out the small area we called our kitchen, our sitting room, and the closed doors to our five bedrooms.
I breathed a sigh of relief. There was no luggage piled in a corner or coats thrown over the tall walnut clothes tree. We were alone.
Here,
I said, pulling out a chair for her. Let me take off my coat and in a moment I’ll have that tea for us. I can tell you, I long for a cup myself.
I’d made a point not to look her in the face, knowing she’d be embarrassed for anyone to see she’d been crying. But now as I came back from my own bedroom and caught her staring around the flat, I could see the mark across her cheek, the swollen eye rimmed with black, and the deep bruising.
Someone had struck her, hard and fairly recently because the redness was only just giving way to a darker blue. I immediately looked away. I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been attacked on the street—or in her own home. Was this why the deserter had come to England? To catch his wife in an infidelity? He wouldn’t be the first—nor the last—to suspect that all was not right in his marriage. She was married. I’d seen the handsome rings on her left hand when she pulled off her gloves.
I didn’t hold with men who struck women. I’d never seen my father raise his hand to my mother, and I regarded men who did as despicable.
She hastily put up her hand to hide that side of her face, turning as if she intended to rush out the door and down the stairs before I could ask questions. I had glimpsed the stark alarm in her eyes when she saw me looking.
I told you I wouldn’t pry,
I said quickly. But I’m not blind. Let me put the kettle on, and I’ll give you a cool cloth to help bring down the swelling.
She was a very attractive woman, and I put her age down as midtwenties, perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six. Certainly no more than that. And I’d been right, her clothes were stylishly cut, and of good cloth, although from before the war. But then very little was available in the shops these days. I made the tea, ignoring her while I worked, and then while it steeped, I went to find a cloth for her face and wring it out in cold water. She took it gratefully and held it as a shield. When the tea was ready, I set a cup down before her with the bowl of honey. I’m sorry, there’s no milk. One of my flatmates must have used the last tin.
No, this is lovely. Thank you very much.
I let her drink it in peace, then said as offhandedly as possible, indicating the other doors, There are five bedrooms here. One of them is mine, and the others are empty just now. Won’t you stay the night, what’s left of it, and wait until the morning to go on your way? I know I’m a stranger to you, and you to me, but there is a lock on the bedroom doors, if you feel the need.
I must go—
she began, but I didn’t let her finish.
Where? If you had a place of your own, you wouldn’t have been sheltered in Mrs. Hennessey’s doorway. I don’t know your reason for being there, that’s your affair. It’s just that I wouldn’t send a dog back out into this weather. And I think you must know that you aren’t dressed for spending the night in the street.
She looked down at her clothes, smiling ruefully. I was in something of a hurry.
There’s another cup in the pot,
I urged. And I believe there are some biscuits in the cupboard. Have you had any dinner?
I don’t remember. When I last ate, that is. Yesterday?
She accepted the second cup of tea and even one of the biscuits.
I had set my satchel down at the door, and I went to fetch it and put it in my own room. Opening the door to Diana’s, I said, This should do. The sheets are clean. Mrs. Hennessey sees to that for us. The bed’s quite comfortable, and a good night’s rest makes sense. Tomorrow . . .
I shrugged. Everything looks better in the daylight, doesn’t it?
Biting back tears, she said, Yes, all right. Thank you very much. I don’t like to be a burden, but I dread going back outside. You’re very kind.
I smiled. You would have done the same for me, I think, if you had found me on your doorstep with nowhere to go.
She nearly laughed at that. My doorstep?
she began, then broke off, shaking her head. I live in the country,
she added after a moment. We seldom find strangers at our door.
Then she was not from London. What had brought her here? Or perhaps I should say, who had brought her here? I waited, hoping she might tell me more, but the moment had passed.
I went to fetch soap and towels, setting them on the table beside her. You’ll find a fresh nightdress in the tall chest, middle drawer. You and Diana must be of a size. If not, we’ll look for one in Mary’s room.
I busied myself clearing away the cups and filling the pot for tomorrow morning. I knew what my father and Simon would have to say about taking in a stranger, most particularly one who might be hiding from the police, but my mother would have understood that leaving her to the streets on a night like this was unconscionable. There was no way this woman could have guessed that I would be coming home tonight. She had simply chosen a doorway in which she could find a little respite from the wind. And perhaps, as well, shelter from whoever had struck her such a blow.
She took the towels and after a moment, pulled off her coat and hung it on the rack by the door, as if to be handy if she had to leave in a rush. Her clothing was of the same quality as the coat and her hat.
In the street below, I heard the sharp blast of a constable’s whistle. Was the hunt still on? My guest heard it as well. Crossing quickly to the window, she pulled the curtain aside just far enough to look out. Down in the street someone burst into a drunken song, breaking off as the constable ordered him to move along. Relieved, the woman let the curtain drop, then flushed as she turned to find me watching her. But she didn’t explain her anxiety, ducking her head and moving past me without a word.
I felt a moment’s unease, but it was forgotten as she reached the door to Diana’s room and swayed, suddenly dizzy. From worry? Not eating properly? Bad as it was, I couldn’t quite believe that the blow to her face had been that severe.
The dizziness passed, and I said nothing.
Sitting on the bed in Diana’s room, she allowed me to bring her a fresh cloth for her face, and then gently shut the door behind me with another murmured word of gratitude. I could hear her moving about as she prepared for bed, but I had a feeling she hadn’t looked for a nightgown. Would she leave, once she was warm enough to face the cold again?
I blew out the lamp, went into my own room, and when I had undressed, lay down on the bed to keep watch. But in spite of good intentions, I went soundly to sleep, and when I awoke, it was late morning. I sat up, wondering if my orphan of the storm had left while I slept. I hoped she hadn’t; I could hear the patter of a steady rain. I hastily threw on some clothes and went to see.
To my surprise, I saw that her coat was still there on the tree, and I suspected she was even more tired than I had been. Emotionally as well as physically.
It was close on ten o’clock when I heard her stir, and then she came frantically through the door, still trying to button her jumper, as if somehow believing I’d discovered her name and sent for whoever it was she’d run from. When she found me sitting there with a cup of tea in my hands, looking out the window at the rain, she stopped, suddenly shy.
I was dreaming,
she said. I thought—I didn’t recognize my surroundings when I woke up.
A nightmare, I reckoned, rather than a dream.
Let me make you a fresh cup.
The bruise was darker today, and there was heavier blackness around her left eye as well. It would be a week—ten days—before it faded completely.
No, this will do nicely,
she told me, coming forward to pour her own tea. With her back to me, she said, You must be wondering how I got this—this—
Not able to find the right word, she gestured in the general direction of her face. You’ll forgive me if I don’t wish to speak of it?
Someone struck you.
I let the words fall between us. I told you, I’m a nurse. I can’t help but know that much,
I went on. As I said, it’s your affair, of course it is. But if for a while you need sanctuary . . .
I let my voice trail away.
She was torn. I could see that. At a guess, she’d dashed out of the house in the clothes she stood up in, too shocked or frightened to think beyond the need to get away. It would only have occurred to her later to give any thought to where she was going and what she would do when she got there. In fact, I wondered if perhaps she had very little money with her, unprepared to pay for food or hotels or other clothing.
If she was telling the truth about living in the country, perhaps even reaching the train to London had seemed an impossible task. I wouldn’t have wanted to walk from my parents’ house in Somerset to the nearest railway station. Yet when I glanced at her shoes, I could see that they hadn’t seen hard use on a country lane in winter.
She didn’t answer my suggestion directly. Instead she confessed, I thought—I thought he might follow me. After leaving the railway station, I walked and walked. For hours. First this direction and then that. Until I was completely lost. And there was nowhere to turn, no one I could trust. Not even the constables I passed from time to time. But they must have seen me, because suddenly they were hunting me. He must have given them my description. And I didn’t know what they would do with me, if they caught me. I’ve heard—the suffragettes. They were treated cruelly in prison.
The police last evening weren’t hunting you,
I said gently. They were searching for a deserter. I was on an omnibus. They stopped it and told us why.
A deserter?
She stared blankly at me. I—Are you sure?
Quite sure. Unless, of course, the man you speak of is wanted by the police.
No, of course he isn’t.
She seemed shocked that I should think such a thing.
I realized then that a guilty conscience had led her to believe the worst.
He. Your husband?
No. Yes.
She came to take the chair across from me, staring at the window. I wouldn’t want you to think ill of him. That he’s brutal. It was as much my fault as it was his. I—I taunted him. I said things I shouldn’t have. When he struck me, he was as shocked as I was. But I couldn’t stay, you see. Not after that. We can’t take back our actions, can we? However much we may wish to.
She was taking the blame for what had happened. But I kept an open mind on that issue, having been accustomed to hearing battered women in hospital claim that their drunken husbands hadn’t meant to strike them, that it was their own fault. Their excuses were infinite. Dinner was late, or their husband’s trousers hadn’t been pressed properly, or the children were noisy. I had been a junior sister on a women’s ward where broken bones and bruised bodies were common, and the husband, once sober, came to beg forgiveness. I knew, as the women in the ward had known, that the words were hollow, the promises too. But almost invariably, the wife returned to her home, because she had nowhere else to go.
I thought it best to change the subject before she had talked herself into a deeper sense of guilt. I said, We weren’t properly introduced last evening. My name is Elizabeth. Elizabeth Crawford. Most of my friends call me Bess. What would you like me to call you?
Startled, she said quickly, I’d rather not—
I smiled. It’s rather awkward not to know what to call you. I don’t mind if it’s not your true name.
At that she gave me a faint smile in return. Yes, all right. My mother’s name was Lydia.
I went about clearing away the tea things, my back to her, giving her a little privacy. After a few minutes I said, I must leave to do a little marketing. You must be as ravenous as I am. But you’ll be safe enough here. No one will come, I promise you. And the shops are just a few streets away. I shan’t be long.
She made no comment. But after a little time had passed, she said, regret in her voice, I was terribly foolish. I can’t think what came over me. But he’d never struck me before. I was mortified. And angry. And frightened. And so I ran away.
I could see that in the light of day she was beginning to have very cold feet indeed. I wondered where that would lead her. At the moment she appeared to be convincing herself that the best course open to her was to return to her home. But that could change. I wondered if it was true, that he’d never struck her before this, or if she was concealing other occasions of lashing out in anger. And I still wasn’t convinced that her husband wasn’t in some trouble or other. She wouldn’t betray him. Whatever he had done, whatever they had quarreled about.
I put on my coat and took an umbrella from the stand. You’ll be here when I return?
I asked. It’s only that I need to know what to buy.
She looked at the window, listening to the cold rain pelting down. I haven’t the courage to leave,
she said in a very small voice.
And so I went out to do my marketing, finding the shops dismally short of everything, but in the end I managed to find half a roast chicken for our dinner, a loaf of bread, and some dried apples as well as a little poppy seed cake for our tea. Walking back to the flat, I wondered if I would find it empty, after all. Without an umbrella, she would be wet to the skin in ten minutes. Even with one, I was hard-pressed to keep my skirts dry.
I came through the door, calling her name softly, but our kitchen cum sitting room was empty. Then the door to Diana’s room opened, and she came out to meet me, looking a little sheepish.
I heard someone on the stairs,
she said, and took fright.
You needn’t worry. No man—not even my father—escapes the sharp eye of Mrs. Hennessey, who lives on the ground floor.
I hung up my damp coat to dry, returned the umbrella to its stand, then began putting away my purchases. Even if by some incredible bit of luck your husband discovered you were here, she wouldn’t let him trouble you if you didn’t wish it.
I could see she didn’t quite believe me, and I wondered just how persuasive her husband might be. Not that it would matter to Mrs. Hennessey, who took pride in protecting the young women she’d accepted as lodgers. Neither cajoling nor bribes would get him anywhere.
A few minutes later, Lydia said out of the blue, as if it had been on her mind all morning and she couldn’t hold it in any longer, I shouldn’t have brought up Juliana. It was wrong of me.
Who was Juliana? A member of the family? Her husband’s former sweetheart? His mother? It could be anyone, of course, and yet I could tell from the way she spoke the name that this was someone who mattered a great deal.
I brought out my mending to repair a tear in one of my stockings, giving Lydia an opening to go on talking to me if that eased her mind a little, because it was clear she was wrestling now with whatever was troubling her. A silence fell. As I finished my work, I glanced in her direction. Her thoughts were far away, and I realized that she had herself under control again and was unlikely to blurt out anything more. After putting away my needle and the spool of black thread, I paused by the window, opening the curtains as I tried to think of a way to persuade Lydia to confide in me without seeming to press her. If I could help her to look clearly at whatever had caused the quarrel with her husband, she might be better prepared to consider the future.
Oh, no,
I said involuntarily, glancing down at the street below.
Instantly she was on her feet, the bruises garish against her pale face, as she all but ran across the room to peer over my shoulder. I could see that she was trembling. Who is it? Is it Roger?
She was searching the street below, panic in her eyes. So soon? I’m not ready to face him yet.
It’s—a member of my family,
I said, watching Simon Brandon stride toward the door of the house, his motorcar standing just under our window. My mother must have got the telegram about my Christmas leave.
I must go—
Lydia said, hardly listening to me as she turned to look for her coat and hat. I’ve stayed too long as it is. I couldn’t bear to have anyone else see me now. Not looking like this.
He won’t come up,
I told her. Mrs. Hennessey’s rules? Remember? She’ll inform me that he’s here. And I’ll go down. You needn’t worry.
She’ll want to know who I am—why I’m here in your flat. I can’t blame her—this is her house. I’ll leave. It’s best.
And where will you go then?
She stopped in midstride, staring at me. I—I don’t know.
Then stay here. I’ll hurry down and speak to Simon before Mrs. Hennessey comes to our door. Will that be all right? There’s nothing to fear from him, by the way. He’s traveled here from Somerset, and he’ll want to ask what my plans are.
That seemed to reassure her. She dropped her headlong dash for her coat and hat, sitting down in the nearest chair as if her limbs suddenly refused to hold her upright any longer. I could see that touch of dizziness returning as she closed her eyes against it.
You’re very kind. I don’t like to take advantage . . .
Her voice trailed away.
I went to the door, smiled at her, and then closed it behind me.
Simon was standing in the entry, a tall, handsome man with that air of confidence about him that had always marked him and my father, the Colonel. My mother told me once when I was young that it was the badge of command. Simon had served with my father, rising through the ranks to Regimental Sergeant-Major, and leaving the Army when the Colonel Sahib, as my mother and I called him behind